#the throat goat herself

[shiftythrifting]

[m0nsterqzzz]

Happy Wife Happy Life

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pairing: Clarisse La Rue x fem!reader

summary: being Clarisse's "wife" will always have it's perks

a/n: honestly don't know how to feel about this but I'm tired. anyway, kinda hate the ending. and my writing lol.

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Love is the greatest thing.

At least, in your eyes it is.

It can bring the strongest people to their knees, risking their lives or others lives just so that they can keep their person happy. It's always been amazing to you.

Not so much in your best friend Clarisse's. She'd much rather have the glory of being the strongest kid in school, or be feared by your classmates. "Love is stupid." She always tells you while she watches you study under the willow tree she likes climbing.

"No, it's not. It's powerful. You like powerful things don't you?" You'd say back with an airy laugh, then forcing her to come back down from the branches so you can help her with her math homework.

She's heard lots about the emotion called jealousy, but she'd never truly felt it until she saw Holly Bracken kiss your cheek during recess one day. The tightening of the chest, the way her throat went dry and she clenched her fist by her side from the other end of the black top and tried to stop herself from throwing the basketball in her hands towards the blonde girl's head. It wasn't a feeling Clarisse liked, and the feeling only went away when you were laying in her arms under the tree after school that day.

That warm afternoon, she'd asked you to marry her with a paper ring, one that you cherished for a whole week until it got caught in something and broke. You'd obviously said yes, the fact that you had a huge crush on her not exactly helping as you forced yourself to remember she was obviously kidding. Sealing the marriage with I do and then placing a chaste kiss on the back of your hand like she'd seen done in the romantic movies her mother likes watching, you were officially hers. As long as you were her wife, Holly Bracken could no longer kiss your cheek with that ugly smug smile.

She went on to make sure of that, introducing you as her wife to anyone and everyone that was willingly to listen. You two were young, and nobody took it quite seriously until she saved up almost a full year's allowance money to buy you a nice looking- but still cheap- promise ring from the jewelry store downtown. It was a silent promise, one that she eventually voiced as you were sleeping over at her house.

"I'll be with you forever." She'd whispered in your ear, and you foolishly believed her.

She was gone three weeks later.

You didn't get a phone call, an email, or even a letter. She just....disappeared.

Her family stopped answering the door for you, seemingly purposefully avoiding you in town. It was months before you finally gave up, and it was obvious to anyone that looked hard enough you were slowly becoming a shell of yourself without her. Without your girl.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The only thing in your life that is weirder than Clarisse's mysterious disappearance, was the fact that a boy just told you you're a child of one of the Greek gods. You couldn't believe him. You'd learned about the gods in school, but there was no fudging way they were real. You'd only finally agreed to go to some place called Camp Half Blood when he rolled up one of his pant legs to reveal furry goat legs. Nothing will ever be weirder than that.

Just in time too, because right after you left the school building and started sprinting towards the forest across from the place, some giant winged creature that no one else seemed to see crashed through a window and started flying towards you.

Your protector, someone you learned is a satyr named Joey, lead you to camp with minimal death, which you learned is very rare when it comes to leading a demi-god to camp. It didn't help with the newly installed fear inside you, but you just simply nodded along with what he was saying as your eyes scanned the crowds of campers that are doing their own thing below the hill you stand on.

The moment you step past what Joey calls Thalia's tree, all eyes are on you. A new camper means special events so they feel welcome which means more fun for the campers and the drama of figuring out who their godly parent is. 

You don’t have any belongings other than the clothes on your skin and the school pencil that’s brought you a strange sense of comfort on your long trip. A female camper with blonde hair and gray eyes comes up and introduces herself as Annabeth, helping you to the “Hermes” cabin to give you a camp t-shirt and new pants. She explains all the new campers go there, at least until they get claimed, which means the kids in there are either children of Hermes, unclaimed, or new just like you. 

Since everyone is gone doing daily activities, you decide to just change in the cabin. It’s peaceful, the sound of campers laughter, birds in the trees.

Your blissful silence is broken when someone tightly wraps their arms around you from behind you and lifts you up in the air with a squeal, your hands flying to cover your bra-covered chest. “What the hell?!” You scream, but the profanities you were going to yell out die down in your throat when the person sets you down and you turn around to see Clarisse.

She doesn’t look much different, her hair a little bit grown out and her band t-shirts and jeans have been replaced by camouflage pants and an orange camp half blood shirt similar to the one you’re trying to put on. You’re so starstruck that you just stare, her arms still loosely wrapped around your waist as you stand there in only a bra and jeans. “Clar?” She nods, grinning brightly as she pulls you into yet another hug.

You’re much more aware this time, pushing her away harshly as you hurry to put on the shirt and then leave the cabin with a quick roll of your eyes. The curly haired girl is hot on your tail, attempting to grab your wrist to stop you before you pull it away as if she’s burned you. Her face is full of hurt, but your voice shows the same amount as you ask, “Why didn’t….why didn’t you call? Or email? Or-or send me a fucking letter? Just to let me know you were okay? That you came here.”

She sighs, eyes full of regret as they fall to look at her doc martens so she doesn’t have to see your sadness. “I couldn’t call you because a phone call is like sending a message out to any monsters that could be listening and find out where we are. Email, I don’t have any electronics cuz of the whole call thing.”

“And letter? I bet monsters don’t know how to read Clar.” The girl is silent for a minute, and as the silence continues is when you realize she doesn’t have an answer for you. You scoff, beginning to walk to who knows where again before she runs to catch up with you.

“I’m sorry, okay? I was scared. Gods, I was scared.” The worlds tumble out of her mouth before she can stop them, and the campers around you fall silent as they stare with mouths agape in shock.

“Scared? What’s there to be scared of? It’s just me.” She nods, wordlessly reaching out to hold your hand. You let her this time and she feels relief flood through her. “Scared. I was scared….scared that you would hate me for leaving. I mean, what kind of woman leaves her wife?” She attempts a small laugh, and she takes it as a win that the corners of your mouth twitch upwards in the start of a smile. “I promised you forever and then left without another word. You had been looking at me through rose colored glasses our entire lives, I was scared those glasses were shattered. It’s not an excuse though. I should’ve sent you a letter, told you I was okay and told you how much I missed you.”

A small smile works its way onto your face, but she can still see the sadness in your eyes and she hates it. She hates it when you're sad. “Come here angel.” The girl hesitantly pulls you into her arms, almost crying when you relax into her hold and hug her back before she remembers where you guys are and how many campers are staring in shock at how sweet she’s acting.

“You have to understand that I’m still mad Clar. Even if you were scared, I spent years living in fear you were dead.” You mumble against her shoulder as you grip onto her like she’s going to disappear again if you let go.

The girl nods in agreement, cradling your head to her chest as she glares at the campers in an attempt to get them to leave you two alone. They do it.

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Clarisse brings you to her cabin, cuddling with you in her bed as she tells you anything and everything that has happened over the past. She’s a child of Ares, and you spend several minutes that it makes sense after the amount of times she threatened other kids by saying she should hang them from the top of the flagpole. 

By dinner time, it’s like no time has passed, and everyone’s eyes are on you as you two walk in with her arm casually placed on your around the back of your waist as she leads you to her table where her siblings are trying not to make fun of her. After a lot of begging and threats, Chiron agreed to let you sit at the Ares table for your first week at camp. “Hey guys.” Her happy tone is a rare one around her by the look on their faces, the smile even rarer as she sits you down next to her spot on the bench. “This is my wife.”

The whole room goes silent, all eyes trained on you as your eyes dart up to stare at her. “What are you-” She cuts you off with amusement dancing in her brown eyes.

“What do you want to eat, honey?” Clarisse asks you, and a son of Ares you know as Mark scoffs before he says, “The last time I asked you to get me food, you poured your drink in my lap and told me it wasn’t your job.”

The smile falls from your friend's face as she glares at him. “That’s because it isn’t my job.”

“Then why are you getting her food?” 

“Because a happy wife equals a happy life alright? Now shut the fuck up.”

The smile is back as she turns to face you again, taking your order before she leaves to get that and her own food. 

The rest of the campers go back to their meals, though they’re clearly gossiping about Clarisse’s supposed wife as they eat. It doesn’t make you feel very happy, but all the doubt is gone as your girl comes back and sits down next to you, setting the food down before her hand falls to hold your hand under the table the way she used to during lunch at school.

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A little bit later, you finish eating and join in the group of campers leaving the dining hall towards the campfire with Clarisse walking beside you. “My legs hurt.” You mumble while leaning closer to her. She doesn’t miss a beat as she picks you up bridal style, casually carrying you to the bonfire like you weigh absolutely nothing. Smiling at the sound of your laughter, she sets you down on one of the logs surrounding the fire. “What was that for? I could’ve walked.” You say as she sits down next to you before pulling you into her lap.

“What kind of wife would I be if I let you walk around while in pain?” She grins before leaning her head on your shoulder. She seems happy, and you recently learned she hasn’t felt that way in a very long time so you simply smile before leaving a kiss on her forehead. Her fingers lace with yours, her thumb caressing the back of your hand as she talks to her brother. It’s like no time has passed. Although you’re still upset, it’s nice to have her again.

Clarisse makes you guys some smores, a few people coming up every once and a while to introduce themselves and your friend introduces you the same way every time; “This is my wife.” By the time you’re making your way to the Hermes cabin with her walking by your side like a bodyguard, everyone in camp is aware of the “marriage”.

“I wish you could come stay in the Ares cabin.” She mumbles into the crook of your neck on the porch of Hermes cabin, and you chuckle while rubbing circles on her back. “I think you annoyed Chiron enough for one day.”

The daughter of Ares sighs, reluctantly nodding as she gives you a gentle squeeze before walking away. You watch her walk to her cabin for a few seconds, a permanent smile on your face before you walk inside your crowded cabin.

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The next morning, it’s time for you to join in the routine of chores and training. It seems tiring, but Clarisse is by your side to help you with anything and everything so it’s okay.

“You’re getting better, hon.” She repeats for the 100th time in an hour, and your trust in her words is slowly fading as you sling the sword in your hands awkwardly towards the dummy covered in greek armor in front of you. The girl seems to notice your mood dropping, so she sighs and then stands up and walks towards you. You think she’s going to tell you to take the armor off just stop trying, but you shouldn't have. Clarisse was never one to tell you to give up on something. Instead, she places her hands on your hips, brown eyes straying from your face as she gently moves your body until you're standing in the correct way. You feel like clay under her grip, simply allowing her to position you as your face scans her features. 

It’s like something pulling you to lean in, and it’s only when you're inches away from her face do you realize she is leaning in too. As if realizing where you are and what you guys are doing, she clears her throat and backs away, her hands following to rest at her sides. “There. Try again.” She begins to awkwardly walk away, her confidence gone as she almost trips over some armor left on the floor by another camper.

You nervously laugh, taking a deep breath before you slash the sword forward again. The sword feels much more natural in your hand, and it’s almost like an instinct as you angle it so it hits the unprotected parts so it cuts open the material. 

Your friend cheers, rushing over to you and easily lifting you off the ground like you just won the olympics. Clarisse has always been that way, proud of every thing  you could ever do. With a small laugh, you thank her and finally get her to set you down. “Well done wifey.” The words flow out of Clarisse’s mouth like they’re the most natural thing, and you fake an annoyed sigh.

“You know I’m not your wife right?” You say with a laugh, but she clearly doesn’t find it very funny.

“Then what's this?” Her hand moves to grab your hand, holding it up in front of your face and you try to ignore the way butterflies explode in your stomach from the touch as her eyes lock on yours. With rose colored cheeks- you decide to blame it on the heat and not the feeling of her hand in yours- you finally take notice of what she’s talking about; the ring she bought you when you were kids, snuggly placed on your left hand ring finger. It was a bit too big when you guys were younger, but it fits basically perfectly now.

“It’s a promise ring.” You mumble, walking away to take off the armor and put away the sword. “It’s the closest thing to a wedding ring I could get. And besides, red is my favorite color, the jem is red. It’s basically me, in a ring.” “I didn’t understand a single thing you just said.”

Clarisse sighs, wrapping her arms around your waist from behind the same way she did your first day at camp- though this time she doesn’t lift you up. “Sorry. Let me summarize. You’re my wife, and that is your ring.” You chuckle, turning around in her arms and trying not to think about the way you’re so close you can feel her warm breath on your face. “Fine. I’m your wife.” She takes the win, leaving a chaste kiss on your cheek before she makes her way out of the training grounds to go wash up for lunch.

This girl is gonna be the death of you.

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That night, Clarisse sneaks into the Hermes cabin. She’s used to sneaking out, but she’s never had a reason to sneak into this specific cabin and she almost bursts out laughing when she gets through the window and almost steps on a kid laying on a sleeping bag on the floor. 

She easily manages her way through the sleeping kids to get to your bunk in the corner, cringing every once and a while when floor boards creek. You’re awake, staring at the wall and you reach under your pillow to grab a dagger Annabeth gave you when someone puts a hand on your shoulder and tries to shake you away so you can hold it up against their neck.

“Why the hell do you have a knife to my throat?” Clarisse quietly squeaks out, and you sigh in relief before putting the weapon back under your pillow for safe keeping. “I just…I’m sorry.” You think about telling her about the nightmare you were having not even ten minutes ago, but it looks like she’s already aware of it as she sends you knowing eyes.

“You can make it up to me by following me.” One look into her pleading eyes is all you need to reluctantly agree, and she helps you out of the window and then onto her back so she can carry you to the surprise she set up in the forest.

The sight makes you want to grin and cry at the same time; it’s a picnic set on the cliff overlooking the waterfall you told her was your favorite part of camp, all your favorite foods from the outside world placed accordingly on the blanket. There are little lanterns placed all over, lighting up this specific part of the woods. You can clearly see the stars, one of your favorite things, and the cozy feeling of the date-like setting goes against the summer breeze of the night.

“So? What do you think?” Clarisse nervously asks as you look around in awe. “I….I love it Clar.” You reply, pulling her into a tight hug. “How’d you get all these foods?” You quest with a grin. She innocently shrugs, but she’s got a mischievous look in her eyes that only appears when she does something bad. She won’t tell you that she snuck out of camp the same way she snuck out of her cabin to go to the mortal world, sneaking back in a throwing herself into a bush when Mr. D almost caught her.

She sits down on the blanket, patting the spot next to her and then pulling you into her lap when you sit down. “This is so nice….but why?” “Why?” “Why’d you do it?”

Clarisse chuckles; “Because my wife deserves best.” There it is again, the phrase that brings a blush to your face no matter how many times you hear it. “Well, thank you.” She nods, grabbing a chocolate covered strawberry and taking a hesitant bite before humming in satisfaction. “That’s really good.”

You two spend the rest of the night talking and giggling as you cuddle up to her and eat the delicious foods, and by the end of the night you’re lying with your head in her lap as she runs her fingers through your hair. “One day,” She starts, leaning down to kiss your forehead before she continues speaking; “I’m gonna marry you for real.”

With a small laugh, you nod, staring into her brown eyes as you sigh. “I’m okay with that.” You whisper, and for a second it seems like she’s leaning down again. It’s proven she is when her lips connect with yours. Her lips are slightly chapped since she always forgets to put on chapstick before she leaves the cabin, but that doesn’t matter as she’s kissing you like she’s been starved for years. Technically, she has been.

She pulls away, watching with a nervous smile as you attempt to catch your breath and stare up at her in awe. “Was that-was that okay?” You slowly nod, sitting up and then turning to face her before you grab her face in your hands and kiss her once again. She seems surprised, but she quickly adapts as her hands move to your hips and firmly grip them.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since the day you agreed to be my wife.” She whispers as she pulls away and leans her forehead on your own. You giggle, giving her a quick kiss in between love sick giggles. “Me too.”

She begins to talk again, but the sound of hooves galloping near and a loud voice calling out, “Who's there?!” makes her panic. Chiron. You panic as well, and you both messily pick up the empty plates and blanket, shoving it all in the basket and taking your hand in the one that isn't holding the basket.

The galloping is getting closer, and you both begin to run back into the forest- on the way back to camp but still in the opposite direction of Chiron.

You both begin to laugh as you almost trip over a branch, and you have to bite your lip and hold a hand over Clarrise's mouth so Chiron won't hear. 

You eventually make it back to the cabins, and you both slow down to a light jog as you near the Hermes cabin. She brings you back to the still open window, and helps lift you up into the slightly cold room. You take off your shoes, and are about to wish her a goodnight and go to bed when you turn around to see her lips playfully puckered. 

You chuckle, walking back to the window and giving her a small peck on the lips. “Goodnight Clar. and thank you for a wonderful night.” She smiles. “It was only wonderful because you were there. Goodnight angel.” With that, she leaves towards her own cabin, and you're left staring at her leave with a love sick smile and look in your eyes.

At the edge of the forest, Chiron watches the sweet goodnight with a small smile. “Well I'll be damned….Clarisse La Rue is a softy.” He begins walking to his own cabin with a content sigh. “But they better not sneak out again.”

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[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: Hello everyone! I'm so happy to be back writing this story. I did have a little vacation over Thanksgiving week and spent time with my family, so this chapter is later than I wanted it to be, the same with my other story. This is where some more HOTD cannon divergence happens. I've always wondered what would have happened if Aegon-- oop, I was just about to spoil the chapter! Thank y'all again for your patience and support, and Merry-Happy-Early-Christmas! 

Chapter Warnings: angst, depression, mentions of miscarriage, suicidal ideations, suicide attempt, PTSD, baby girl has TRAUMA.

The cold winds howled over the cliffs of Dragonstone, carrying the scent of the sea and the acrid tang of sulfur. Inside the towering stone walls of the ancient castle, the air was thick with silence, as if the structure was holding its breath in solemn grief. The Hall of the Painted Table was empty, the fires cold, casting long shadows that crept along the black stone floors. And there, you wandered in the solitude of those looming corridors, a solitary figure lost within your dark fortress.

You had once been a woman of unparalleled spirit, a warrior, a strategist, and a force as unbreakable as the dragon you commanded. Your presence alone had once commanded respect, fear, and admiration. You rallied allies within the treacherous red stone walls of the Red Keep and avenged those you loved with a fury that burned as bright as dragon fire, yet now, that fire was nothing but dying embers flickering faintly within your hollowed soul.

You moved like a shadow, drifting through the halls without purpose or direction. Your once-proud gait reduced to listless steps, and your eyes were clouded and distant as if fixed on some vision that haunted you beyond the walls of Dragonstone. You became a ghost of yourself, trapped between a relentless past and an uncertain future.

Concerns from your family continued to mount when reports of Cannibal, who once patrolled the island with an iron fury, were spotted, allowing another wild dragon to steal his food. The Keepers said he did not bear his teeth nor protect his kill of a white billy goat when the brown body of Sheepstealer soared over his head. He stared at the fellow beast, flattening his coal-black body and curling into himself with an exhaustive sigh as the grey-eyed animal was snatched into the large maw of Sheepstealer.

Cannibal would have ripped the dragon's throat for daring to come so close.

Daemon watched you from afar, his heart breaking with every step you took. He remembered the fierce woman you were, the woman who once looked at him with eyes blazing with determination and a spirit as wild as the dragons. Now, you were a shell, lost in despair and guilt, crushed by the weight of a purpose you believed you failed. You were so close to securing the throne that your mother would be robbed of, only to see it slip away.

The Rogue Prince was not known for his comfort and empathy skills, finding himself unable to help you. Such tender qualities were better fit for that of a mother, and he implored Rhaenyra to assist him in the matter.

She would offer soft words of hope and love into your ears, attempting to share your grief at the loss of a child. While she had never experienced it herself, she watched her mother for her entire life struggle in the birthing bed and understood the pain and fear surrounding it. Yet no words or activities spent in the presence of your adoptive mother could heal that ache, and you refused to be the cause of any heedless stress regarding the impending usurpation of her throne. Knowing what it could do to the pregnant body, you continued to keep yourself at a distance from Rhaenyra and your father.

Desperate to rekindle your spark, Luke tried to draw you back to the things that once brought you joy. He laid out your favorite books in the library as he led you to it, hoping that the stories and history you once devoured with passion would call to you again. But you merely walked past the shelves, running a trembling hand over the leather-bound spines without pulling a single one down. Your fingers lingered over the titles, and Luke watched the briefest flicker of interest cross your eyes, only to fade as quickly as it had come.

Then, with Daemon's help, Luke brought you a sword, one of the finely crafted Valyrian blades you cherished. He placed it in your hands, encouraging you to spar with your father, hoping to remind you of your strength and the thrill you once felt when training, yet you merely held the sword in silence, your grip weak and unsteady, gaze vacant as though the weight of the blade was more than you could bear. You let it slip from your hands, the metal clattering against the stone floor, a hollow echo that seemed to reverberate through the very bones of the castle.

Even the presence of family brought no solace. Luke gathered those closest to you, hoping their laughter, warmth, and love would stir something within you, but you sat among them, a distant figure, barely speaking, your mind elsewhere. Your siblings looked at you with worry. Luke even had Jace bring you your favorite desserts, knowing they were your weakness, trying to reach you, but you were adrift in a sea of despair beyond their touch.

They did not know what happened to the full extent, only that someone in the Keep wanted you gone so far as to attempt murder. You did not want their judgments that would surely follow with the revelation, that you succumbed to the sins of the flesh with Aegon of all people.

You wandered the castle from dawn to dusk, restless and unmoving as if searching for something you could never find. Sometimes, you would stop by the grand windows overlooking the storm-tossed seas, your gaze fixed on the churning waves as if they held the answers you sought. Other times, you would stand on the battlements, the wind whipping your hair around your face, stroking your stomach, but even the fierce gusts could not shake you from your reverie.

Why could you not remember who poisoned you?

You could see his body, the dark outline of his silhouette in the candlelight, and feel his hands on your feet, legs, and hips as they reached higher to reveal your small clothes. Yet, that's where the image of man stopped and morphed into that of a beast, cloaked in a black void of any light and the warmth that a human possessed. Then you remembered the pain, the agony as these unseen hands ripped at your womb until all you saw was raw blood and organs leaking from your stomach.

In quiet moments, where you managed to put the memories within the recesses of your mind, you felt the weight of your mother's legacy pressing down on you, a burden you no longer felt strong enough to carry. Your hands trembled as you thought of the throne she would be unable to claim, the people you would be unable to protect, and the family honor you had failed. Your fingers would clench, nails digging into your palms, but a hollow ache now replaced the hope you once felt at yours and Aegon's future.

You knew that with the Iron Throne's intoxicating power, he would stop at nothing to have you by his side once more. He would have a single goal inside his obsessive mind and pursue it even at the cost of your happiness.

Sometimes, you thought it best to end it now, to save your kin and the realm from the destruction of Aegon's wrath and the Greens, but your body would not allow you. No matter how often you stood at the edge of your balcony, overlooking the gray sea and green mountainous terrain, your limbs refused to follow your will. Not even Cannibal would obey your commands of self-destruction as you screamed "dracarys" at his obsidian head. His emerald eyes would squint at you, pupils dilating and shrinking as his reptilian mind whirred.

Only a few, besides those blessed with Valyrian blood, could understand the bond between rider and dragon until they saw the depths of it unobscured. Cannibal understood your heart before you did.

Daemon, unwilling to give up when Luke was, found you one evening as you stood alone in the training yard's dim light, gaze fixed on a bow and a quiver in your hand. You did not want those to see you as weak, a pathetic, shameful husk of the woman you were. Daemon approached slowly, his heart heavy as he saw the daughter he loved, broken and defeated. He gently touched your shoulder, feeling the subtle tremor in your body. You did not pull away, but neither did you acknowledge his touch.

"Do you remember," he softly asked as you lowered the bowstring, "the girl who once walked these halls with fire in her eyes? The girl who would have laughed in the face of defeat, who would have fought to the last breath for what she believed in?"

Closing your eyes, the pain in his words cut through you like a blade. You did remember. You remembered the woman you were, the warrior, the leader, the daughter who would stop at nothing to secure your mother's throne. That woman felt like a stranger now, a memory from another life where you had your fair-haired boy in your arms, and your soul was whole.

"Tell me, what happened to her?" he whispered, his voice breaking.

You opened your peculiar eyes and met his gaze for the first time in days. Your voice was barely a whisper, frail and broken. "She failed, father. I doomed them all."

He shook his head, taking your face in his hands and forcing you to hold his stare. "No, she has not failed. She's still here, somewhere, waiting to rise again."

A tear slipped down your cheek, but you did not pull away, avoiding his gaze and looking to the torches lighting the area in a dim yellow. Somewhere deep within you, a spark flickered, a faint reminder of the fire you once held. You were still lost, wandering the halls of Dragonstone, a ghost of the fierce woman you once were, waiting for the strength to rise again from the ashes of despair.

As the pale fingers of dawn unfurled across the slate rooftops of King's Landing, they painted the city in soft orange and gold hues. The delicate light spilled into the labyrinthine alleys, illuminating the cobblestones and revealing shadows that danced in the corners. The brisk morning air carried the sharp, salty scent of the nearby Blackwater Bay, intertwining with the fetid odor of refuse that littered the streets and the lingering uncleanliness of bodies that had not known a wash in days. It was a complex tapestry of sensations, stirring both the serenity of the early hour and the harsh realities of life in the bustling city.

A figure emerged in the shadows of a narrow passage. A young woman with red hair tucked under a plain hood carried a piece of parchment. Her freckled face was ordinary, forgettable by design, but her eyes darted with precision, catching every movement, every whisper in the predawn stillness. Fiora was one of Madame's spies, a former brothel worker, but she proved worth more than her body. She was a ghost among the throng, sent with tasks Madame only trusted with her.

The faint but distinct metal clinking echoed through the dimly lit corridor, prompting her to stop abruptly. Before her stood three Gold Cloaks, their polished armor reflecting the flickering light of their torches, which sputtered uncertainly in the cool night air. The soldiers moved with an air of authority, barking orders as the shadows danced around them, creating an atmosphere thick with tension and unease.

"Get to your homes!" one shouted, his voice gruff. "Every beggar, every rat-catcher, ensure they stay sound in their beds. If they resist, remind them who runs this city!"

Fiora pressed herself against the damp wall of the alley, her breath shallow. She could feel the tension in the city—fear rippled through the streets like an unseen tide. Whispers of Rhaenyra's fall had already begun to fester, carried by merchants and drunks alike.

There were no secrets in King's Landing.

When the Gold Cloaks moved on, Fiora slipped deeper into the maze of alleys, her hand clutching the folded letter concealed in her sleeve. She needn't open it to know its importance. Madame's orders had been clear: get the message to Dragonstone before it was too late.

The docks were alive with activity despite the early hour. Fishmongers shouted their wares, sailors bickered over cargo, and the tang of brine filled the air. Moving through the crowd, the spy spotted her contact, an older man with grey hair and a salt-stained coat seated on a crate and chewing a piece of dried meat. Without a word, she approached him, slipping the letter into his palm as if handing over a simple copper.

"Dragonstone?" he muttered, not looking at her. He knew without asking.

She nodded. "Tonight, if possible."

The man stuffed the letter into his coat and stood. "Madame's got her fingers in every pie, doesn't she?"

"She ensures we all eat," Fiora replied softly with a brief smirk, her voice tinged with loyalty and fear, but she soon swallowed it, thinking only of her last moments spent with you.

He gave her a curt nod and disappeared into the crowd, heading for one of the many trading boats tied to the end of the dock. She lingered long enough to see him climb aboard and order his men to push off into the bay, his silhouette growing minor against the vast expanse of water.

As the spy pivoted on her heel to depart, the sharp echo of boots reverberated in the dimly lit corridor behind her. She spun around abruptly, her heart racing, only to find herself locked in a tense gaze with a Gold Cloak. The flickering light of his torch cast dramatic shadows across her fair skin, highlighting the tension in her expression and the quickness of her breath as she assessed the danger that loomed before her.

"You there," the armored man announced, his eyes narrowing. "What's your business skulking about so early?"

She summoned her best mask of innocence, tilting her head slightly. "Looking for work, ser. The mornings are kindest to those of us who beg."

The guard studied her, suspicion flickering in his gaze. "Be off with you, then. Or you'll find yourself bleeding with the rest."

She offered a tentative nod, averting as she turned to leave, her heart racing like a wild drum. When she was out of sight, adrenaline surged through her veins, propelling Fiora to quicken her pace. She slipped into the enveloping shadows, the cool darkness wrapping around her like a comforting shroud as she dashed away.

The sun rose higher, painting King's Landing in golden hues, but for the nameless spy, the city remained steeped in danger. Somewhere in Dragonstone, Rhaenyra would soon learn of the betrayal brewing in her absence.

The heavy scent of sweat, smoke, and stale wine lingered in the air, suffocating Aegon's every breath. The candlelight flickered, casting long, distorted shadows on the brothel's walls. The sounds of drunken laughter, the clink of coins, and the soft moans of pleasure were the only music in his ears as he sat slumped on a velvet chair, a goblet of wine trembling in his hand. His mind, however, was somewhere far away. Somewhere across Blackwater Bay was a woman with hair the color of ebony, a streak of stark white, and eyes that hid his own inside them.

It had been days since you left, days that felt like weeks, and he had drunk himself into a stupor every single night since. He knew you would be disappointed. You would look at him with a gaze full of scolding, dark brows furrowed together, creating those scrunched wrinkles that etched your forehead. The memories of your voice, your touch, and the promise of a future together were drowned in a sea of alcohol, the sting of his loss too great for him to bear sober. The transformation you coaxed out of him after many long moons, the happiness you instilled in his heart, felt like a distant, fleeting dream now, one that he could not reach no matter how hard he tried.

He barely registered the company around him, the women leaning in to whisper sweet nothings, their fingers trailing along his arm, offering distractions he once craved. But tonight, like every night since you left, they felt empty, like the rest of his life. He drank more as though drowning himself in wine could somehow erase the weight in his chest, the gnawing emptiness that replaced the warmth of your love. He downed the glass in one go, and the room spun, the edges of his vision blurring until the walls felt like they were closing in.

He cursed softly to himself, slamming the goblet down with a clink that startled a nearby woman. "You don't understand," he mumbled under his breath to no one, his voice hoarse. "No one understands except for her. My love..."

The woman nodded politely but saw the same look in his eyes that they all had, the same lost, broken look, the countenance of a man who had too much power but never enough purpose. She stepped back, a practiced grace in her movements as she retreated to attend to the next guest, her sheer lavender dress shimmering in the dim lighting.

Aegon didn't care. He didn't care about the women. He didn't care about the gamblers. He didn't care about the city he was trapped in or the castle he would return to, with its cold halls and colder courtiers. All he cared about now was the gnawing ache that hollowed out his chest. The realization that you were gone.

That night, he found himself stumbling through the streets of King's Landing, his steps unsteady, his heart heavy with the same emptiness that seemed to follow him like a shadow as he attempted to return home. Despite the icy air, his wrinkled and unkempt tunic clung to his frame with cold sweat. His cropped blonde hair hung limp around his face, and his eyes were bloodshot, the purple hue dull and sunken from too much wine and too little sleep. His mind was lost in the haze of alcohol, but deep inside, a part of him still longed for you.

He heard whispers from his mother earlier in the day about his father's worsening condition, but he pushed them aside. After all, what could a dying old man matter when he was already dead inside?

What did any of it matter?

With a shaky hand, Aegon tried to steady himself as he leaned against the cold sandstone of a building. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, trying to clear the fog from his mind. The weight, the throne, the family, and the expectations were too much. His chest tightened as he stumbled forward, the dim lights of the Red Keep finally in sight.

Home. Or at least what was left of it.

The streets were deserted at this hour, save for the occasional street urchin or drunken sailor stumbling home from a night of revelry. His breath came in heavy gasps, and the world seemed to tilt with each step. Aegon's head spun, his vision blurring more with each passing second.

The pain of it all, of you, was unbearable. Why had he not tried harder and done more to make you stay? He had been a fool, a coward, running back to the same old habits the moment you were injured. How could he redeem himself when he had lost the only thing that truly mattered? His thoughts tumbled over one another, chaotic and cluttered, as he neared the mud gate of the Red Keep. He was so drunk, so completely lost in his stupor, that he did not see the lip in the flagstone, tumbling to the ground, unable to catch himself as he succame to the dark.

When he awoke, the world was still spinning. He groaned, feeling the rough stone beneath his cheek. His mind was hazy. A thick fog clung to him as if trying to pull him back into unconsciousness. The pain in his skull, a sharp, burning throb, was enough to keep him from slipping away entirely.

Aegon groaned again, his eyes flickering open. The world around him was dark, the cold air of the night biting at his skin. His arms were stiff, his legs numb. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like lead. There was a moment of disorientation. Where was he? His head pulsated, and his thoughts finally began to sharpen. The past few minutes, or hours, began to piece together. He remembered walking. He remembered the drunken haze. He remembered stumbling toward the Red Keep, and then suddenly, the ground was not so far away.

A shadow loomed over him.

Someone stood above him, cloaked in the night, their presence ominous. Aegon blinked, trying to focus, but the blow had left him too dizzy, and the area was too dim.

"Your Highness."

The voice was unfamiliar, smooth, and with an accent his mind couldn't place. Perhaps a servant or one of the guards was coming to his aide. Aegon's breath hitched, a tinge of unease creeping into his heart. "What... what happened?" he croaked, his voice thick with disorientation.

The figure didn't respond immediately. Instead, they crouched down beside him. "The king is dead, your grace, and the Greens search for their new ruler."

Aegon blinked again, the words slicing through the murk in his mind like a blade. His father, the king, had died. He knew it was coming, but the finality of it hit him like a physical blow.

Aegon's heart twisted painfully. The realization settled over him like a shroud. His father's barely beating heart kept the realm from plunging into chaos, though Aegon knew that this would be the outcome. The Crown had no head. It was meant for his sister, but he knew what his mother and grandfather planned.  He was so lost in his grief and self-doubt that he hadn't been within his home to hear of his father's passing. And now, as the weight of it all came crashing down on him, Aegon couldn't help but feel the sting of the cruelest irony. He was too drunk to feel the death of his father.

"I am unfit to rule."

The figure helped him to his feet, but Aegon's legs were still unsteady. His head spun, and he felt the world shifting beneath him.

"The Red Keep will be in turmoil soon, your grace," the figure warned, their voice laced with urgency. "We must hurry to Madame's."

For a moment, Aegon did not care. He didn't care about the throne or the chaos. His father was dead, and he had been too far gone to even process it in time. His heart ached with the realization, but in his soul, there was something darker—a deep, gnawing emptiness that was now replaced by something far colder. He could feel the stirrings of unrest and future instability, but they all felt meaningless without you.

The figure led him forward, but Aegon's mind was far away. The only thing that truly mattered at that moment, the only thing that weighed on his broken heart, was that you were not here.

The pale moonlight filtered through the narrow gaps between buildings, casting long shadows on the damp cobblestones of King's Landing. Aegon's humid clothes stuck to his pale chest and back as he stumbled behind the shadowy figure leading him through the twisting alleyways. He could barely make out the shape of the figure in front of him, her footsteps brisk and silent, as if they had walked these streets a thousand times before. The air smelled of salt from the distant sea, mixed with the faint stench of refuse, human sweat, and the city's ever-present odor of decay.

"Where are you taking me?" Aegon asked, his voice low but edged with suspicion.

The figure didn't answer immediately, glancing back in annoyance. Aegon had already forgotten the prior conversations.

The Prince learned long ago not to trust anyone in the capital, especially in these parts. The back promenades were teeming with danger, thieves, mercenaries, and worse. Still, something about the mysterious figure seemed to promise safety, though Aegon could not quite place why. They were not in a hurry, though Aegon's feet felt like they were being dragged along, his heart racing with a blend of excitement and dread.

They turned a corner, and suddenly, the roads opened up, revealing the Streets of Silk. It was an eerie, quiet place between night and dawn where the moonlight seemed to dance off the curtains hanging from every window and door. The air here was different. It was thick with the scent of exotic perfumes and incense but also something darker and more dangerous. Had they already heard of his father's demise?

The figure stopped before a narrow, unmarked door in one of the buildings. They turned to Aegon and spoke barely louder than a whisper. "Stay close," she commanded from underneath her cloak.

Before Aegon could utter a word, a sudden sound sliced through the stillness, the faint yet distinct clink of metal meeting stone. He immediately froze, his heart racing. Shadows flickered around him as figures materialized from the darkness, sliding stealthily into view from all directions. Their eyes glimmered like tiny stars, piercing through the obscurity, while their faces remained shrouded in hoods.

Like a ripple through water, the alley seemed to shift. A heavy thud rang out, and a figure lunged at Aegon's guide, a glinting dagger in hand. Aegon saw the shimmer of steel and stepped forward instinctively, but before he could react, another figure appeared behind Madame's spy, striking the girl with a vicious blow. She stumbled but didn't fall, readying a weapon of her own in retaliation.

From the darkness, a woman's voice cut through the chaos. It was soft, accented yet edged with an unmistakable authority. "Enough," she said, her words carrying over the din like a heavy curtain being drawn.

The attackers paused, their movements faltering as they turned toward the woman who now stepped into the dim light. She was tall, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders like a veil of night, and her skin was a tan that glowed in the pale light. She wore robes of fine silk, richly dyed in shades of deep purple and midnight blue, but the fabric seemed to swallow her slender frame as though they were borrowed from another life entirely. She moved with the grace of a panther, each step purposeful.

"The White Worm," the figure beside Aegon muttered under their breath, their voice laced with fear and respect.

Aegon's eyes widened. He had heard the name whispered among the courtesans in the brothels and the low-born in the taverns. She was a shadow in the city, feared, respected, and above all, elusive. To cross her was to sign your death warrant.

She took a step forward, her gaze flicking over the attackers, who now seemed to hesitate, unwilling to provoke her further.

"He's valuable," Lady Misery said, her voice like honey and venom. "Aegon Targaryen," she continued, eyes flashing with something dark, something calculating. "A good bargaining chip, best to be stored up one's sleeve, wouldn't you say?"

The world seemed to tilt, and Aegon's stomach dropped. She knew who he was. The thought sent a chill down his spine. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in his throat. The attackers backed off, leaving Aegon no room to escape, and Mysaria's gaze flicked back to him, a smile playing at the corner of her lips.

"Aegon, my dear," she cooed, her accent thick with foreign vowels, "you'll be most useful to me." Her eyes gleamed with something terrible, more dangerous than any knife or dagger.

Before Aegon could react, her men moved swiftly, surrounding him, one of them roughly grabbing his arm. His body was yanked forward, the grip painful and unyielding. He struggled, but there was no use. His mind raced with escape plans, but they all seemed hopeless in the face of Lady Misery's power.

He was dragged, stumbling, through the labyrinth of dark streets until they arrived at the Sept of Balor. The massive structure loomed in the darkness, silent and foreboding, its stone walls seeming to absorb the light. The grand doors creaked open with a horrible sound, and Aegon was forced inside. The air within the Sept was cold, the shadows stretching unnaturally long.

Lady Mysaria followed, her steps soft but deliberate as she surveyed the space. The ancient stone of the Sept was cracked, aged with the weight of centuries. But it was the altar that drew Aegon's eyes. It loomed ahead, dark and imposing.

"You'll be safe here," Lady Misery said, her voice almost kind, but its cruelty made Aegon's blood run cold. She gestured to her men, and they shoved him toward the altar.

"No!" Aegon cried out, struggling, but his efforts were useless. They forced him down onto the cold stone floor, pushing him under the altar, where the shadows seemed to close in like a suffocating shroud.

The small iron door clanged shut behind him, and Aegon was left in total darkness, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. He could hear the sound of footsteps fading away. The echoes grew fainter and fainter until there was nothing but the silence of the ancient stone.

Locked away, beneath the altar, in the belly of the Sept. Alone.

Aegon's heart pounded in his chest. This was no longer a game of political maneuvering. His life, his freedom, was now in the hands of a woman who didn't care about Targaryen blood, only power.

***

The clang of steel echoed softly in the dim corridors of the Red Keep as Ser Erryk Cargyll sat on a wooden bench, carefully polishing his sword. The pristine blade gleamed under the flickering torchlight, a reflection of the oaths he had sworn as a sworn brother of the Kingsguard. Yet his expression was far from serene; a furrow creased his brow as he prepared for his upcoming shift. The weight of duty always hung heavy, but with Aegon as his charge, it was more like a millstone around his neck.

Footsteps approached, slow and deliberate. Erryk glanced up to see Otto Hightower, clad in his green austere robes, his face a mask of authority and impatience. The Hand of the King wasted no time with pleasantries.

"Ser Erryk," Otto began, his voice low but sharp. "Where is the Prince?"

Erryk set the blade aside, straightening his posture. "Forgive me, Lord Hand. I do not know."

Otto's jaw tightened, his piercing eyes studying Erryk for any sign of deceit. "But you're sworn to protect him," he replied with exasperation. He had to deal with the stress of secrecy and hold the realm together in such a precarious time, and he did not need childish antics.

"He exploits his authority to order me away, and then he evades me, my lord. He may have left the Keep secretly and gone into the city." The knight's tone was calm, which Otto would typically scold for, but now such matters of manners seemed pointless.

"Find him. The realm teeters on the edge of chaos, and the Prince must be present. Search the city if you must, but bring him to me."

Erryk gave a stiff nod, though unease churned within him. "As you command, my lord."

As Ser Erryk turned, sheathing his polished sword, the hand spoke, his voice regal yet pragmatic. "My sincerest apologies about your brother. I shall see that he's returned to his quarters once I have my grandson."

The Kingsguard bowed but said nothing and left the Red Keep.

The Silk Streets were already active, even in the early hours. Ser Erryk moved through the narrow, winding alleys, keeping a firm grip on the pommel of his sword. The city's infamous district reeked of cheap perfume and spilled ale, the air thick with the laughter of courtesans and the hushed whispers of clandestine dealings.

Erryk grimaced as he passed a pleasure house whose painted façade was garish even in the dim light. His thoughts churned with resentment. Always Aegon. The name sat heavy on his mind like a stone in his gut. How many mornings has he scoured the city to retrieve the Prince from some depraved hole?

Erryk's memories were a blur of drunken brawls, soiled bedsheets, and shameful confessions. He clenched his jaw. Aegon's appetites were boundless, and his respect for his station, if it existed, was invisible to those who served him.

Erryk's search brought him to the fighting pits, a grim and lawless place tucked away from the bustling streets. The muffled roar of a crowd reached his ears, mingled with the feral snarls of dogs and the cries of wounded children, one with the familiar color of pale white hair.

He slipped inside, weaving through the crowd. The stench of sweat and blood hung heavy in the air. In the center of the pit, two boys no older than ten squared off, their faces twisted in fear and determination as the crowd jeered and wagered coins. Erryk's stomach turned, but he did not stop to intervene. His mission was clear, even if his conscience screamed against it.

"Seen the Prince?" he asked one of the pit organizers, a burly man with a broken nose.

The man snorted. "Not tonight. Ain't his usual time. Check the brothels."

Erryk nodded curtly, stepping back into the alley. He wiped his brow, though the morning air was still cool. His frustration bubbled beneath the surface.

This man is to be king? Erryk thought bitterly. The realm deserves better. Rhaenyra would rule with strength and purpose, yet he served this spoiled wretch.

As he turned to leave, a voice called out softly from the shadows. "A moment of your time, my lord."

He spun, his hand instinctively falling to his sword. From the crowd emerged a young woman, her complexion dark, her curly hair tucked beneath a tan cloak. Her presence was unassuming, yet her bearing spoke of quiet confidence.

"Who are you?" Erryk asked, his tone cautious.

"A friend," she replied, her voice light and melodic, like a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves. "I can take you to Prince Aegon. Rather, I am sent by one who knows where he is. Who'll tell you for a price."

Erryk felt utterly drained as if every ounce of energy had been siphoned from his body. The weight of his exhaustion settled heavily on his shoulders, suffocating any flicker of motivation to continue fighting for someone he now deemed unworthy. Each futile effort felt like a battle against an unyielding tide, leaving him hollow and weary. "Deliver him to me, and I will consider your price.

The woman smiled faintly. "My mistress will not treat with the servants of the Keep, exalted though they may be. She'll trust this to the Hand of the King only."

Erryk's lips thinned into a line. He hated the game of it all, the constant dealings with spies and schemers. But what choice did he have? Without Aegon, the Hightowers' grip on power would falter, and the city would erupt into chaos. The outcome seemed all the more appealing.

"I will take your message to the Hand," he said finally. "But if this is a ploy..."

"It is not," she interrupted firmly. "I think he will wish to hear what the White Worm can tell him."

With that, the woman disappeared into the maze of people, leaving Erryk with his mounting frustration. He turned back toward the Red Keep, his boots striking the cobblestones with purpose.

As he strolled through the dimly lit corridors, his mind wandered to Aegon, consumed by his insatiable desires and the turmoil they unleashed upon the realm. A bitter truth weighed heavily on his heart. Aegon was unworthy of the Crown, yet the kingdom yearned for stability. It struck him as a poignant tragedy that these two notions, Rhaenyra's rightful place and the peace the realm craved, seemed destined to be at odds with each other.

The weight of his sword suddenly felt heavier at his side, but Erryk marched on. Duty demanded it, even if every fiber of his being recoiled at what that required.

The room was suffocatingly quiet, save for the faint creak of the wooden shutters as a soft breeze nudged them against the window frame. Pale sunlight streamed through the gaps, but its warmth failed to reach the cold that had taken residence in your bones. You lay in bed, the threadbare covers tangled around your legs, staring at the ceiling as though it held the answer to a question you were too weary to ask.

Your body betrayed you in cruel ways. The tremors in your hands, faint but persistent, reminded you of the hemlock that had nearly stolen your life. Each shiver was a whisper of death's near embrace, and though the poison had left you alive, it had not spared you its aftermath. A fresh stain of blood on the sheets confirmed what you already knew: your body was fighting in more ways than one. The child you had unknowingly carried was gone.

The pain was sharp, a dagger that twisted in your chest with every breath, but it was the ache in your heart that, indeed, left you paralyzed. You closed your eyes, desperate for solace, but instead, the dream returned. It always did.

You stood in a sunlit garden, chrysanthemums and fresh grass filling the air. Aegon was there, his silver hair catching the light as he knelt to tie a ribbon around a little girl's wrist. She had your smile but his hair, her violet eyes sparkling as she laughed. Nearby, a boy with your dark hair and his father's sullen demeanor clutched a wooden sword, mimicking Aegon's every movement with a determination that made your heart swell.

"You're doing well, little prince," Aegon said to the boy, his voice warm with pride. You had never heard him so happy. "But keep your stance firm. Like this."

You watched them, your hand resting on your rounded belly, another child stirring within you. A grin stretched your lips as Aegon glanced back at you, his eyes soft with affection, and your heart soared.

"Come here, my love," he said, reaching for your hand. "Look at them."

But as you stepped forward, the image dissolved. The laughter faded, replaced by a chilling silence. You reached for Aegon, but he was gone, the garden with him, leaving you alone in the void.

Your eyes flew open, the dream's cruel clarity a weight pressing against your chest. Aegon wasn't here. He was never coming back, and the future you had seen, the family, the love, the life, was nothing but a lie spun by your desperate mind.

Tears slid down your cheeks, unbidden and unstoppable. You didn't bother wiping them away. What was the point? You couldn't summon the energy to rise, eat, or even drink the goblet of water left on the bedside table. The tremor in your hand grew worse as you brought it to your abdomen, resting it on the place where life had once grown. The loss was yet another cruel theft. Another dream ripped away before it could even begin.

Your thoughts spiraled, dark and unrelenting. What future awaited you now? A lifetime of mourning for what could have been? The realm's impending chaos only mirrored the storm within you, and you couldn't imagine a path forward through either.

But then, unbidden, his voice echoed in your mind.

"Look at them."

The memory of those words, spoken in the dream, clung to you like a threadbare cloak against the chill. You hated yourself for longing for Aegon, hoping that somehow, against all odds, his family might allow him to escape, but the truth was undeniable. Aegon was a part of you, as ingrained as your heartbeat and as unforgettable as your pain.

The thought of him gave you pause. He was reckless and flawed beyond measure, but he was also the man who once held you in the dead of night and whispered promises of a better tomorrow. You wanted to believe in those vows, even if they now felt like ashes in your hands.

Your body screamed for rest, for nourishment, but your soul was louder, its cries reverberating through the empty chamber.

Would he even recognize you now, this shadow of yourself? Or would he look upon you with pity, perhaps even disdain? The thought was unbearable, yet it ignited something faint and flickering within you, a tiny, stubborn ember of defiance.

You remained motionless, wrapped in grief and longing. The dream had been beautiful, cruelly so, and it left you haunted. You closed your eyes again, yearning not for sleep but for the impossible. A world where that dream had been absolute, Aegon was here, and hope was not stolen from your grasp.

All you could do for the moment was lie still and let the ache consume you.

The din of the bustling market hummed around the cloaked figure seated at a weathered wooden table. The smell of roasted meat mingled with the sharp tang of spices and the salty sea breeze wafting from Blackwater Bay. Merchants hawked their wares, their voices rising above the crowd's chatter, while children darted through the maze of stalls, their laughter carrying on the air.

Otto Hightower shifted uneasily in his seat, his fingers tapping against the small leather pouch at his belt. The Hand of the King was accustomed to commanding attention, yet here he sat in the heart of King's Landing, shrouded in anonymity, the shadow of a commoner. His hood obscured his stern features, and his robes, though of fine make, had been chosen to avoid drawing undue notice.

Across the table, a figure slid into the empty seat. The woman moved with the grace of a predator, her dark cloak brushing the ground as she settled herself. Her face, painted with a natural tan, was framed by a cascade of tightly curled hair. Lady Misery, the White Worm, fixed Otto with a look equal to amusement and calculation.

"You are the mysterious White Worm, I take it. Or are you simply a further peel in this stinking onion?" Otto chided, but Mysaria took it in stride. She was accustomed to men like him. She bedded one, after all.

"My condolences on the passing of your king," she started, her voice smooth as silk, accented with the lilting tones of Lysene. She leaned forward slightly, her hands folding atop the table. Otto's expression remained impassive, but his fingers stilled as he motioned for Erryk to give her the substantial sack of coins.

His jaw tightened, but he maintained his composure. "Where is Prince Aegon?"

She continued, her voice soft but cutting through the noise like a blade as Lady Misery smiled faintly, leaning back on her bench. "I thought the Prince was in Flea Bottom, where no one was to be trusted. I'd best secrete him somewhere safe if they come looking for him."

Otto leaned closer, his brow furrowing as he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. The daylight caught the intensity in his eyes as he repeated. "Where is the Prince?"

A smirk tugged at her lips, but her eyes remained cold. "He is safely tucked away," she finally answered as her gaze shifted to something more serious. "I want an end to the savage use of children in Flea Bottom." She let the weight of her words linger before continuing. "They are forced to fight; worse, your gold cloaks take bribes to make them look away. An obscenity either tolerated or ignored by the Crown."

Otto exhaled sharply, considering her terms. The market seemed to grow louder around them, as though the noise pressed against the fragile boundary of their secret conversation. Finally, he inclined his head slightly. "I'll look into it. You have my word."

"When your plots ripen, and you install your grandson on the throne, remember I put him there. I could have killed him as easily as a wasp on fruit." Misery's smile returned, a slow, triumphant curl of her lips. "There is no power but what the people allow you to take."

She rose gracefully, the movement drawing his eyes to the faint shadow of her silhouette beneath the cloak. "Pleasure doing business with you, my lord," she quipped, her voice laced with irony. "Do try to keep your end of the bargain. If not, secrets can slip through cracks, don't they?"

"I will remember," Otto replied curtly, done with this feeling of inferiority. He found himself in unfamiliar territory, feeling palpably uncomfortable not being in control of the situation. This situation starkly contrasted with the confident authority he was used to wielding, leaving him restless and uncertain.

With that, she melted into the market crowd, leaving Otto alone at the table, his mind already turning to the next step. Lady Misery played her hand well, but the game was far from over. For now, though, he had what he needed. And with that knowledge, the Hightowers' plans would press forward at any cost as he signaled Erryk to go after his grandson.

The bells of King's Landing tolled softly in the distance as Ser Erryk Cargyll ascended the marble steps of the Sept of Baelor, the daylight casting a yellow sheen on the grand structure. The towering statues of the Seven loomed above, their solemn faces shadowed by the flickering light of countless candles within. The air was thick with the cloying scent of incense and melting wax, a sharp contrast to the tension tightening Erryk's chest.

He pushed open the heavy doors, the groan of iron hinges echoing in the vast, silent chamber. The dim light revealed rows of pews, the smooth black stone floor reflecting the warm, golden glow of the candles that adorned the grand altar. But what caught Erryk's attention was not the serene beauty of the Sept. The faint coughing sound was a wet, muffled noise from somewhere near the altar.

Erryk's hand instinctively went to his sword hilt as he stepped forward. "Prince Aegon?" he called, his voice low and cautious. He received no answer, only the echo of his voice. His boots clicked softly against the marble as he approached the altar, the massive carved effigies of the Seven staring down at him.

There it was again, a cough followed by a quiet sniffle. Erryk knelt and peered under the altar. In the shadowed space, he saw a figure huddled tightly, and his cloak pulled around him as if it could shield him from the world. Silver hair glinted faintly in the candlelight.

"By the Seven..." Erryk muttered, his voice edged with disbelief. He grabbed the Prince by the arm, pulling him from his hiding place.

The young Prince squirmed in his grip, his bloodshot eyes wide and wild. "Let me go!" Aegon hissed, his voice hoarse. He yanked his arm, but Erryk held firm.

"You think you can hide here forever?" Erryk snapped. "The realm is teetering on the brink of war, and you're cowering under an altar like a child. Do you have any idea what is at stake?"

Aegon glared at him, his cheeks flushed with anger. "I never asked for this! Let Aemond have the bloody Crown. He wants it more than I ever will." He struggled harder, white hair sticking to his forehead, his desperation evident. "I won't be a pawn in their game, Erryk. I refuse!"

Erryk's grip tightened, but the Prince's words gnawed at him. Aegon was no king. He was reckless, self-indulgent, and utterly unsuited to rule. The realm needed strength and decisiveness, qualities that Aegon sorely lacked. Yet duty bound Erryk to him, to the line of a male-dominated succession, to the precarious stability that Aegon's coronation might bring.

"Let me go," Aegon pleaded again, his voice cracking. "You know I am not fit for this. You know it, Erryk."

Erryk hesitated, torn between his sworn duty and the undeniable truth in the Prince's words. But before he could decide, the sound of boots echoed in the chamber, and Erryk turned to see Prince Aemond and Ser Criston Cole approaching, their figures sharp and menacing in the candlelight.

"Aegon," Aemond called, his tone cold and commanding. His single violet eye glinted as he stepped closer, his hand resting on the hilt of his longsword. "Come with us. Mother wishes to see you. Now."

Erryk positioned himself between Aegon and the newcomers, his hand on his blade. "He is not going anywhere. On my honor, on my oath sworn to the King, Prince Aegon will not ascend the Iron Throne."

Aegon stood on trembling legs, remnants of Arbor Red still flowing through his veins as he looked from Ser Erryk to his brother. He would always long for the tender grace of his mother he never had, and a part of him briefly wondered if Aegon allowed himself to succumb to that instinctual desire, to go with Aemond to usurp his half-sister's throne, would his mother finally show him the maternal love he longed for? The Prince saw your smile flash in his mind's eye, memories of your warm flesh against his own, and soon realized he no longer craved his mother's attention.

Criston frowned his expression a mix of frustration and betrayal. "Ser Erryk, this is madness. You know your duty."

Ser Erryk stood firm for a moment, but his inner conflict surged. Aemond was ambitious and ruthless, yet he was more fit to rule than his older brother in many ways. Could he, in good conscience, deliver Aegon to them, knowing it would only hasten the bloodshed to come?

He turned to Aegon, his voice soft but firm. "Go."

Aegon's eyes widened in surprise, looking from his younger brother's cloaked form to his sworn protector. "What?"

"Go to her!" Ser Erryk barked, stepping aside to block Aemond and Criston as Aegon hesitated for a heartbeat before bolting toward the nearest exit.

Aemond released a low growl of frustration, his breath coming in heavy spurts as he surged forward. Sensing the impending clash, the knight unsheathed his sword swiftly, the blade glinting ominously in the light. With a determined shout, he met Criston's weapon head-on, the sharp clash of steel ringing out like a battle cry, reverberating through the tense air.

"You will regret this treason, Erryk," Criston snarled, his blade falling in a vicious arc.

"I already do," Erryk replied, dodging the blow. Their swords clashed in a deadly rhythm, sparks flying as Erryk fought to hold his ground against the more seasoned knight.

Aegon darted through the dim corridors of the Sept, his breath ragged and his legs burning. Aemond was relentless, his footsteps growing louder with every passing second. Aegon turned a corner, only to find himself trapped by a wall. He spun around just as Aemond caught up, his sword drawn.

"You have run far enough," Aemond hissed, advancing. "Face me, brother."

In desperation, Aegon grabbed a candelabra from the wall, swinging it wildly. He was never the swordsman of the two. Aemond blocked it with ease, his strikes controlled but furious. The scuffle was brief and frantic, and Aegon's movements were clumsy compared to Aemond's calculated precision. The thought of being with you again guided his clumsy movements against his skilled brother. He would rather die than be forced into a position where he would have to turn against you. Aegon swung wildly, the lit candles flying from their brass holders and flinging wax on the holy stone. The older brother was not much against the younger.

Aegon found his chance in a twist of fate, driven by sheer luck or perhaps the raw instinct of hopelessness. He lifted the ornate candelabra, its metal glinting in the dim light, and with a determined swing, brought it crashing down onto Aemond's blind side. The impact was jarring, sending shockwaves through Aemond's body as he howled in pain, clutching his eye and throwing him off balance. His shocked expression revealed the suddenness of the attack.

Seizing the fleeting moment, Aegon dashed past his brother, his heart pounding as adrenaline propelled him forward. He slipped into the thick daylight of a courtyard, the cool air rushing against his skin as he escaped the chaos behind him.

In the darkness of the Sept, Erryk and Criston found themselves locked in a brutal clash. The air was tense as both knights fought with every ounce of strength and honor, their faces glistening with sweat and their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Each swing of their blades was becoming slower, heavy with fatigue, yet neither was willing to relent. Criston's rage burned bright in his eyes, a fierce fire that seemed to radiate from him, while Erryk stood his ground, his resolve as unyielding as steel, determined not to back down in the face of such ferocity.

"You've sealed your fate, traitor," Criston spat as they clashed again.

"Perhaps," Erryk replied, his voice steady despite the chaos. "But I could not live with myself if I did not try to stop this madness."

The distant sound of bells filled the air again as Aegon disappeared into the city's shadows, the realm's fate hanging in the balance as he made his way to the only place in King's Landing where he would be safe from his mother and grandsire's schemes. 

Masterlist of Series

How about that cliffhanger, besties? It feels like the reader can't get a break! Thank you to everyone who has commented and rebloged this story. I know I was on a very long hiatus so it'll take sometime for some reader's to come back. I really appreciate everyone who has stuck with me. (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnn , @malfoytargaryen , @targaryencore , @justasmallbean , @omgsuperstarg , @sommornyte , @silverslive , @prettykinkysoul , *@duesobabe, *@legolas017, @iiamthehybrid , @dd122004dd , @ladybug0095 , @millies0bsimp , @kalfild , @sheislonelyalways , @tempt-ress , @minttea07 , @trikigirl271 , @esposadomd , @prettywhenicry4 , @justarandomflowerchildofthenight , @partypoison00 , @please-buckme , @pastelorangeskies , @existential-echo , @priyajoyy , @valaenatargaryensdragon , @merovingianprincess , @candy12110 , @w3ird11 , @ruhjkie , @somemydayy , @marikkjj , @zillahvathek , @sunfyresrider , @heavenly1927 , @hjgdhghoe , @im-sidney , @aurorathi , @marihoneywk , @xitsemm , @justbelljust , @qardasngan , @shari-berri , *@tomgcmrs

*Bold means I can't tag you for some reason (⁠╯⁠︵⁠╰⁠,⁠)

[archangeldyke-all]

slow living reader and sev having a baby? 🥹

AWE of course!

also! this is the fifth little blurb for this series so i'm giving it an emoji on my masterlist! 💐 lets do a little bouquet of flowers because i picture a bunch of wildflowers surrounding your garden :)

men and minors dni

sevika doesn't fuck around when it comes to your pregnancy. so while you're used to getting up in the early morning and spending a couple hours on your hands and knees in the garden and hauling wheelbarrows around your property-- the moment you find out you're pregnant, sevika puts you on a ban from all physical activity.

it's ridiculous. you're barely three weeks pregnant, and sevika's insisting on helping you carry a gallon of milk in from the goat pen. just a gallon.

it's sort of nice though. your baby certainly takes after sevika, if it's appetite is anything to go by. while you're usually happy snacking on snap peas and berries from your garden all day until dinner, where you eat a hearty meal cooked by sevika: now you're shoveling half a dozen scrambled eggs down your throat in the morning, eating through a month's worth of cheese and crackers in the afternoon, and snacking on spicy pickles when you can't sleep in the middle of the night.

sevika finds it hilarious. you guys buy a few more ducks to keep up with the rate your house is eating eggs.

as annoying as she is when she's insisting you don't do anything, she does a fairly decent job of handling the garden herself. after a few afternoons of standing over her to supervise as she weeded to make sure she didn't pull any of your crops on accident, she made a little custom set up for you in the garden: a big sun umbrella covering a reclining lawn chair, a battery-powered fan, ice-cold pitcher of water, and big bowl of sunflower seeds waiting for you each afternoon.

it's become your favorite part of the day: lounging and snacking and chatting with your wife while she learns more about the garden, one of your hands on your growing belly, the other reaching out to pull sevika down for a kiss every ten minutes.

the cats start becoming really protective of you. a few of the older mother goats do too-- recognizing that you're pregnant. you never have a moment to yourself once you start showing, there's always a cat or two standing on guard to make sure you're okay while you wander around your home.

what you used to call 'the cats room' is now your baby's. all the cat trees, beds, and toys have migrated to the basement to make room for a bunch of furniture sevika hand-made.

a crib that can transform into a kids' bed when the kid gets older, a dresser that can last a lifetime, a rocking chair and stool for you to nurse in, and a gorgeous bookshelf for you to fill with toys and books for your baby. sevika made it all in at her little woodworking station in the storage shed by the goat's pen. each piece of furniture is inscribed with a message that makes you sob each time you see it, a simple, sweet, 'for our sweet baby.'

you know that once the baby comes, it'll be a few years before you and sevika can fully adjust and get back to growing all your own food. so, you guys start stocking up on produce and meat-slabs from local farms nearby.

you don't make it to the hospital when the baby comes. you planned to deliver in the hospital, you wanted a fucking epidural, but your baby came out of nowhere a week early.

one minute you were laughing at sevika struggling to prune the watermelon vines, the next minute your water was breaking and you were going into labor right on the reclining chair you'd spent a majority of your pregnancy on.

it doesn't take long to realize that you're not going to make it to the hospital. you know something's wrong when you try to stand.

"sevika!" you gasp. she's staring at you like a deer in headlights as she holds you up.

"what, honey, what's wrong?"

"fuck, baby, i think it's coming now." you whine.

sevika sits you back down on the chair, helps you get your bottom half naked, then looks between your legs.

"is it bad?" you start to cry, the pain and adrenaline needing an escape.

sevika's panicked, you can see it in her eyes, but she doesn't let it show as she speaks. "it's exactly what it's supposed to be, baby. but i think you're right. i think you gotta push."

you start to freak out. "sevika! we can't have our baby here! it's the garden, there's dirt everywhere! we don't even have clean towels and fuck!" you growl as a contraction overtakes you. sevika's pressing kisses to your knuckles as you grip her hands. "sevika, you're not a doctor!" you cry.

she chuckles, reaches up to kiss your head, and then kneels between your legs again.

"i delivered the goats when marnie got pregnant a few years ago." she tries.

"i'm not a fucking goat!" you scream.

and then--

little tiny cries fill the garden, and all your pain washes away. sevika looks up from between your legs, grinning and sobbing, and then she stands.

and wiggling and screaming in her arms, umbliical cord still attatched, is your little fucker.

"it's a girl." she whispers, leaning down to pass the baby to you.

you take a shaky breath, and then burst into tears upon seeing your baby. she looks just like sevika. it's uncanny. "she's so fucking beautiful." you cry.

sevika wraps your baby up in her shirt, cuts the cord with the gardening shears, and throws your placenta right on top of the compost pile before she starts guiding the two of you toward the car to take you to the hospital.

you have to keep reminding her to drive-- she'll pull up to a red light and get distracted looking at you and your baby in your arms in the passenger's seat. you get honked at a few times, but you don't mind.

not when she's looking at you like that and you've got her baby in your arms.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther @gr0ssz0mbi3 @ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @leomatsuzaki @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @vikasub @glass-apothecary @m0numents @macaroni676 @vixel352

[shapard]

Feather of Fate🕊️

Lucifer x seraphim!fem!reader

Soulmate arc

Soft Lucifer

They talk in honesty

A/n: When someone wants to request something, go on!

Eternal Sunshine

Chapter 10 > Epilogue

Saying that Lucifer got over protective is an understatement. He always was at least one feet away from you.

Lucifer created a little goat guardian for you, when he wasn’t there and able to protect you. 

You named her Lammy. 

Lucifer always said that it was a boring name. You should name her Shazam or something similar, which you gladly declined. 

Lammy may be a simple name but it is a cute one for your cute little white-brownish goat. She had two small pairs of fairy wings and a pink bowtie. 

You loved your little Lammy and hugged it 24/7 which made Lucifer a little Jealous. 

When Lucifer was there Lammy wasn't allowed on the bed.

Husk and Angel dust were more than happy that you’re alive. They didn’t even let you move an inch. 

And now you were crouched down to the medicine cabinet, because the pain on your back was too much.

“Luce! Where are the pain killers?” You shouted as you looked in the small medicine cabin, you couldn’t find your medications anymore.

A golden shimmer appeared next to you and Lucifer descended from it. 

“They should be in here Apple pie. Why do you need them?” He asked as he crouched down to your level and helped to find the medications. 

“I have pain on my Shoulder.” The pain was on your shoulder blades reminding you of your missing pairs of wings, with a disappointed sigh you sat down on the red carpet. 

“Is there anything more you want to talk about darling?” Lucifer asked out of worry. Since a couple of days, he watched you closely as you sometimes looked outside with a sad expression on your face. You talked a lot less and sometimes you weren’t listening anymore to him. 

“It’s nothing Important.” That was a half lie. 

Even though you and Lucifer were very close and loved each other dearly, there was still a big elephant in the room. 

What was that with Lilith? 

And the way you thought about your wings, you missed them dearly. Now you know how Maleficent when she lost her wings from her own Lover, except it wasn’t Lucifers fault.

“I can see that you’re lying honey.” He snorted and chuckled and took your soft hands in his black clawed ones. “If you don’t want to share that’s okay. Only when you’re ready.” His voice was smooth like butter and his soft lips kissed your forehead softly. 

You take a deep shaky breath, “When I was in that Playhouse. Azrael showed me something.” Lucifer slit eyes switched onto your shaking hands, no doubt was that a very Traumatic event. 

He held them tight letting you know that he’s there for you and will protect you this time. “What has he shown you?” He asked carefully as he watched your eyes fill with sadness, a feeling that clenched around his heart in a hard force.

“You and Lilith, you two were kissing. Meanwhile I-“ A sob escaped your throat, and you laid your head on his chest. 

A pang of guilt resides in Lucifer as he stroked your back in circular motion. “I am sorry my Apple pie. I really hoped you didn’t see that accident, but I guess it was planned."

"She forced herself on me and right after I took care of her that she’ll never show herself back here. Please believe me.” His face was pressed on your hair and he took a deep breath in.

Well, you believe him. You believe him more than you do Azrael, you don’t even know him. 

Michael was dead, he was killed by his own twin brother Lucifer. 

How Ironic. 

You stayed in Lucifers arms a while until your cries calmed down. “Sorry to ruin your day.” Lucifer shook his head and chuckled, “You haven’t ruined anything! Besides we still have the whole night.” 

You started to blush, and your body started to heat up. 

A spark started to swirl on your back, and you felt something coming out. With a quick motion you grabbed some familiar soft feathers on your back and Lucifer whistled. 

“Seems you got your wings back cutie.” He bit his lips and brushed his clawed fingers softly down your Humerus towards the Manus and your body grew hotter every second. 

“Kinda Hot I gotta admit.”

A/n: I wanted to write smut in here but decided against it.

This is the most Pixelated image I've seen in my whole life. Neitherless a God piece.

💫

Sadly I couldn't tag you

@ayanazoldyck @marydragneell @lunaryasha @cherry-cola-100 @lxkeee @latersgaters-steven @fandom-crashlanding @cupidsgift @steadyconnoisseurnacho @crimsonflameproxy @stormz369 @wooleypeaches @fukingsad @starlitvenus @avadakadabra93 @itzabbeym @asmodeussimpnumber1 @sirenetheblogger @k1y0yo @i-have-no-life-charlie @angelicwillows @0puddleofgender0 @fallenh34art @v3r41ynn @froggybich @pank0w @roboticsuccubus83 @littlebear423 @anonymously-ominous @concentratedconcrete

[katebisxop]

familiar face | w.m & n.s

summary: wanda finds herself in an unexpected situation.

warnings: wanda is dead here (I REFUSE TO BELIEVE SHE ACTUALLY IS), nicky appearance, kinda angsty but also fluff i guess??, not that well written, i havent watched wandavision and it's been a while since mom so!!

wc: 949

wanda was lost.

all she could remember was sitting on mount wundagore, using her might and magic to cut the castle in half and bring it down upon herself.

the pain was too brief to be registered, and the next thing she knew, she had been transported somewhere.

the place was familiar in a way, but also new. it was dark and empty, no landscape whatsoever. wanda was surrounded by black, as if she had been dropped into a lightless box. she was barefoot, beneath her it felt like cold tiles.

she looked around. there was nothing to see - no people, no sound, not even a reflection.

an anguished cry crawled out of her throat. she was alone once more. she had her brother, then pietro died. she had vision, then he died. she had her sons, and even they were gone also.

no family, no friends, no lovers, and no enemies. wanda maximoff was truly and fully alone.

she fell down on a floor that didn't exist, sobs racking her body as she buried her face in her hands.

wanda sat there for who knew how long, eyes slowly growing puffy and her nose bright red. if this was how she was to spend eternity, wasn't death better? but if this were death - was it a punishment?

"i'm sorry my mother isn't here to take you."

wanda stopped immediately, having heard a child's voice. her head raised slowly from her palms, turning around to lock eyes with a boy barely past childhood.

another stifled cry from her as her hand flew up to cover her mouth in shock. the boy was familiar - too familiar. the soft smile and the way his eyes looked at her with so much kindness. in fact, he looked quite a bit like one of her own sons.

"billy?" wanda whispered, still in shock, hesitant to approach or even move. she had just had an interaction with one of billy's variants before this, and it wasn't at all pleasant.

the boy's head tilted, confused at the unfamiliarity of the name. "i'm afraid i'm not who you think. my name is nicholas."

the scarlet witch exhaled. "do you know where we are, nicholas?"

nicky smiled patiently. "waiting for my mother."

"and- and who is your mother?"

the boy paused, thinking carefully of what to answer next. "rio."

he sat next to wanda, ignoring her little flinch. "do you want to sit down for a while?"

she nodded, appreciating the patience of the small boy. how the tables have turned - she still remembered the amount of patience she had to have while raising her twins.

they sat there for a while, a mother and a son, in comfortable silence. wanda's sniffles gradually ceased, until the place was quiet once again. but this time she felt safe - knowing that she wasn't alone, that she was just waiting (for what, she didn't know), and she had company.

"tell me about yourself, nicholas."

he smiled again, twisting so that he sat facing her, and began relaying his memories to the witch before him. he spoke about the cozy little cottage he used to live in with his mama. he spoke about the wide, grassy green fields; of the townsfolk he visited every week with his mama; of the forest he was so used to and the goat he loved caring for, and the song he and his mama made. 'down, down, down the road, down the witches' road' he sang, giving a little sample.

but wanda caught on to a specific word. "witches?"

"yeah." he didn't elaborate. "my mama made the whol song with me - it started with 'windy road'. i miss her a lot. i haven't seen her since my mother took me away."

wanda's eyebrows knitted together. "who's mother? who's mama?"

"okay. mother is rio. she's who we're waiting for. mama is agatha."

"agatha?" her heart started to fill with dread.

"agatha harkness."

oh. but before she could recoil, a gap opened up in front of her, like a tv screen or perhaps a window.

her view was initially covered by foliage, which then parted to reveal a teenage boy lying on the ground, passed out. his shirt was torn, blood gushing out of a wound. he had curly hair and black eyeliner, but wanda recognized him immediately. not by appearance, no - she couldn't understand who this boy was - but for whatever reason she knew in her heart that this was billy.

wanda's black-tipped fingers pressed to her mouth, eyes filling up once more with unshed tears. then her eyes found agatha, and rage welled up in her until she realized that the other witch, too, had tears in her eyes.

"don't." agatha whispered to a woman clad in green. nicholas pointed at her. "that's who we're waiting for. but i think she's too busy to get you herself."

the image closed and wanda found herself staring at nothing again.

"what?" the scarlet witch breathed out, looking at the boy, confused.

"death," he said, "is also a name my mother goes by."

he stood up, extending his hand. "i'm sorry i can't explain more, too. but i think we should go."

"t-to where?" she accepted his hand and got up too.

but the son of death and agatha harkness only smiled at the scarlet witch. "on."

wanda sent a last look to the spot where the vision had just been. weight she didn't know was there lifted from her heart, for her enemy is now there to protect one of her sons, and her enemy's own now holds her hand. she must return the favor.

and so they walked.

a/n: im not satisfied but i randomly had the vision and had to put it down. might make a headcanon version cuz itll be easier

[panickingpansexuality]

Mommy Issues

Your mother comes to visit you

Warning this story contains a not wonderful reunion with a toxic parent

For five years you have been no contact with your mother and everyday that her words didn't dig into you was another day that you were healing.

Elliott and you were at the Saloon sharing a drink in celebration of him coming home from a second book tour. He was working on another novel but was having trouble finding a good antagonist, luckily for him and ill fortunated of, you fate was just about to deliver one.

The door to the Saloon opened and your entire body went rigid.

"Ellie.." you whisper out. "We gotta go."

Elliott doesn't ask questions, the woman's back is turned to you two as she chats up Gus, quickly you two make it for the door and out into the night.

"Who is that?" He asks as you two speed walk home.

"My mother.." you say your heart clenching in your chest. "I can't believe she's here."

Elliott knew the relationship with your mother wasn't one to write home about, he knew that she had ripped your heart out with her narcissistic personality and you had fought hard to get away from her.

"Breathe my darling." Elliott said grabbing your hand

You went through your breathing exercises feeling the bile rise up in your throat. A thousand questions ran through your head as you wondered why she was here. Why now? Who had told her you were here? Dad?

You didn't remember the walk home, the feeling of Elliott holding your hand and controlling your uneven breaths were all you could register.

The lights were out, Elliot's body held yours as a form of sensory seeking.

"I hope she doesn't find the farm." You say quietly

Elliott stayed up with you until two when you both went to bed.

The next morning there was a knock on your door around ten. You went to answer it, Elliott was in the barn with Bubba the pig. Which left you alone with the woman you hated the most.

"Mother." You said.

"Hello (y/n), my darling. Stand up straight will you? Is this your home?" You stepped back as she let herself in.

"My, have you only just moved in? It looks like it needs a lot of work."

"We do ask." Elliott said from the doorway, "that guests take off their shoes before entering."

"Who's this?" Your mother asks taking a seat the table.

"My husband." You say tightly.

She looks Elliott up and down like a stain in the carpet, then turns to you.

"Well, I suppose that he's your type, though I think that he could do a little better."

"Do not speak about my partner like that." Elliott says coldly.

"Oh are you still in with that gender nonsense?" Your mother asks you. "Seriously darling, you're a perfect girl I see no reason to-"

"They," Elliott says tightly "are a perfect person and I think it's time you leave." Elliott says, "I spent four years chasing after that human. Four years of hoping and praying that I would get a single date and Yoba granted me with a partner more perfect than nature itself."

Your mother leaned back in the chair and looked him up and down.

"I came all this way and you're going to tell me to leave my daughter?"

"You came all this way to ridicule your child and I'm telling you that I will not stand by and have you rip away what they've been trying to heal for the last five years! Now you can either walk out or I can have our trusty goat kick you out."

"You let a goat into your house no wonder it's so-"

"Taylor!" Elliott yells outside, with a quick a high pitched whistle your goat jumps the stone fence and runs up past your dog and into the house.

The goat belts innocently at you, with a quick wag of it's tail it looks at the stranger and goes behind the chair she's sitting in.

The goat headbutts the chair and the woman stumbles out of it, she screeches as the goat and pulls the hem of your mother's skirt. She screams and runs out of the house cursing you both.

You run to the door and yell;

"Fuck off with you and your curses you hateful cunt!"

Elliott laughs and Taylor the goat belts after her, then innocently leaves the house and goes for the berry bush for a well deserved treat.

"Are you alright?" Elliott asks you.

You sigh and lean against the doorway, heart pounding, shaking your head you wordlessly allow Elliott to hold you in his arms.

"I froze up..thank you so much for standing up for me."

Elliott shakes kisses the top of your head, his arms like a weight holding you to reality that you're safe.

"I will always do what I can for you, please don't thank me for doing the bare minimum."

"Elliott, it isn't the bare minimum to me..its more than I could ever dream of someone doing for me."

Elliott sighs, a knot in his chest forming at how such a little basic action means the world to you, he feels good that he made you feel good but he hates how it was through him doing something anyone should do for you.

Your husband is almost startled when suddenly you pull away and place a sensual kiss to his lips, his arms coming to your ribcage to hold you close, a small groan escaping him as you kiss.

Someday you'll realize that someone who loves you should do more than the bare minimum for you and your confidence will truly thrive then and he can't wait to grow with you through that.

[lightdancingwords]

Second Chances – Part Three of ?

Pairings: Beau Arlen x Y/N Female reader

Series Summary: A chance meeting in a grocery store brings a second chance for you and for Beau. The only thing standing in your way are your respective pasts... and a tiny little roadblock.

Word Count: 2,874

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, mentions police work, toddlers/children and parenting

A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! I couldn't resist--I gotta have me some Beau while writing Dean! This is a brand new story of Beau and female reader!

Divider: credit to @sweetmelodygraphics

Chapter Three: Heads Over Heels

The Big Sky farmer’s market was alive with energy. The gravel paths bustled with people weaving between colorful stalls, each one brimming with local treasures. Stacks of ripe peaches and apples spilled over wooden crates, their sweet aroma mingling with the buttery scent of fresh kettle corn. Laughter and cheerful haggling floated through the crisp morning air, underscored by the bleating of goats from the small petting zoo at the market’s edge.

Y/N knelt by the goat pen, her face warm with laughter as she tried to manage her daughter, Eliza. The toddler, one hand clutching the wooden rail and the other outstretched, was fully engrossed in her mission to meet the goats. Her little voice rang out, clear and determined.

“Goat! Maaa!” she declared, her chubby fingers pointing insistently.

Y/N adjusted her balance, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she chuckled softly. “Yes, Eliza, goats,” she said with exaggerated patience, her eyes dancing as she reached out to steady her daughter.

Across the market, Beau froze mid-step. He’d been wandering aimlessly, ostensibly in search of honey and fresh bread, though his real reason for being there wasn’t to shop, but to be visible. After their calamitous first date, he hadn’t been sure how or when he’d see Y/N again. Yet, there she was, the morning sun catching in her hair, her laughter light but steady as she tried to keep up with Eliza’s boundless energy.

Beau hesitated. His memories of their last meeting were a mix of missteps and unguarded moments: the flat tire, scraped knuckles, oil smudges, and terrible food at the ill-fated restaurant. Still, the way the evening had ended—two kisses, simple but perfect—kept playing in his mind. Something about her had stayed with him, tugging at the edges of his thoughts long after they’d parted.

Adjusting his hat, Beau took a deep breath and headed toward them, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path. As he neared, he couldn’t help but grin at Eliza, her focus so intense that it seemed the rest of the world barely existed.

“Looks like someone’s already makin’ friends,” he said, his voice warm and teasing as he came to a stop near the fence.

Y/N startled slightly, her gaze snapping to him. For a fleeting moment, her eyes betrayed her surprise, but she quickly schooled her features into a polite, cautious smile. “Beau. Hi.” She stood, brushing her hands on her jeans, and looked at him with a mix of guarded curiosity and something softer she wasn’t quite ready to name.

Eliza turned at the sound of his voice, her wide eyes locking on him. She tilted her head, studying him with the serious intensity only a toddler could muster. Then, her gaze dropped to his badge, shiny and bright against the muted tones of his shirt. She pointed, her little finger unwavering.

“Goat?” she asked with an air of authority.

Beau crouched beside her, chuckling low in his throat. ��Not quite, darlin’. But I can do a pretty good impression if it helps.” Clearing his throat dramatically, he leaned in and let out an exaggerated bleat. “Maaa!”

Eliza erupted into giggles, her tiny hands clapping together with unrestrained joy. “Maaa!” she echoed, her laughter pure and infectious.

Y/N’s lips twitched as she watched them, and despite herself, she couldn’t suppress a small smile. “She remembers you,” she said softly. Her voice carried warmth, but there was an edge of caution beneath it.

“She’s unforgettable,” Beau replied, his grin widening as he glanced up at Y/N. His green eyes met hers briefly, and something unspoken passed between them.

Meanwhile, Eliza, unfazed by the adult undercurrents, began climbing the fence with surprising determination. Beau instinctively reached out, his large hands steadying her before she could topple. “Whoa there, wolf-child,” he said, his tone soft but firm. “Thinkin’ about joinin’ the goats?”

“Goat!” Eliza insisted, wriggling in his grip as though she could make her way into the pen by sheer willpower.

“All right, let’s get you a closer look,” Beau said, lifting her into his arms with ease. He shifted her so she could balance against his chest, her tiny hands gripping his shirt for support.

Y/N started to protest, her hand half-raised. “You don’t have to—”

“I got her,” Beau interrupted gently, his voice low and steady. He glanced at her, his expression calm but resolute. “Take a breather. I don’t mind.”

Y/N hesitated, then let her hand drop, her shoulders relaxing as she watched him carry Eliza closer to the fence. Her daughter, who usually squirmed and fussed when held for too long, seemed content in Beau’s arms. It was a rare moment of stillness.

Beau crouched again, holding Eliza securely as she reached out toward the goats. One of the smaller ones, curious and friendly, approached, sniffing at her tiny fingers before giving them a gentle nuzzle. Eliza squealed with delight, her giggles rising again as she patted the goat’s rough fur.

“Soft!” she declared triumphantly, turning to Beau with wide, sparkling eyes as though to ensure he was as amazed as she was.

“Soft,” Beau echoed, his grin spreading. “You’ve got a good touch, kiddo. These goats hit the jackpot with you around.”

Y/N leaned against the fence, her arms loosely crossed. She watched them with an expression that was harder to read now, a mix of quiet awe and cautious hope. “She’s usually a tornado around animals. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this calm.”

Beau glanced at her over Eliza’s head, his green eyes warm and steady. “Maybe she just needed the right goat,” he said lightly, though his tone suggested he wasn’t just talking about the animals.

“Or the right company,” Y/N replied softly, her lips curving into a faint smile.

Their eyes locked, and for a brief moment, the bustling market seemed to fade. The sounds of laughter, bleating goats, and vendor chatter softened into the background as an unspoken connection passed between them.

Eliza, blissfully unaware of the adults’ silent exchange, tugged on Beau’s badge. “Shiny!” she announced, her fascination unwavering.

Beau chuckled, gently shifting her back into Y/N’s arms. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, a fleeting touch that sent a spark through both of them. He stepped back, adjusting his hat as he grinned at Eliza. “She’s got good taste. And not just in goats.”

Y/N’s laugh came unexpectedly, light and genuine. “You’re a charmer, aren’t you?”

“Only when it counts,” Beau replied, tipping his hat. “And for the record, that first date wasn’t all bad. Not the way it ended, anyway.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed faintly, and she gave him a teasing look. “Amazing what a good kiss can salvage.”

“Two good kisses,” Beau corrected, a glint of humor in his eyes.

Before Y/N could respond, Eliza wriggled in her arms, pointing back at the goats. “More!” she demanded.

Beau stepped back with a warm smile. “I’ll let you two get back to your goat adventures. But I’ll see you around?”

“Maybe,” Y/N said, her tone light and teasing but not dismissive. “If you’re lucky.”

Beau tipped his hat one last time, his heart feeling lighter as he walked away. As he disappeared into the crowd, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this story—disastrous first date and all—was far from over.

God, he was lucky. She was sweet, beautiful, and that kid—god, that little toddler was a killer. As he browsed around the farmer’s market, he kept seeing her around. It seemed Y/N knew several of the vendors, as he caught her chatting and laughing with them. Every time he heard her laugh, he wanted to veer around and grab her for another kiss.

He’d never felt like this for someone before. Not since… not since Carla. Losing his ex-wife still stung. He knew now where he erred in the marriage. The shooting of his partner, that loss, that awful moment, shattered everything. He couldn’t reach out to Carla; she couldn’t reach him. It dissolved the marriage and only after did he realize where he went wrong.

Eventually he found them back at the goat pen. Evidently, the wolf-child Eliza was very, very determined to befriend them, perhaps convince her mother to buy one. It made him smile, watching them.

“She really likes ‘em, don’t she?” Beau asked, wandering back over to them.

Y/N smiled, a bit guarded. “She does. You’re still here,” she said, as though uncertain as to why he stayed around. She was unaware of his true mission around the farmer’s market—which was, he’d been asked to play security while behaving as a visitor.

“Figured I’d stock up on some honey and bread. Never know when you’ll need ‘em,” he said lightly. He didn’t want to be overheard telling her the true reason. He wanted the thief, whoever they were, to be discouraged by his interest in the market.

“And here I thought you might be searching for goats to deputize,” she teased, her tone light but guarded.

Beau chuckled, his gaze flicking to Eliza, who was staring at him with wide, curious eyes. “What about you, darlin’? You keepin’ your mom on her toes?”

“Goat!” Eliza announced with authority, pointing at Beau as though he might transform into one. Were she more determined, he would not have been surprised if he did shapeshift.

“Not quite, sweetheart,” Beau said, tipping his hat to her. “But I can take ya to see the real ones again if your mom’s okay with it.”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers curling around the strap of her bag. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Beau interrupted gently. His green eyes met hers, steady and earnest. “Let me.”

Something in his tone made her relent. “All right. But if she tries to ride one, you’re on your own.”

“That’s a deal I’ll take,” Beau said with a wink, making Y/N’s heart skip a beat.

He extended his arms, and to Y/N’s astonishment, Eliza immediately leaned toward him, her tiny hands grasping at his shirt. Y/N’s breath caught as their fingers brushed during the exchange, the brief touch sending a jolt of warmth through her.

Beau carried Eliza with ease, his low chuckles blending with her delighted squeals as they approached the goat pen. Y/N trailed behind, watching as Beau crouched beside the fence, holding Eliza securely while she reached out to pet a curious goat. The scene was so natural, so easy, it made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t quite name.

“You’ve got a way with her,” Y/N said softly, leaning on the fence beside him.

Beau glanced up at her, his expression warm. “She’s a good kid. Takes after her mom, I reckon.”

Y/N looked away, her cheeks flushing at the compliment. “Careful, Beau. I might start thinking you’re trying to win us both over.”

“Is it workin’?” he asked, his tone teasing but underpinned with genuine curiosity.

Their eyes met, the bustling market fading into the background. Y/N’s lips parted as if to respond, but the words seemed to catch in her throat. It wasn’t just the playful banter or Beau’s easy charm—it was the sincerity in his gaze, the way he held Eliza with such care, as though she was already part of his world.

Before she could answer, Eliza wriggled in Beau’s arms, her tiny fingers tugging at his badge. “Shiny!” she declared. She seemed obsessed with the badge, unable to stop focusing on it regardless of the fact she’d seen it before.

“Shiny, huh?” Beau said with a grin, adjusting her in his arms. “Guess I better keep it polished if I want to impress.”

Y/N laughed, the sound light and genuine, and for a moment, the tension between them softened into something warm and promising. As Beau handed Eliza back to her, their fingers brushed again, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“I’ll let you ladies get back to your shopping,” Beau said, tipping his hat. “It was nice to see you again, Y/N. Wolf-child,” he added, lightly touching Eliza’s cheek.

“It was,” Y/N replied, her voice soft but tinged with a smile.

As he walked away, Beau couldn’t help but glance back, catching Y/N watching him with an expression that made his heart race. It wasn’t a promise, not yet—but it was enough to make him believe there was something worth waiting for.

The day at the farmer’s market wound down, the once-bustling stalls now quieter as vendors packed up their wares. The air carried a golden warmth, and the earlier chaos of the market softened into a tranquil buzz. Y/N balanced a bag of fresh produce in one hand, Eliza on her hip, and another bag dangling precariously from her wrist. Her hair, which had started the day neatly pinned back, was now loosened into soft waves from the gentle breeze and her attempts to keep up with her toddler.

“Goat! Maaa!” Eliza chirped again, pointing back toward the pen, her energy unrelenting despite the late hour.

“Sweetheart, we’ve already said goodbye to the goats,” Y/N said, adjusting her grip on the wriggling child. “And Mommy is out of hands right now.”

As if summoned by fate—or perhaps a touch of divine intervention—Beau appeared, his tall frame and easy smile a welcome sight. He approached with an amused glint in his green eyes, his boots crunching softly against the gravel.

“Looks like you could use a hand,” he drawled, tipping his hat slightly.

Y/N exhaled a laugh, part relief, part exasperation. “I hate to admit it, but yeah. It’s been a long day, and this one’s got more energy than the rest of us combined.”

Beau reached out, his hand brushing hers as he gently took the bag from her wrist. “Here. Let me lighten the load.”

The touch lingered just a moment too long, and Y/N felt her pulse quicken. She glanced at him, her lips parting slightly as if to respond, but the words stayed lodged in her throat.

“Darlin’, I think you’ve got too much pride to ask, but I’m offering,” Beau said softly, his voice carrying a low, intimate warmth. “Let me help.”

Y/N hesitated, then nodded, her throat suddenly dry. “Thank you,” she murmured, shifting Eliza into a more comfortable position.

Beau took the remaining bag from her, easily managing both as they walked toward her car. The gravel path was quiet now, their footsteps and Eliza’s soft babbling the only sounds. When they reached the car, Y/N set Eliza down momentarily, letting the toddler cling to her leg as she opened the trunk.

“Here we go,” Beau said, placing the bags gently inside. “All set.”

Y/N straightened, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face as she turned to him. “You’re a lifesaver. I don’t think I’d have made it without dropping something—or someone.”

Beau grinned, his gaze steady and a touch more intense now. “It’s what I do, darlin’. Always happy to help.”

The tension between them thickened, the air seeming to hum with unspoken words. Y/N’s heart thudded in her chest as she looked up at him, the late afternoon sunlight catching the angles of his face. Her breath hitched slightly when she noticed how his gaze dropped to her lips, lingering there.

“Beau…” she began, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Y/N,” he said, stepping closer, his hand coming up to gently brush a strand of hair from her face. His touch was warm, his fingers grazing her cheek as his green eyes locked onto hers. “May I?”

The question was unnecessary. She tilted her head up in answer, and in the next breath, his lips were on hers. The kiss started soft, exploratory, but quickly deepened, heat sparking between them like a struck match. Beau’s hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer as her arms instinctively came up to rest on his chest.

The world around them seemed to fade—the distant chatter of the market, the rustle of the trees. All that mattered was the warmth of his lips, the way his hand splayed against her back, anchoring her to him. Y/N’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, her body leaning into his as though drawn by gravity.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathing harder, their foreheads resting together. Y/N felt lightheaded, her cheeks flushed, her lips tingling from the intensity of the kiss.

Beau smiled, his voice low and rough. “Darlin’, I think I owe you another date. A proper one this time.”

Y/N laughed softly, her hand still resting against his chest. “You sure you’re ready for another disaster?”

He chuckled, his thumb brushing lightly against her cheek. “If it ends like this, I’ll take all the disasters you’ve got.”

She smiled, her heart fluttering in her chest. “All right, Beau. You’ve got yourself another chance.”

“Count on it,” he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of a promise as he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes.

As Beau helped settle Eliza into her car seat and waved them off, Y/N couldn’t stop the small, hopeful smile that lingered on her lips. Maybe, just maybe, second chances weren’t so bad after all.

Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2

@foxyjwls007, @katastrophicmind, @globetrotter28, @deansimpalababy, @daisychaingirl

@nancymcl, @deans-baby-momma, @kickingitwithkirkb

[littlemissartemisia]

DTIYS/WTIYS Misa Rescue Team!

Misa frowns as she looked out of the glass door to the little cage that the mean lady science person put her in under the desk. The metal collar around her throat is heavy on her little shoulders and the itchy sensation is unbearable but with the way the collar flushed against her skin.

The little turtle tot could see the lady talking to the goat man. The one who in some universes was nice to her but in lots of them hurt people…she knows he’s bad in this one. He’s working with the mean lady and they’re always poking and prodding her with stickers that hurt and needles that take the red from her and put things in her.

She can hear them talking about tests. What test to do today…she thinks test is just another word for mean things that they do to her. She doesn’t wanna do any more tests, she doesn’t wanna be hurt anymore. But she can’t get out by herself…

Last night she sent a message through as many places as she could that she was in need of a show of support. Misa hopes the message got through as the mean lady approached to get her out.

This DTIYS is a bit different than others with a purpose to allow for artistic liberty. Instead of drawing based on a reference image, draw based on The description how your ocs or turtles would save her from Baron Draxum and Claire Bishop Walken!

If you can’t draw that’s okay, the option to write it down is also up for grabs!

There is no limit of time to respond! You can reply by reblogging this post or tagging me ! Thanks again for 800 followers! Misa and I love you all!

[drurrito]

Carry You Home

A/N: LISTEN I JUST WANNA SAY I'M SORRY I PROMISE I USUALLY DO HAPPY ENDINGS. IT'S SORTA HAPPY RIGHT?? RIGHT????

Pairings: Natasha x Reader...kinda...

Warnings: Major Character Death (I'm sorry); blood; general angstiness

----------------

Clint stops just before the kitchen, you don’t make a move to acknowledge him until he calls your name.

“She’s here,” he breathes, his fingers tap-tapping against the door frame. You’re already a hair away from him by the time he draws a second breath to ask, “are you sure you want to do this?”

“I’m doing this no matter what,” you bite, Clint only nods.

“I’m taking her home,” you push past his frame, and he watches you go for a split second before he’s trailing you all the way to Banner’s office. You’ve made your choice, there’s not much else he can do about it.

Bruce is quick to stop you just before his lab, Sam is there as well and Clint rounds the corner to join them. Their eye contact is brief, doing a piss-poor job of trying to hide their sorrowful looks. Clint already gave them a rundown of what's going to happen. You’re going in alone and leaving with Natasha’s body. You’re taking her home. 

Clint shares a look with Bruce, and he steps aside to let you in. The frigid air hits you hard, you squeeze your eyes shut for a few seconds, taking a deep breath to acclimate to the drop in temperature.

Then you see Natasha. She’s still wearing her suit, tattered and stained with her blood. Her braid is a little messier than usual, but it’s still intact. Her body is incredibly stiff and her eyes…oh god her eyes are open. You steady yourself with a shuddering breath and reach out to graze her cheek with the tips of your fingers.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” you start. Her eyes are dull, it’s like looking into a now empty home that was once full of life and memories. Your throat burns terribly as you delicately brush your fingers over her eyelids. 

“Remember when we talked about what life was going to look like after the Avengers? You wanted a quiet retirement party and I wanted one that was big enough to rival Gatsby,” you laughed. Retirement was the furthest thing from your mind for a long time until Natasha sold you on it one night after a long mission. You would have agreed to anything just by the way her nails danced along your skin that night. 

“I bought your dream home, our dream home,” you whisper, “closed on it just last month,” your fingers try to glide through her hair, catching on knots and dirt. She’ll need a bath before her burial, you note. 

“Nothing grand, I know you wanted something quaint and low-key with a white picket fence,” you choke back a sob, “I already got us a few animals. Some geese, a pig, a black goat named Liho, just like you wanted.”

Natasha always talked about wanting to move somewhere in the countryside. A decent sized cottage. “Cabin,” you would cough and she’d elbow you to stay quiet. A cottage with a lot of land, a barn full of animals that she hand-picked herself, minus the pig and goat you probably begged her to keep at some point. You’d both spend your days taking care of the animals and diving headfirst into hobbies you can only keep up with for about a month or two before deciding maybe you’re the kind of couple who just likes something simple, like puzzles. 

When you came back with the second snap, you were met with a look on Clint’s face that said everything, but you had to ask.

“Where’s Tash?” 

You snap back to reality with a shudder. Your vision now blurry with tears. 

“I’m gonna take you home, Tash,” you suck in a shaky breath. She’s heavy in your arms as you walk through the halls of the compound to take her to her final resting place.

Home.

[stebeans]

Arcane F1AU

The film crew interviews Caitlyn Kiramman and others for their insight during the shocking '24 silly season. A little bit of Caitlyn's history. Also grandma Matilda was the GOAT.

This one's a long one, please bare with me and hope you enjoy. Also hbd to our favorite Kiramman!

It's Lights Out - Part 2

"So..." The film director hesitated slightly as she watched the normally unflappable Caitlyn Kiramman shift uncomfortably in her seat, coined teasingly the "hot seat" by everyone interviewed thus far. Clearing her throat, the director switched tactics. "Are you comfortable? Is there anything we can get you?"

Caitlyn shot the director a small appreciative smile as she finally settled in, fingers still twitching nervously against her thighs. "No thank you." Blowing out a deep breath, Caitlyn nodded her head in affirmation, more to herself than anyone else in the room. "I'm ready."

"So," the director began again, "can you explain to the audience, for those who might not know, what "silly season" is?".

The Kiramman driver looked thoughtful as she contemplated how best to explain the term.

"Silly season," Caitlyn began, eyes looking distantly over the shoulder of the director who was situated just out of camera range. "Occurs during the race break, typically in the middle of the season, when teams and drivers start negotiating for the following year."

"It refers to the period of speculation, rumors, and negotiations about driver lineups, team changes, and other off-track decisions for the upcoming season." The scene cutting to Mel Medarda, team principal for Hextech Petronas a powerhouse team in F1. She waved an errant hand in the air. "Usually all make-believe to stir up interest while the drivers are on break."

Another scene change. "Break my ass." Vi huffed, scratching the back of her neck. "If you're a driver with no permanent seat, it is hell. How can anyone relax or focus when you're waiting for that phone call confirming you have a seat for the next year? And even if you have it on contract, no driver is really safe. Hell, look at what happened with Kiramman!"

The director glanced briefly at her notes chewing on her lip on how to best approach the subject. Thankfully, Caitlyn caught her eye and gestured for her to continue. "You can ask." She murmured.

Feeling guilty for the question sitting just on the tip of her tongue, it was an obvious sore point for Caitlyn who she watched steel herself before gently urging her along. "Can you tell me about your contract with Kiramman Racing?" Lobbing her a soft ball.

Caitlyn, ever observant noticed the lead up but answered anyways. "When I first joined Kiramman Racing three years ago, I had signed a five year entry-level contract. Of course contracts aren't set in stone, anyone can break a contract if one had enough money." Caitlyn smiled sardonically. "And Kiramman Racing has a lot of money."

"Everyone has their own beliefs and ideals, we're human after all, even when the truth is dangling right in front of their faces."

The film director cleared her throat, her eyes observing the meticulous put together man sitting in the "hot seat". Slicked black hair, slowly whitening sideburns and a trim moustache, the man gave off an air of professional cool detachment. "And what is the truth?"

Team Principal of Kiramman Racing, Marcus Lee, flicked an imaginary fluff from the lapel of his pressed suit before folding his hands neatly in his lap. "The signing of young Kiramman had been a controversial act since day one." He stated. "Everyone in the Formula One community had came up with the same conclusion, regardless of the truth. It's a pretty easy conclusion sure. You're one of the richest family in Piltover, a family steeped with F1 legacies and acclaim, and it doesn't hurt when your parents own the team. How can anyone not come to the same conclusion?"

"Are you saying Caitlyn Kiramman bought her seat in F1? Regardless if it was intentional or not?"

Marcus barked out a surprised laugh. "Bought her seat?" He shook his head. "No. She would've had a seat in F1 eventually, regardless of her heritage. If you knew the Kiramman's as best as I do, you would know Cassandra Kiramman does not hand out freebies, even if it were her own daughter."

"Caitlyn Kiramman, from what I have seen despite the lack of recent results, is a true marvel to the grid." Mel stated truthfully, her eyes warm with affection. "I've watched Caitlyn through the years, when she had snuck out to fix up her grandmother's old karts to race with the other kids to the detriment of her parents. They didn't want her anywhere near karting you see."

"It's dangerous and unpredictable." Cassandra pointed out, legs crossed elegantly, posture perfect and outfit pristine underneath the harsh lights. "Of course I didn't want Caitlyn touching a kart let alone an F1 car with a ten foot pole. I was hoping she'd follow in my footsteps into business instead. But she's a Kiramman and we Kiramman women are stubborn to a fault."

Caitlyn laughed, posture relaxing a fraction as she took the aged photo from the director's outstretched hand. "This was my grandmother's, Matilda Kiramman, kart back in the day. My first kart actually." She ran a finger fondly along the slightly curled edges of the photo, where she sat in the the refurbished kart with an oversized helmet that clearly didn't belong to the tyke, her grandmother standing next to her with a proud smirk. "Took us weeks to get it running again. Mother nearly had a conniption when she found out.

I guess you can say racing has always been in my blood. I grew up watching videos of my grandmother, five-time world champion, and my great-grandmother. It was inevitable. I took to karting as a fish took to swimming. Started signing up for competitions as soon I was of age...and height," Caitlyn added self-deprecatingly. "I -uh, didn't get my growth spurt until I was fifteen."

"She was so tiny!" Jayce, race engineer for Kiramman Racing teased. "I've know her since she was a kid. Didn't let anything or anyone stop her though. Even when there were times I questioned if she could even see over the wheel. I'm honestly quite surprised how tall Sprout ended up growing."

"In 2019, as the CEO of Kiramman Corporations, purchased the F1 team formerly known as Enforce Piltover and I retained Marcus as team principal, it wasn't my intention to shake up the team too severely. Caitlyn at the time was competing in the F2 circuit but it was pretty clear her talents and skills were no longer being utilized to the utmost potential."

"And was Miss Kiramman aware of the purchase?"

The head of Kiramman House, Corporation and Racing – goodness that was a mouthful – barely moved besides a slight uplift of her chin and a raised eyebrow. Even without saying anything it was very much a look of "are you seriously asking me that question?". The director winced inwardly. Grey eyes observed the director before finally relenting. "Heaven's no. I'm sure my daughter has spoken about how dramatic I can be but let me assure you no one is more dramatic than my daughter." Cassandra Kiramman answered wistfully. "Caitlyn had called me the second she had heard the news. It was a...spirited discussion, especially one at three in the morning. She had been in Ionia and time difference be damned.

Did I buy Enforce Piltover for her benefit?

Was I manipulating the grid in order to buy her a seat in Formula One?

What were my intentions with this new team of mine?

Trust me, there was not one question she didn't ask me that you, the media, and everyone else had not yet thought or accused her of.

At the time, there were only two real prospects from the F2 league, my daughter and Vi Lanes." Cassandra Kiramman continues, her brows furrowed just the slightest. "If possible, Kiramman Racing would've signed both drivers but as with the budget cap at the time it was impossible to sign both drivers and re-work the car. I left the decision solely up to my team principal."

Marcus scratched at his beard, looking thoughtful. "It was a team decision in the end. We went over the stats for both Caitlyn and Vi, both very outstanding but very different racing styles. Caitlyn, even at age 17 was all about precision, being sharp yet smooth, very methodical with her driving - no room for error.

Vi Lanes was quite the opposite, very aggressive and bold yet passionate with a tenacity that out shown every other driver on the grid - very exciting to watch.

It was a tough call but we found Caitlyn a more suitable match with our team style. Vi ended up being picked up by Shimmer Wolf as a reserve driver in the same year so we knew it wasn't the end of the line for Lanes."

"Do you regret your choice in signing Caitlyn Kiramman? You've dropped her from the team just about halfway through her 5-year contract."

"Let me make this clear. I am loyal to Kiramman Racing and before that, to Enforce Piltover. I am not loyal to the Kiramman family. I had been team principal for the Enforcers for nearly twelve years. The decisions I make is for the good of the team. That is my only concern. Dropping Caitlyn for the upcoming season was a strategic move and not a light one at that."

The director glanced down at her notes, highlighted and side-noted with multiple different colors from the research she had spent doing for the past week. "You say that but since Kiramman Racing's inception in 2019, since Caitlyn had been drafted as lead driver, the team has steadily rose through the constructor's standing. Enforce Piltover was considered a mid-field contender in the past handful of years, a low one at that. Yet in the first year, Kiramman Racing placed 4th in the Constructor's Standings and only 10 points behind 3rd place, a significant jump from 7th place. Kiramman herself had placed 3rd in the Driver's Championship in her debut season. Not an easy feat for a rookie.

And mind you, Kiramman had pulled Kiramman Racing kicking and screaming with her results. While the stats of your second driver isn't bad, it can be considered average at best.

Last year, Kiramman Racing gained a position, landing in 3rd overall in the Constructors Standings, which had not happened since nearly over a decade ago with Enforce Piltover.

Even this year, Kiramman Racing is in fourth position, with nearly half a season left. If my notes and research are sound, can you tell us the reasoning for dropping Kiramman from the team?"

Despite the cold hard facts that she's laid out for him and the audience. Marcus is stubborn, the director will give him that. He doesn't rise to the bait and instead coolly states "I have nothing to add from what I've already said. Caitlyn Kiramman wasn't performing like we had hoped. Now, is this interview over? I have a team to look after."

"I was shocked. To put it bluntly." Caitlyn said, eyes unfocused. "I knew the team was unhappy with my last few races leading into silly season. 3 DNF's certainly doesn't do the team any good. I certainly wasn't happy with the results."

"Out of the 3 there was one DNF that made headlines. During and post incident."

Even at the mention, Caitlyn winced, running a hand through her hair. Normally her hair would be held up in a severe updo, today it fell in soft waves, a few errant locks framing her sharp features. While far from being disheveled, it was the most...unkempt that the director had ever seen Caitlyn Kiramman.

Press Conference - Kiramman Racing and Shimmer Wolf beginning of '24 Silly Season

Caitlyn's in the midst of a press conference when the news breaks. Dressed in her typical pressed-within-an-inch-of-its-life team dress shirt, sleeves rolled up her forearms and dark trousers, she sits at attention in front of the reporters, hands folded neatly on the table in front of her.

She doesn't look to her left but she can see a glimpse of the tv monitor in the corner of her eye and seated, and looking, very opposite of her is Vi Lanes. She looks comfortable as can be, despite the media attention, in fact Caitlyn probably thinks it's what fuels her. Her ball cap is flipped to sit backwards underneath her tousled hair, her Shimmer Wolf team polo sleeves are hazardously cut off, exposing the cut muscles of her biceps, tricep - all the "ceps" really - as she crossed her arms across her chest, the front legs of the chair lifted in the air as she leans precariously back.

Caitlyn just barely manages to keep herself from rolling her eyes at the nonchalant, devil-may-care attitude. It was especially infuriating as the focus of this press conference was solely due to her lack of professionalism on the track.

Normally the team and the drivers are on their mid-season break but since the racing incident during the Freljord Grand Prix was still fresh in everyone's minds and the FIA had finally reviewed and declared their conclusion, as well as handing out fines, there had been a call for one last press meeting.

"Vi, can you please tell us what happened on lap 48 during last week's race?"

Vi. Fellow drivers, opposition crews, fans and even the media calls her Vi as if they were all one big happy family, while she's been regulated to "Kiramman" if they were being nice. Most of the time it was some uninspired nickname, Piltie Princess was a fan favorite amongst the crowd. Please, she's been called that since her preschool days and they were toddlers, surely people could come up with more creative names for her by now.

Vi lifts her broad, muscled shoulders, dropping them in a heave. "Not much to say really. I was ordered to give the position back to Kiramman after what the stewards had "claimed"," Vi punctuates with actual air quotes, "was an illegal overtake. I was giving the position back."

The response is rehearsed, the statement is familiar now that Caitlyn's heard it a thousand times over since the racing incident, though she notes the dramatic flair Lanes add to it, most likely against her team's directions.

Caitlyn just manages to keep her mouth shut as per advice from the team media advisor but her molars are paying the price as she grinds them to a dust in irritation. She's watched the tape a thousand times over and she still can't see fault in her decision. She can't see what the Shimmer Wolf team, the fans and a handful of media are claiming. She had spent hours turning the events in her head and Caitlyn had been so sure that it had been a move made out of malice but every "Kiramman had it coming", "Can't even make a clean pass to save her life", "Can't play play fair so she decides to take out her opposition" and the miliion other variations has her questioning herself.

Her own team had failed to come to her defense after she stated that Lanes had intentionally brake checked her in the middle of the race. Her Team Principal, Marcus, had practically laughed in her face. Told her that she wasn't in preschool anymore, shifting blame and tattle-telling because she didn't get her way was a sure way to make enemies in the league and she was already unpopular as it was. She had been reminded that it was her that was smearing the Kiramman Racing team name.

A frown settled across her features, ignoring the couple dozen cameras and flashes pointed front and center where she was an unwilling participant. She didn't particularly enjoy media day but lately the conferences felt even more daunting than usual. "And the scuffle that happened in the paddock afterwards?"

Vi lifts her hands in the air. "Hey now, I was only defending myself. I didn't throw the first punch."

Almost simultaneously Caitlyn could feel the eyes of everybody in the room. "And what do you have to say for yourself Miss Kiramman?"

Miss Kiramman. If anyone was drawing the line in the sand it was the media. They had been the ones to create the divide, the cavern that gradually gaped further and wider with every passing day. Caitlyn had given up after the first year when she insisted she didn't stand on formalities, especially when racing.

The clip of her lunging at Vi Lanes is played on a loop on the tv monitor now, different angles, different commentators, different takes. Same conclusion: Caitlyn Kiramman was unhinged. A danger on and off the track.

Honestly, Caitlyn didn't even need to refer to the script in front of her anymore, it's like every damn interview has been one big broken record, forced to repeat the same thing over and over. "I have made my formal apologies to Vi Lanes, the Shimmer Wolf team, the fans and to Formula one as a whole." Caitlyn managed to grit out, practically forcing herself to maintain a neutral expression. "My actions were unbefitting and acted upon in the heat of the moment. It does in no way reflect the professionalism of Kiramman Racing. I have reflected on my actions and promise I would do better in the future."

From across the table Caitlyn can hear Vi's scoff but she remains unaffected.

Mostly.

If her eye twitches it's not to do with Vi, she tells herself.

The interview is winding down, there's nothing new they could ask that hasn't been already asked a thousand times over by now. Caitlyn's waiting for the formal dismissal from the press officer when a wave of confused murmurs break out from the mass in front of her. One by one she sees (and hears) the vibrating of cellphones, tablets and whatever latest gadget is in these days, going off and there's a voice in the back of her head that claims that whatever it is that's got the press this jittery, it can't be good. Caitlyn is itching to pull out her own phone from out of her pants pockets but refrains herself. The media would probably spin it as her being unprofessional in the midst of a press conference or some equally farfetched shit.

It takes a moment before the press is shouting, specifically at her and Caitlyn is finally clued in to the mayhem breaking out. Almost immediately she wishes she was left in the dark. The voices are booming and overlapping that Caitlyn at first can't make out what they are saying. The press officer is doing his best to calm the reporters but it's futile in the face of the breaking news.

"Miss Kiramman are you aware that you've been removed from Kiramman Racing team in the upcoming season?"

"Miss Kiramman, were you aware of this decision prior to the announcement?"

"Can we please get a statement on the latest development? Was this due to your recent lack of accomplishments and professionalism?"

"Has Kiramman Racing, a team owned by your family, finally decided that you're a liability than anything else?"

She's frozen in her seat, statue-like and eyes wide in the midst of the onslaught, fingernails digging into the wood surface of the table. Her mind racing as the statements and questions sink in. The voices eventually fade into nothingness, the only thing she can hear is the thundering of her racing heart in her ears, each beat like a gunshot. She glances to her right but she already knows, there's no one in support of her – unlike Vander who's hidden in the wings on Vi's side, a steady and supportive presence for the Shimmer Wolf driver.

Vi, who had already pulled out her phone, eyes darting to read the latest statement put up by Kiramman Racing. Her powder blue eyes are wide in shock, mouth parted slightly as she meets Caitlyn's gaze for the first time since the meeting started nearly an hour ago and Caitlyn knows deep down it isn't just a silly rumor to start off silly season. Vi looks just about floored as everyone else and Caitlyn could feel the burning of tears gathering but she refuses to let a single tear escape.

Her mouth is dry and she swallows, eyeing the full bottle of water just in reach but she knows it'll be a sign of weakness, hesitation in the face of the media. She straightens her shoulders, leaning to pull the mic stand closer to her. She may be lacking team support and direction but she didn't grow up living and preserving the Kiramman name for nothing.

Instantly the reporters quiet, all waiting for next words.

"No comment."

Previously:

The Racing Incident

It's Lights Out - Part 1

[katerinaaqu]

Survivor's Guilt and Survivor's Duty (P2)

this is dedicated to @aaronofithaca05 because I believe I read somewhere his birthday was coming? Hehehe Either way this is the second part

Continuation from:

It was only for a brief second that the rays of sun touched his salt-crusted cheek but Odysseus saw or at least he thought he saw a tall slender figure picking something up from the beach many meters away from him (maybe a seashell). The figure turned towards him and walked there. And then everything turned black…

Sweet warm sunlight was embracing him. It was a familiar warmth; as familiar were the smells of grass, land and flocks of goats. He could hear the birds singing, feeling the soil beneath his feet and the grass tops to his fingertips. The warm breeze was caressing his face and softly playing with his hair. He had his eyes closed taking in every detail his eyes could not perceive. He opened them to see the familiar land showered in light. Everything was still there…the hills, the crops…the flocks playing at the rocks…the birds singing amongst the olive trees… Tears overflew his eyes as his heart flattered within his chest. This was better than Elysium… This was home…

“Odysseus!”

The melodic voice came from a distance… Maybe it had come out of his very chest. And yet the familiar voice of the woman he so much longed for made him feel his heart ready to burst in his chest.

“Odysseus!”

There she was…showered in light. She had the strong sunlight at her back so he couldn’t make her features; just her silhouette. However he did not need to see her face to know who she was; that straight and slim body covered with her modest veils softly waving at the evening breeze.

“Penelope!”

It was a half-sob through that whisper; a prayer, a longing scream of the soul. She was standing there, as if to the beginning of a light tunnel. She was holding a small, wrapped up thing in her arms. Oh, he was home!

“Come, Odysseus!” the lulling voice came again

“Penelope…!”

Her name was the only thing he could utter. His throat was clenched by sobs that he wanted so much to let out and was holding them back.

“Come…my love…come…”

He extended his arm towards her offering one.

Light engulfed him…

*

He could hardly feel his surroundings but he gradually gained some level of consciousness enough to start to gain subsequently some essence of feel and touch. He could understand he was lying upon the soft, sweet-smelling surface of a bed. His eyelids seemed to be weighting a ton each as if they were made out of lead. His body felt even heavier than that and he barely could twitch a finger, yet alone move. His throat still hurt and felt dry but he noticed the feeling was infinitely better than the last time he remembered being conscious. He forced himself to open his eyes and again and again till finally he succeeded. At first all he could see was whiteness but after a second his vision half-cleared as he blinked. He noticed he was inside a white room made of stone.    The sunlight was reflecting upon the whiteness of the walls creating a natural almost blinding result. It took him a few extra seconds to realize that he was inside some sort of grotto. The walls, even if they bore no decorations from murals like most palaces did, still looked magnificent and tall, they had nothing to be jealous of the great palaces he saw in his life or even holy Troy herself. There were quite a few pieces of furniture around and tapestries with patterns he didn’t recognize. He tried to raise his neck from the pillow but he realized he found it easier to move the rocks instead. His head seemed nailed to the pillow. He drew out a rusty breath as he scanned the place and only then he noticed a young girl above him fixing his covers, he presumed, with another behind her leaving a tray at a small table somewhere. The maid that fixed him had a scared look on her face. Was he really that much of a dreadful sight? He tried his voice that seemed stuck like the crust of salt that seemed to be gone from his body now.

“Where…where am I…?” he managed to rasp out

The maiden took a few steps back.

“Madam! He’s awake” she called upon someone behind her shoulder

“I can see that” came a melodious deep female voice from somewhere behind

Odysseus weakly looked up to see a magnificent woman. She was tall and slender with dark sun-kissed skin and dark hair carefully arranged in braids adorned with gold and seashells which cascaded down her back like a cape. Her face was heart-shaped and completely clear and pore-less; looking more like the magnificence of marble rather than flesh. Her large almond-eyes had the color of rich honey and her lips were full and shaped like a shell. Odysseus was stunned by her beauty and much more by her soothing voice.

“Who…” he started but his voice betrayed him

The stunning woman smiled almost maternally at him, raising with her richly adorned with gold bracelets and rings a goblet.

“Well, stranger, welcome back to the world of the living! You had us worried there. We believed you wouldn’t make it…”

“Wha…?” Odysseus started but again his throat betrayed him

“There, there, stranger…” the woman repeated maternally, “Come on, drink this…”

She slid her arm behind his back and half-raised him with unexpected strength, bringing the goblet to his lips. As the liquid touched those thirsty, dry lips, Odysseus gained strength anew to his arms; the type of strength you get when you need to survive. He greedily downed sips from the drink and aimed to hold it with his weak, shaking hands. He tasted the sweetest drink he ever thought he would taste; it was sweeter than honey, smoother than wine. It was all the tastes he ever knew and none at the same time. He coughed as the drink went down the wrong way but he drank more ignoring some that escaped his lips and down the thick layer of curly hair that adorned his wide chest. He was thirsty! He was thirsty to the point of madness!

“There…there…” the woman repeated, removing the goblet from his lips, “Easy there, take it easy…”

She handed the goblet to her maid who refilled it and she repeated the action, to which Odysseus responded quite the same way before breathing heavily of exhaustion and be lowered slowly back to his pillows. How weak one can be to feel exhausted by drinking from a cup while being held limb by someone else, he thought!

“Rejoice” said the woman standing to her feet, making her braids and jewels clatter with each other, “That’s Nectar you’re drinking; the drink of the gods. Not many humans have the honor of tasting it. It is the only thing capable of giving your strength back, given the state you were in”

The tormented king of Ithaca took a few more breaths; sucking the oxygen with the same thirst as he had drank the godly drink. However he realized that even though his body was still heavy like metal and his limbs weak he wasn’t in so much pain as he used to or at least as much as he could remember. His wounds were also healing as it seemed for they didn’t sting him anymore like burning coals. His burnt by sun shoulders, back and face no longer stung so badly either. He looked at the divine form once more. Her dark skin was perfectly contrasting the white walls of the grotto.

“Who…who are you…?” he managed to whisper with some effort, “Did I die…and somehow ended up to Elysium to be greeted by divine beings…?”

The girls now giggled as their mistress also chuckled softly.

“No, stranger, you are not dead, not yet; even if as it seems the gods are trying very hard to achieve that! You washed up on my isle to the brief of death. I found you and brought you to my home.”

“Then…” the stunned king began, “…who are you…?”

“I am Calypso” the woman replied with a tone of pride and regal aura, “Daughter to Atlas; immortal Nymph and Goddess Protector of Ogygia.”

“A goddess…” Odysseus repeated like an echo

He tried once more to sit up, this time with some success (which however left him exhausted and rasping for breath again).

“Pray tell me, magnificent lady” he began, “Has…”

He hesitated.

“Has…anyone else washed up to your doors? Alive or dead?”

The hope that was biting his heart wouldn’t leave him in peace; no matter what his brain was signaling would be logical. However Calypso’s half-amused look destroyed all the last bits of that hope before the goddess actually spoke.

“Anyone else? No, darling. Just you and it was already a miracle that you survived this. You washed up at my isle in what seemed like half a step from death. I highly doubt there are more people out there who could survive so.”

Odysseus felt his heart sinking. Yes, he expected that blow but it was a blow nonetheless. He felt his body grow weak again. He was struggling really badly to hold himself awake.

“How…how long was I…?”

He had counted around 9 days out in the sea. He assumed it was probably one more since he had lost consciousness more than once but now time escaped him. Calypso smiled again as her honey eyes reflected the light of the sun through her white cave.

“This is the morning of the fourth day you have been unconscious. My maids and I cleaned your wounds and anointed you with oil so that they would heal faster. We gave you a new change of clothes and tried to give you Nectar in hope from dragging you out of death’s door”

That explained the soft clothes that embraced his tormented body. There was so much he wanted to ask; so much he wanted to say… He made a move to sit up even further but his body shivered as if his arms had lost all their previous strength.

“No…” Calypso whispered melodically, “Too soon. You must keep your strength…”

Her touch felt warm against his chest. His senses swam. That delicate hand held strength beyond his comprehension as she firmly pressed him down and yet it was soft and welcome in his tortured soul.

“Goddess…” he began, “I…”

“Shhh…” Calypso whispered again, “Save your strength…sleep…”

Her voice was lulling…even more enchanting now than the Sirens whose forbidden song he was privileged to hear. His head softly touched the pillow as his sight got out of focus. Calypso’s beautiful face was blurred within his swimming, dizzy mind. Suddenly his body felt light…like falling weightlessly to the abyss. Calypso’s voice came as if from a distance even if she was right there above him.

“Sleep…”

Darkness took over him once more…

*

He was coming in and out of consciousness; that much he could tell, although everything became a blurring mess in his brain. Sometimes in some moments of clarity he could remember where he was; he was in the unknown location of Ogygia, nursed to health by the immoral Calypso…his men all gone…his ship was destroyed… The gloomy thoughts were swimming soon after and he drifted back to a sort of lethargy without beginning or end as if he was falling softly down an unknown hole; softly like a feather that was let go from a bird’s wing. His tormented body finally kept up with the events of the past weeks and soon came the shivers, the tremors, the fever and the dreams. That much Odysseus could remember in those rare moments of clarity that were interrupting his lithe. Body twitching and soaked in sweat, Odysseus the king of Ithaca found himself mumbling incoherent phrases and pledges confusing them with the images that attacked his tortured mind.

“No…ah…no…don’t…there…run…run…”

Twitching arms were moving over the light silky sheets. Twitching fingers grappling the material constantly. Droplets of sweat were always adorning his forehead.

“The wall…the wall…d-don’t…the horse…the horse…oh, gods, mercy…the horse…”

There was fire and screaming; faces of men and women tangled in a mass…there was a whirlpool of water opening up sharp teeth coming for his life. Cries of a baby were being mixed with yelps of pain and screeching of pigs being slain and moans of cows being sacrificed…

“Gods…! Oh, gods…mercy…the horse…the sea…get in…d-don’t…get in…don’t…the horse!”

The material of his shirt was so soaked that was plastered against his chest. He occasionally had to tear the material to be set free; no, he wouldn’t die out there by Poseidon! The material wouldn’t strangle him! Not today!

“No more…ah…gods, mercy…n-no more…! D-Don’t…c-catch it…h-hold it… The horse…gods…in the horse…fire…fire…that voice…gods…gods…make it stop!”

His throat was dry, his chest was clenched by an iron hand.

“No…no…ah…p-please…n-no more…the hair…run…I…I don’t…no…no…”

There was a flash of light and a loud bang then the smell of wine and burning flesh however the source of it he did not know. Then an eye staring at him from the black abyss, crying tears of blood.

“The horse…in the water…gods, mercy…no more…!”

He was falling…softly and slowly but still falling.

“The wall…the horse…in the water…that voice…c-catch…stop…stop the…”

Then there was darkness…

“…No…”

His eyes opened slowly but he was out of focus. There was a dim light around him and whiteness but everything was a blur. He was feeling like burning; both from the outside and the inside. There was a blurry figure at some small distance. His arm extended pleadingly towards it.

“Th-Thirsty…” he whispered as if in a trance, “Please…I’m…thirsty…”

Calypso noticed the movement at the bed and heard the whisper coming so feverishly out of those lips. She saw that wrecked body; those eyes that barely slid open to make a request before falling heavy once more. She smiled.

“Of course…”

She stood up and went to the table, pouring liquid in a goblet. However instead of doing what she did initially she drank deeply from it and leaned down. Her lips covered those burning ones. Odysseus felt the taste of water and honey in his tongue. His throat moved spasmodically and desperately to accept the sweet liquid. The softness of flesh against his lips…the taste of honey on his tongue… Penelope… Only she had breath that smelled of honey… Crusty honey cakes were her favorite snack. She was munching them all the time when she was pregnant to their sweet Telemachus and so her breath always tasted honey and sesame; her body smelt fine olive oil… Those lips desperately moved. Finally he was home… Penelope… His lips softly massaged those soft ones and moved harmoniously to the movement of response he felt. Oh, the longing! The sheer happiness! His lips tasted her again and again, hoping that his strength would come back; that his weak arm and hand that rose to touch that soft cheek would allow him to TRULY embrace her… He wanted to explore further…he wanted to taste more…however his body was sinking anew. Tears escaped his eyes, running and getting lost within his raven curly hair… Just a bit longer…oh, gods, have mercy…let me stay a bit longer… As that head sank down to the pillows, his mouth left hers and he drifted back to a deep sleep. Calypso felt their lips separate and pulled back to look at the sleeping form of the mortal man that washed up so unexpectedly to her isle. She touched her lips with her thumb in comprehension. She could still feel his lips on hers. What a weird sensation!

“Who are you, stranger…?” she thought with a curious smile, “…and you kiss so passionately…?”

Calypso tasted her lips in apprehension and a smirk rose to her face. She was definitely curious now. She leaned over that sleeping form. Her face was inches apart from his. The man beneath her was a mere mortal; he was barely average of height but of amazing physical structure, even though he had obviously lost weight from all the hardships he had to face. He seemed long past the age of his youth but that air of maturity in combination to the hardened features from life and sea gave him a special charm. That raven hair like ram’s fleece and the bushy beard gave him some wild beauty despite the fact that his features were not particularly handsome compared to gods and immortal nymphs. She landed her lips on top his head and between his brows and once more landed on those dry from sea lips, hoping to get that reaction again however Odysseus was so far under his sleep that he didn’t move anymore.

“Who were you thinking of…?” she whispered again, “What secrets do you hide…?”

Her smooth hand soothed that bushy chest and felt the fleece that covered it, feeling the hard muscles beneath. Her hand stopped to feel some tiny scar here and there; obviously reminders of war. The arms and legs obviously belonged to a warrior, a craftsman and a sailor…soft scars that could be done by nothing else but hunting knives and animal teeth could be seen in his fingers. Blisters found at his palms could be done by nothing else but sword shield and bow with arrows. The little hardened skin to his shoulders could be done by nothing else but armor. When she and her maidens were firstly nursing him back to health she noticed a distinct scar to his upper thigh (obviously some animal) and a scar to his abdomen (clearly a reminiscent of a spear). This man was no ordinary man. Calypso slowly rose herself off that sleeping form.

“Well, well, well…” she whispered, “Man with many talents…we shall see what the future holds…”

She caressed his hair gently and took two curly hairs from his head; one jet black and one silver for he had plenty that had started emerging from his obsidian mane like the first thunderbolts in the dark sky.

*

The light was warm; it was playing tricks between the leaves of the perennial olive trees that intertwined together to form the leg of his beloved bed; the wedding bed he had built with his own hands. And there, there was the familiar corridor of his palace; which he had walked up and down ever since he could remember. It seemed that everything was showered in yellow sunlight. He recognized every corner; every piece of marble, every mural in every wall. It was home; a humble yet perfect for him home.

“Odysseus!”

He turned around. There she was in all her beauty; Penelope, his wife and love approached him and hugged his arm. Her veils were already covering her hair as always when she came out of the chamber. Odysseus looked at her stupefied.

“Penelope?”

“Dear, oh, dear!” Penelope claimed playfully, “There you are! It was about time you came! You’re going to miss the celebration, darling, and it wouldn’t be appropriate, given that you are the honoring person!”

“Penelope?” Odysseus question again, “How…? I mean…when…?”

The love of his life, looking young and fresh like the day he left her for war chuckled in her usual crystal way that opened his heard like a rose.

“My, my! When you drink you don’t know what you’re saying!”

“But…I don’t…!”

The pull in his arm made him stagger forward.

“Well, come on then! You’ll miss the celebrations!”

“Hold on, a second, Penelope… What celebration?”

She chuckled again. Odysseus could swear he could hear that forever.

“But for the anniversary of taking Troy, of course! It was a year ago since the day you came back to us with the joyful news!”

“I’m…home…? I came…back…”

“Well come on! Your son has been preparing for this celebration for weeks! You don’t want to miss his performance now, do you?”

“Father!”

It was a distant voice Odysseus did not recognize. He looked forward towards the entrance that was showered in light. It almost seemed like Helios Hyperion was right outside his door, showering everywhere in light. There at the entrance he saw the silhouette of a young boy, with his arm above his head weaving at him.

“Father!”

“Telemachus!” Odysseus’s voice chocked into his throat

How much had he grown! He was almost a proper young man! The boy’s lean silhouette was still there. Odysseus cried tears of joy. There was a distant song coming from somewhere afar. He didn’t know that melody. There was also the rhythmical sound of someone weaving.

“Father! Come father! Come!”

It was as if an invisible hook was tied at his stomach for suddenly he was pulled towards the light. And then he was engulfed in white…

*

Odysseus opened his onyx eyes only to find himself to the familiar, now, environment of Calypso’s grotto. There were no more tapestries he knew or halls he had almost built brick by brick but the known white grotto. At the corner there was Calypso. She was humming some melody, moving to and fro. He remembered that song from his vague dream. That voice that could possibly be rivaling the Muses and the Sirens seemed like ringing like a bell in his brain. He work was considered of fine golden thread and patterns Odysseus did not recognize. Her fingers were moving swiftly and yet softly with a dexterity only an immortal goddess could have. For a moment he felt dizzy again but he realized it was much better than he thought. His body was still weak but in an infinitely better condition. His hand cupped his face and ran his fingers through his hair. He was feeling lost. Everything seemed exactly as he had left them before he lost consciousness.

“Forgive me, goddess…” he mumbled, “I fell asleep in the middle of our conversation…”

Calypso halted her movements and turned around to face him. Her shell-like lips formed a smile.

“It is quite a forgivable sin, darling” she replied airily, “Besides what’s a few days before eternity? It all passes like a breath”

“A few day-…?!” Odysseus was astounded, “Why, how long was I…?”

“Around a week this time, my darling.

“A whole week?!”

Calypso chuckled.

“And you gave quite the scare to my poor maids as well. They told me you torn the royal clothes they put on you twice and got alarmed by your voice as they thought you were going under again”

“I was talking in my sleep?”

“You don’t know half of it!” Calypso teased him, “You were mentioning a name quite often though when your phrases could make some sense… I believe it sounded like… ‘Penelope’…?”

Odysseus lowered his eyes in shame. It was already embarrassing enough that he was weaker than a baby and that he had these gorgeous women take care of his basic needs as he was unconscious and to hear he was sleep-talking as well but now that his wife’s name came out in the light he felt exposed.

“She’s my wife…” he finally admitted

Was that a shadow of jealousy that he saw passing flashily before her face like a tiny cloud momentarily shadowing the sun? Maybe he had imagined it, he thought, for her face returned to her previous calm state.

“I see…” Calypso whispered, “That explains a lot actually.”

“What?”

“It must have been her you were thinking of, when you kissed me”

All color left Odysseus’s face. He had no recollection of that event but the way Calypso said it, it sounded true!

“Gods! Forgive me goddess I shouldn’t have done that…!” he rushed to explain

Calypso, though, laughed.

“No need to worry too much, darling. Actually…I quite enjoyed it.”

Odysseus looked at her. His face almost looked like a hurt animal; like the fox that got out of his den to find a hound staring at him.

“You’re the first mortal to kiss me, actually” Calypso continued, “You took me by surprise but I don’t think ill of it”

“P-Please don’t take it the wrong way, goddess…” Odysseus tried to collect himself

His usual eloquent nature was once more gone; somehow lost in the sea and in the dreams; in the song and the spinning wheel.

“I…I was not myself. I shouldn’t have done that”

Calypso smirked again. Odysseus thought he had seen that smile before; a cat before attacking a rabbit at the fields of Ithaca. However her honey eyes shone wholeheartedly.

“Like I said, my dear guest, I quite enjoyed it. You seem to be a man of many talents… Even if…”

Odysseus’s heart clenched once more. The last thing he wanted was to see the bad side of yet another god.

“…you seem to have quite the nerve. You almost seem like you want to insult me by having me at your presence and admitting you mistakenly kissed me, thinking of some mortal woman!”

“I’ve had enough of offending gods for a lifetime, fair Calypso…” Odysseus mumbled fixing himself better in his bed

“Is that so…?” Calypso’s eyes shone again mischievously as she scanned him again, “I think it’s time you revealed who you are, stranger. What is your name? Which is your native land? Answer me truthfully, though. Gods can know when you are lying”

Odysseus lowered his eyes to his lap. Yes, his first instinct would be to conceal himself. He didn’t know what this goddess would think of him but she had saved his life after all. The very least he owed her was honesty and, if anything, indeed the gods often read the mortal soul like an open book.

“Odysseus…of Ithaca” Odysseus mumbled

“Ho?” Calypso brought her hand to her chin amused, “Is that so? Your reputation precedes you, Odysseus son of Laërtes, Man of Many Ways, the Man of Experience, Godly and Equal to Gods, Sacker of Cities… That’s a pretty long string of titles for a mortal! I am impressed. Although I must say that you have created quite a mess for the gods. Poseidon is crossed with you and won’t rest till he sees your destruction after you blinded his son.”

Odysseus lowered his eyes. There was so much he wanted to say and defend himself but as always his past wouldn’t let him… Troy, Polyphemus, the cows of Helios Hyperion… As if noticing his inner battle Calypso smiled softly. She placed a hand under Odysseus’s chin, making her look at her in the eyes. For a moment his eyes god lost inside her honey pools that reflected the sunlight.

“Don’t worry, Odysseus. You are safe here with me. No god would dare to come to my territory unprovoked. They have no reason to come and seek you here. You will be safe…”

Safe… That was a word the tormented king of Ithaca couldn’t really contemplate… However the closeness with the goddess made him feel uncomfortable. There was something in the back of his head that felt wrong but he didn’t even know why or he wouldn’t dare to offend her. He pretended feeling dizzy again and he leaned back to avoid her touch. Calypso smiled and got up.

“My maids shall bring you some food, Odysseus. I believe you are strong enough to eat now. Nectar and potions we created should allow you to heal to that point”

“I am grateful, beautiful goddess…”

“Rest and regain your strength first” Calypso advised sweetly, “The rest shall come…”

*

The weeks passed and Odysseus was indeed trying his best to keep himself in good condition. A few days more and he could walk about Calypso’s grotto without any problems and soon he felt gaining his old strength back. Eventually he got out of the grotto and got to explore the isle around and know his surroundings. Under the tender care of Calypso and her maids, Odysseus felt like finding himself again. He gained the weight he lost by his cruel misadventures and managed to built his previous physical strength. He could still have an ominous feeling pressing over his chest and more often whatnot he would wake up from his dreams because he would hear a mystical song or someone weaving but he brushed it off. Calypso on the other hand could not help herself feeling more and more for this mortal man that showed up at her door. She would get a glimpse of him diving into the waters of her isle to gather mollusks and shells. Others with similar experiences might not even want to be near the sea but not Odysseus. Odysseus was different. She was observing him from afar and hoped to join with him. The curiosity of how humans made love already excited her yet alone now that this man had showed up at her door; a man whose wits seemed to rival the gods. She wondered if that was what made this king attractive in her eyes or maybe his mortal nature; this ephemeral essence of human existence that would disappear one day. She hoped to get closer…much closer to him. However that seemed impossible. Odysseus seemed to be like a fort; closed behind walls he built around his heart. During their countless conversations they would speak on a variety of subjects but every time she asked him about himself and his emotions he would grow distant from her. He closed up like a clamp and refused to elaborate. It frustrated her that she could not get a way to his heart; console his pain and maybe provide a missing piece. It was the first time the immortal goddess had discovered someone as lonely as she was feeling. She looked down at the end of the valley and saw Odysseus. He was shirtless from the waist and above and was chopping some wood for the grotto. It was good for him to have some work to distract himself, or so he had said. Quite frankly Calypso could stare forever. She felt incredibly jealous of Penelope, the woman that had so much influence on him without even being there! If only she had a way to his heart! She looked at her work; her tapestry of gold thread…she looked at the tiny black and the tiny silver hairs that were incorporated to the sea of crimson and gold. She smiled apprehensively. Odysseus was cunning but so could she.  

Odysseus walked back into the chamber, wiping the sweat off his body with his shirt. He entered the chamber only to see the maids of Calypso, the nymphs he had learnt by name by now, waiting for him.

“What is it, Ipomea?” he asked the girl who came first to him

“My lord…” the nymph replied respectfully (although the giggles behind her surely didn’t help her), “My mistress requires your presence at the pavilion”

“The goddess? Whatever for?”

“If it pleases you, my lord, we have prepared your bath, aromatic oils and my mistress arranged your clothes for you.”

“My, my, it sounds important!” Odysseus smiled, “Well…it’s not proper to let the good goddess wait then…”

He entered the tub that was filled with water to the temperature he liked and let himself to the hands of the maids who washed him from top to bottom helped him dry himself and anointed his body with aromatic oils. They dressed him in fine crimson that night that slithered across his body like water. They brushed his hair and trimmed his beard, tied a goldthread headband around his head and wore golden sandals to his feet. Yes, Calypso did that a lot; she was picking clothes for him and making sure he didn’t want of anything but yet some part of his soul was always ringing a bell; resisting as if by instinct. Dressed up at the godly clothes made by Calypso, Odysseus walked about the grotto to climb to the pavilion. The pavilion was basically a small half-closed terrace; an opening to the cave, which allowed Calypso to lay upon her bench and stare to the openness of the sea. He was summoned there before but never so late in the evening. He wondered what it was all about. He reached the dimly lit pavilion and he stopped in amazement. Calypso was already there lying on her couch lazily. She was dressed in a magnificent garment; a cloth to the color of amber that was bringing out her complexion and her honey eyes. Her braided hair was adorned with gold and pearls and neatly arranged. Odysseus could smell her aromatic oils even from the entrance. Calypso was very careful when she chose that dress. She wanted something to let out her beauty without making it too obviously provoking. She knew that Odysseus would be too clever to fall for such a trick. Sensing his presence she smiled.

“Odysseus! I am so glad you came!” she said in her low, melodic voice

Odysseus scanned the pavilion. There were torches to light it and some candles. There was a second bench waiting undoubtedly for himself and in the middle he saw the large gold-pleated crater that was already being stirred by the nymphs. Calypso had chosen the best godly wine in her cellar and she made sure she gave clear instructions to her maids to keep the analogy 3 to 1 so that the godly drink would be strong and savory.

“Come, sit with me, darling,” she said pointing at the other bench with her bracelet-adorned hand, “there is wine and dinner waiting”

Odysseus smiled.

“Goddess…” he returned her greeting with a bow of his head, “What’s the occasion?”

Calypso smiled a cat-like smile.

“But you returning back to health, of course” she replied with winged words, “I can tell by the way you prance about my grotto that you have finally reached your original strength”

“I have” Odysseus confirmed kneeling by her bench, he took her hand in his, “And it’s all thanks to you, goddess…”

He gratefully kissed her hand. Calypso shivered as those lips touched her immortal flesh. Oh, she adored him! She wanted to explore more of him! However she knew she had to be patient if she wanted Odysseus to become hers. She drew her hand back chuckling.

“Now, now, Odysseus!” she said airily, “Let us not get stuck in such…trifles! Let us just enjoy this night that is so beautiful. Let us not worry of yesterday or tomorrow”

“Couldn’t agree more, goddess” Odysseus smiled taking his place to the bench right opposite her.

Calypso smiled.

“Wine?”

“If you please…”

Calypso signaled at her maid to serve from the crater the ruby liquid. Odysseus brought it to his lips and tasted the rich taste of the drink.

“This wine belongs to the best year of my isle. My land is as you know rich. We do not want of anything here…” she looked at him again, scanning him with her eyes, “What do you think…?”

“Exquisite…”

Calypso raised her cup in a toast.

“To life then!”

“To life”

The two of them sat at the pavilion all evening talking on various subjects. Odysseus told her about the airs of the Aegean and the lands he met on his way to Troy, the mountains of Parnassus and the crops, the ships and warfare, circle of seasons and many more while Calypso talked about the stars and the sky, the secrets of the cycle of epochs and the song of the birds of Ogygia. The hours passed without Odysseus realizing it. Calypso had given clear orders to her maids to make sure that Odysseus’s cup would never empty and every time he would try and refuse she would try to lure him with yet another toast or some small talk for distraction. She knew however that he wouldn’t really refuse if she asked. She had come to know he was afraid to displease her. She had invited him there and he felt it was his duty to obey her requests. He wouldn’t refuse her out of fear that he would offend her. She watched him sip the red liquid away and his cheeks flare from the alcoholic beverage and his eyes shine in inebriation and yet his defenses were still strong for he refused to open up every time Calypso would try to sneak in a more personal question. He might still discuss different matters and laugh every time a maid mentioned something but she could tell he was still hiding many things inside him. Calypso knew she had to be careful. She was absolutely certain that Odysseus despite the fact that the wine was making his speech slower and his reactions more lethargic, that he could understand perfectly well what was going on and that he would be perfectly cognitive. She had to advance softly if she needed him to open up. She needed an opportunity. And she found it. At some point as Odysseus was pretty much completely drunk she realized that shadow of melancholy passing from his eyes. Yes, she knew that look. It was the look he got every time he lost himself in deep thought.

“Odysseus…?” she called at him in her melodic singing voice, “Odysseus…?”

“Hm?”

“Do you find my company that unpleasant, Odysseus?”

Odysseus looked at her. She saw those eyes, those eyes that resembled obsidian, looking at her and she felt almost weak in her legs.

“No, goddess…” he eventually replied sluggishly

“Then why do you look so gloom?” Calypso questioned, “I am here to entertain you; so we can celebrate your recovery back to health and you sit there looking sad. Please talk to me, what’s wrong…?”

“G-Goddes…”

“Don’t you trust me, Odysseus…?”

Odysseus froze.

“I…”

Such an easy question and such a difficult answer it would need! Odysseus tried to find the proper words and force that stupid tongue of his that had turned sluggish in his mouth and explain. However the dizziness wouldn’t let him to concentrate. Perhaps he shouldn’t have drunk so much! Calypso, on the other hand, could almost feel his head wheels running, cornered by her direct question.

“Please, Odysseus…” she said in a mellow tone, “Open up to me, darling. I want to help you…”

Just a bit more, she thought, just a little more. She looked at him again; how he was gazing her with those eyes glistering from unshed tears and wine. For one second she wondered that maybe he was too drunk and that she should have stopped earlier but she dismissed the thought. Only in the condition he was now he would be able to drop his defenses and finally trust her even for a little bit.

“Talk to me, Odysseus…”

And, finally, Odysseus talked. He could not contain his emotions any longer as he spoke to her of his experiences; of how he faced contempt in Troy, of how they were captured by Polyphemus, of the agony of the trip…how he saw his mother in the underworld who told him she died of grief…how his son waited in Ithaca; the son he never saw to grow and finally the brutal deaths of his comrades… And then she saw the man break...there she saw him come undone... He talked and tears were flowing from his eyes like rivers, wetting the cloth he wore and he seemed inconsolable till he managed to muster some of his self-control and try to stop. Calypso slowly got up and sat beside him. He clearly was in no state to walk.

“My darling…” she whispered maternally embracing him

She kissed his head and forehead and she pulled him closer, letting him lean his head to her bosom. She rocked him softly.

“My poor tormented darling…”

She realized that he was probably at his limit so she signaled at her maid with her eyebrows not to refill his cup, which she placed aside. Odysseus was feeling his lips tingling; his stomach was upset and his head was turning like a top and yet that soft embrace seemed to be soothing him. His head was heavy as he leaned to her chest, struggling to keep his eyes open.

“G-Goddess…I…” he mumbled

Calypso leaned over to his ear and she whispered in a tone that rang to his mind like a silent bell.

“Shall we go, my darling…?” Calypso whispered directly in his ear, “Shall we go to bed…?”

He shook his head. It wasn’t a yes and it wasn’t a no. He was completely inebriated. Calypso passed one arm behind his waist and she raised them all up with unexplainable strength. Odysseus was led almost completely limb in her arm towards the chamber and it made him realize for one more time he difference between gods and mortals; Calypso’s body that looked fragile and feminine held strength enough to crush him if she wanted to. And yet she was being gentle with him…she had saved his life. This detail shouldn’t be concerning him, right? As Calypso led him and helped him lie down the bed his eyes truly couldn’t remain open. He closed them feeling the world spinning around him like a top. He fathomed he should sleep. His head was feeling heavy.. Calypso watched him and for a second she was tempted to kiss him; taste those lips of his. However she was almost certain that Odysseus would remember everything of that night. She didn’t want to ruin her opportunity. She smiled like a spider watching her web.

‘Soon, my love…soon you will forget those sorrows…here with me…”

~~~~

So here's the second part of this story and Odysseus beached in Ogygia with his life and yet things are about to be difficult for him. Now the reason I chose Calypso to have dark complexion was mainly because I was enamoured with The Odyssey (1997) and I thought it would be a fun idea to explore. Her house in Ogygia in my story is at Gozo in Malta.

Now for Odysseus's visions I was inspired by the amazing soundtrack from "The Perfume"

I was also heavily inspired by Gladiator movie for them.

I figured Odysseus would be incredibly weak for days after his ordeal. And I tried to add some more details to make it look more like Calypso fell for him.

Odysseus fell ill because when he finally relaxed, all his anxiety was basically striking his body mercilessly. Now his mumbles were not supposed to make any sense and they were random based on his adventures. Now if someone wants to make something out of them, the most infamous horse he is related to is the Trojan horse but also the horse is a symbol of Poseidon so maybe just maybe it refers to Poseidon as well hahahaha!

He tears his clothes because in his delirioum when the clothes plaster on him, he feels as if he is back at the sea struggling alone

The "honey crackers" exist in Greece even today and they are called παστέλι (pasteli). It is a savory snack made of sesame seeds and honey. Sesame existed as crop in Greece since homeric times. Which is why I put it here. Quite frankly I am not sure if it was a thing in bronze age when Odysseus lived but hey if Homer can use anachronism so can I! Hahahahaha

Also suspicious suspicious that Odysseus seems to be healling "happy" in the island hahahaha! That is because some people interpret Calypso weaving and singing while moving to and fro as her enchanting him. In my story he is basically subtly enchanted to "forget" some parts of his sorrow to stay and heal. Calypso thought she could bind him but his will is stronger so her magic only reaches a superficial level.

In this I wanted Odysseus to suffer fates that he imposed to his enemies or were imposed to his friends and he was spared for example lethe (Lotus Eaters) drunkeness (Polyphemus)etc.

For Calypso I was inspired by a spider spinning a web.

I hope the last part will come soon!

As always I shall thanks @loco-bird @tunguszka20 @ditoob @jarondont @prompted-wordsmith @simugeuge @ilov3b00kss0much @fangirlofallthefanthings

[oceansssblue]

OK SO. RAREPAIR. MY GOAT. Ventress x Hunter!! I love this ship so much he spread his legs to her

If possible, can you make it t4t? Trans woman Asajj and Trans man Hunter? 👉👈

Can be smut! They are so hot together hehe

Soooo... let the rare pairings begin ✨

Hope it was what u wanted!

"NOT WHAT I WAS EXPECTING"

– ASAJJ VENTRESS/HUNTER 🔥

WARNINGS: TRANS ASAJJ, TRANS HUNTER, EXPLICIT SEX (DIRTY TALK, BIG DICK)

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"This is not what I was expecting when you agreed to come with me" Ventress retorts, voice full of sarcasm, while Hunter tries to catch his breath in front of her.

The leader of Clone Force 99 had been worried sick about the ex-sith's revelation about Omega. She had offered to train her; just enough to grasp a sliver of control of the Force. Just enough to hide herself, to remain unnoticed. Not that the Empire would stop looking after her –not when they already knew the truth–; but at least, her life sign wouldn't be screaming "force sensitive" for those physically around the girl. Hunter had inmediately shot down the idea unless he was allowed to tag along; and Asajj had reluctantly accepted.

Why did she want to help the girl? Well, Ventress knew everything about people wanting to take advantange of a helpless child; about being an expensable pawn in another's game, about families ripped apart. Plus, the Empire would find her someday too, no matter how hard she had been working to blend with the shadows. And for the Empire to be destroyed, there had to be enough force-sensitives –ex-siths, ex-jedis, new force users, it didn't really matter– alive. Asajj doubted the Empire could be defeated without them.

That didn't mean Ventress was chirpy about it. Hapiness just didn't seem to be in her vocabulary; in her range of emotions. Amused, entertained, not sad neither angry? Yes. But never plainly happy. It was just her personality; shaped after a whole life of teachings on dark arts and sith stories.

Surprisignly, her two new companions hadn't been as irritating as she had expected them to be. The kid's bubbly excitement could be tiring after a whole day of social interactions; and Hunter's initial side glances of waryness had gotten on her nerves at first. But the girl had learned when to give her space –it wasn't a difficult task, considering Asajj's sharp tongue– and Hunter... Ah, Hunter had been a very curious development.

Ventress had grown to... Well, perhaps like was too strong of a word, but it admitedly went further than tolerate. The clone was loyal and brave –but not the silly kind of bravery–; measured, always aware of his surroundings, perceptive and plainly hot. That definitely helped. There was a sort of primal, raw and masculine attraction going on for Hunter; and yet he was still surprisignly pretty. Perhaps it was the long hair or the sweet brown eyes; perhaps that narrow waist Asajj had eyed more than once.

No matter how curiously attracted she felt for him, though, Ventress never thought it would end like this; that he would be the one to grow a pair and kiss her. And oh, what a heated kiss it had been. Hunter was still panting in front of her, eyes flickering over her face while he tried to catch up his breath. Ventress had heard him moan low in his throat; felt the shiver spreading through his body when she had all but cuped his ass and grounded against him, letting him feel her bulge. The wide-eyed, confused but excited look on the clone's face had been nothing short of precious.

Ventress walked backwards –eyes never leaving Hunter's– and layed down on the matress of her ship; posture relaxed and tempting. Hunter seemed to be devouring her from his spot against the wall.

"I'm not complaining, though" she finally continued, making a tiny gesture with her head while she added in a sultry voice "Come here and take a sit on my lap, little clone".

Hunter's cheeks flushed a deep red. He hadn't seen this happening either. But he couldn't deny the way his heartbeat sped up when Ventress stepped close to him; or when she hissed a few words as an answer. Because that's how the woman spoke; in sharp hisses and confident whispers. Everything in Asajj screamed power; and that made Hunter's knees weak.

Hunter has always been a confident person himself; used to leading his squad and carrying the weight of decisions and responsabilities. He doesn't really understand then, why he gets so damn shy around Ventress; why his feet shuffle as if he's unsure to move forward. He wants to. He wants her. Why then does he feel so... afraid?

The woman observes him from the bed. It makes Hunter more nervous, but the arch of her eyebrow finally pushes him into action, and Hunter quickly jumps into the matress, one knee going over Ventress's hips and settling almost stubbornly on top of her. He's a sargeant. He has led his team into battle more times than he can count and survived to tell the story. It's just sex with... Ventress.

Ventress, who has a very well-endowed cock by the feeling of it and chuckles at Hunter's obvious reaction; a small whimper escaping his lips while he nervously adjusts on top of her.

The woman's long nails take hold of Hunter's own hips; keeping him in place.

Once again, she smirks.

"Like what you feel?" She asks, though it's nothing more than an observation at this point, really.

Hunter blushes and glances off to the side. Ventress chuckles and grabs his chin; forcing him to look at her.

"For a sargeant, you're surprisingly shy in bed" she points out, smile wide as a lothcat's. "Don't worry, little clone, we can just stick to kissing for a bit".

There's a sort of sarcasm to her voice; but Hunter seizes the oportunity to do something he wants and escape the weight of her stare and dips down to press his lips on hers. Asajj makes a tiny surprised sound, body tensing and coiling like a snake; then chuckles low in her throat and tugs him forward, deepening the kiss. She's rough, teeth nipping his lower lip, all-consuming; and Hunter quickly gets lost in it. His body heatens up; warmth climbing onto his cheeks. He's getting wet, now; and he can feel Ventress's bulge growing hard underneath him, and the knowledge drives him crazy.

He humps forward, unconsciously trying to grind on it; and Ventress groans, lips parting, head falling back to rest against the thin pillow. She studies him with hooded eyes. The clone looks delicious; long hair encasing his flushed face, eyes closed, lips parted while he moves against her. Ventress tugs that gorgeous hair of his back with a pull of her hand; Hunter's spine curving in response. A small moan echoes in the walls of her ship.

"Getting a little desperate, aren't why?" She asks, amused but oh, so turned on, dark eyes heavy fixed on his. "You want that inside of you, mm?"

Hunter's whole body trembles at the dirty words coming of her mouth. A rush of slick slips into his underware. His core pulses almost with it's own heartbeat.

Fuck, yes. He wants that. He needs that. He's so empty, he needs her cock to stretch him, needs to be filled and pounded and...

Hunter whines, and Asajj gives him a wide, dangerous smile.

"Not that I'm trying, little clone, but your thoughts are awfully loud in the force".

Hunter blushes; though it doesn't make much difference in his already redenned cheeks. He looks at her as if he were a lost puppy; needing guidance. Ventress smirks.

"Why don't you take it out, then, if you want it so badly?" She suggests, playing with him, but dead-serious at the same time.

Hunter knows she won't let it slip; and it's less humiliating to admit to his desires directly –instead of trying to resist–. So he swallows his embarassment and shyness down, and his hands nervously tug her leggins and underware down; exposing her erection to him for the first time. It tears out a very audible moan from his throat.

"It's so big" he thinks to himself, but speaks out loud.

It's the biggest dick he's ever seen. Warm and heavy, it rests against the woman's pelvis; almost reaching her belly button. There's a few drops of precum that tempts Hunter to take a taste.

Asajj's laugh break him out of his reverie.

"Take a photo, little clone. It'll last longer".

Hunter tries to be nochalant about it.

"I was just curious. You know, with you being a woman and..." he looks down at her cock again, and Ventress gives him a confident, one sided smile.

"Ah. Well, it can't be that much of a surprise... Considering how you're keeping a very similar secret. Aren't you, little clone?"

Hunter squirms. He glances off to the side, but Ventress "tsks" and he redirects his eyes back to her. He doesn't like talking about this. Hell, he doesn't have a lot of sexual experience because he hadn't wanted to face other's reactions; hadn't known how to explain it. What to do or say. But Jedi magic, right? Or well... Well, perhaps his grinding had made his lack of package obvious. Either way, it's not easy admiting it out loud.

"Why don't you show me?" she continues, encourging him upon his silence.

Hunter hesitates for a few seconds; then he shifts his ways on his knees and slowly divests himself. His shirt is thrown to the floor first; his slightly more rounded chest coming into view. They're not really breasts, at least not a full pair; but they're not completely flat and muscular either. There's some softness in them; and his nipples had always been particularly sensitive.

Surprisingly, Ventress waits patiently as he moves on onto the lower part of his outfit. Hunter is finally completely naked in front of her; and the woman eats him up with her eyes while Hunter squirms in place. Insecurity swims inside of him, and some part of him wants nothing more than to dress up again, but... But Ventress smirks in satisfaction and carefully and very slowly swipes two fingers through his wet folds. Hunter clenches around nothing and moans.

"Look at that" she smiles, desire clear in her eyes. "Who would have thought a clone commander would look so pretty with perky nipples and a pussy crying to be filled. Because that's what you truly want, isn't it?"

"Y-yes" Hunter manages to answer, swallowing his embarassment down.

"Well, well, little clone. We must prepare you for that" Ventress taunts, her hand reaching down to gently stroke her cock twice. "I'm not sure I can make all this fit inside of you. I bet you're tight".

Hunter's mind is swimming in desire. He nods, fingers flying down to his clit inmediately. He does a circular motion one, twice; he's so wet and turned on it feels spectacular already.

"Ah, ah. You're going to cum in my cock and only by what my cock gives you" she stops him, making him whimper and look at her in desperation. "If you're so eager, you can start preparing yourself for my cock".

Hunter throws all caution through the window and dips his middle finger inside of him; the movement eased by his wetness. It's one single finger; and yet he feels so full already. Ventress is right; he is tight. It doesn't help his pussy is clenching onto anything that is given to him.

"Just like that, little clone. Go on. You're a big boy, you can take another one".

Hunter whimpers and obbeys; and soon he's pushing two fingers, then three, in and out of him. They become from being too much to being too little; and he whines gripping the woman's hip with his free hand, asking for more.

Ventress, who has been slowly stroking herself while watching his little show, smirks knowingly.

"Yes, Hunter?"

He bites his lip and squirms. He knows she wants him to ask.

"P-please..." he whispers, the urgency clear in his voice.

Ventress smiles wider.

"Please what? I'm not giving you anything until you beg for it".

Hunter moans and tries to hide behind the courtin of his hair momentarily. The woman grabs his chin and forces him to face her. Her eyes demand an answer. Hunter needs to beg.

"Please, Asajj" he surprises himself with how soft his pleading voice sounds. "I want your big cock inside of me".

Ventress groans, kissing him as a reward and swiftly adjusting their positions; tugging him towards her so that his entrance is hovering over her erection. Ventress holds both of his hips with her hands; gesturing down with her head, eyes locked on his.

"Take what you want, little clone. Sit on it". She orders, the last few words coming out in almost a hiss.

It sends electrifying pleasure up his spine; a tremble that is only replicated when he holds her cock in place with one hand and begins to slowly sit on it.

"A-ah" he whines, the stretch of her massive cock too much for his tight entrance to easily adjust. "V-ventress..."

She hums in delight and holds his hips steady; leading him to backtrack a little before taking more of her length inside of him.

"You should see yourself, Hunter" her voice is temptation on itself. "Looking so pretty trying to take my hard cock in your tiny pussy".

Hunter whimpers and stubbornly pushes down the rest of the way; the stretch so abrupt it burns. He makes a second wounded noise in his throat when he involuntarily clenches on her; and Ventress releases her first pure unadulterated, uncontrolled moan of the night. This is affecting her as well; as much as she's good at hiding it.

"S-so big" he repeats, almost as if he needs her to soothe him, to confirm it.

Asajj nods, answer a little raspy.

"Yeah. I can almost see the outline poking in your belly".

Hunter clenches on her again and looks at her desperately; breath already coming out in agitated pantings.

She reads the overwhelming desire in him.

"Move, little clone. I want to see you bouncing up and down on my cock".

Hunter loses himself on Asajj's hard-on. Though at first it's difficult to mantain a rhythim, the feeling too much, his endless desire and wetness soon makes it easier; and encouraged by her dirty words and strong hands, he moves faster and harder, slamming his own hips down on hers until he can almost feel her pushing against his cervix. Is an alarming situation and a incredibly pleassurable once at the same time.

Ventress let's him enjoy himself for some minutes; delighted to watch his pleasure and listen to his curses and moans, eyes tracking the way his body bounces and how his spine arches, how flushed his face looks. The need to fuck him harder, faster, arrives not too long after, though; and she inverts their positions so fast that Hunter is left to stare at her in shock, weeping cock still inside of him.

"You've had your fun, little clone. Now I get to take what I want, and you're just gonna hold on and cope with it".

It's a warning; a promiss. And Hunter soon discovers Ventress has no intention on breaking it.

She tilts his hips upwards; bends his legs open, and pounds in him so hard and deep a broken moan cries into the silence of the night. She doesn't give him respite, though; she's persistent, set on a goal, hips moving confidently over his and feeding her cock into his pussy one time after the other one. He's so wet the sound is almost embarassing; and yet it still turns him on. Ventress's cock feels imposibly good inside of him; so big, stretching him so wide, reaching so deep, branding him inside, carving her shape out of his pussy, one time after the other one and the other one and the other one...

"Please... please..." hunter cries, real tears in his eyes.

It feels so good it's overwhelming. He needs to cum. He needs to explode and release and please, god, this is so fucking good his brain is going to...

"There, there, little clone. Just take. What I. Give you" she hisses back, punching each word with a snap of her hips.

Hunter feels the orgasm impossibly close. He feels tingly already. He can almost graze it with his fingertips. It feels so good, he's so full, she's so big and...

"I-I'm gonna' cum!" He warns her, eyes shutting down inmediately, mouth dropping in an opent pant.

Ventress groans and pounds harder. She places a firm –and carefull– hand on Hunter's throat.

The man whines. The stars explode.

"I-I'm cum-ing!" He cries out, every single muscle on his body clenching harshly, squeezing the woman's cock.

Tingling spreads from his pussy to every single nerve ending on his body; shivering uncontrollably.

Ventress opens up on the Force; swallowing his pleasure down, making it part of her own.

"F-fuck!" She groans, almost tasting her own orgasm too. "D-drop to your knees, Hunter. Now".

It's not a question. It's an order. It's urgent. Necessary.

A dazzed Hunter rolls over and kneels on the floor; sleepy, satisfied eyes looking up at the woman's figure in ecstasy. Ventress takes a stand right in front of him. She grabs his hair with one hand, tilting his face upwards; desperately strokes her cock with the other one.

"Want to fucking paint your face" she growls, managing to send a last shiver of pleasure through Hunter's nerves. "Want to see your pretty face drenched in my warm cum, little clone..."

Hunter hums and obediently sticks his tongue out; and the sight of it, of the clone voluntarily offering his mouth to her, is what does it. Ventress moans and cums; white ropes of her warm seed painting Hunter's flushed face and dripping down. Ventress caresses the tip against his cheek; then against his lips. Hunter hums and gives her a kittle lick in complete contempt and relaxation. It's Ventress's time to shiver.

"Good boy" she murmurs, energy dropping, falling down to sit on the edge of the bed.

Hunter hums and follows; drops forward, head coming to rest to one of her thighs. He's growing sleepy as well; and Ventress chuckles in what can only be... Well, not happiness, but fond amusement, maybe.

THE END.

[posarmeklen]

Don’t you hate when you turn your back for a minute at your dead-end copy job (sorry, dead-end desktop publishing job), and all of a sudden, one half of your sister’s cool teen quartet along with your horndog conspiracist friend are holding paper products (er, helping with a big job) and flapping their lips about the latter’s fairly new unplanned pregnancy?

It was just a coincidence that Goat swung by to visit Alex at Repro Man’s shortly after Fruity and Matt came in, and even though they had heard through Chaka (who, naturally, knew because of Alex) that the older man was in a “delicate” condition, it was their first time bumping into him in person since.

Hearing Fruity’s compliments, Matt turned around from the poster in his hands. “Oh, hey, Goat,” he greeted him.

“Hey, Matt, what’s up?”  

“Probably nothing compared to what’s up with you, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy.” Goat coughed.

“Yeah, you know, my cousin just had a baby a couple months ago,” Matt offered up. “I’m not gonna lie, it wasn’t easy for her, but she said it was totally worth it. You know, yin and yang and all that.”

“Hey, I don’t think this situation calls for the poetry.” Fruity made a disapproving smacking sound with his lips.  “Man, can’t you just leave this beautiful thing be?” Goat smirked.

“Chill out, alright?” said Matt, gingerly transferring a large stack of paper from Fruity’s hands to his own and placing it by the copier. “I was just going to ask how he’s taking it.”

“Well,” Goat said emphatically. “Do you want the miracle-of-life Demi Moore Vanity Fair edition, or the cold unabridged truth?” His words conjured an image of himself, au naturel and assuming the pose of the actress, which subsequently splintered and fell away like a broken pane of glass.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less than the second one from you.” Matt smiled.

“Oh, it’s fuckin’ brutal,” he asserted. “Imagine the most head-splitting zombifying hangover, with none of the fun from the night before.”

Fruity raised his eyebrows. “None?”

“Oooh, rough…” Matt mumbled sympathetically.

“My back hurts all time. Everything’s sweaty. Plus, on top of that, I can’t really see my junk. It makes for a challenge when women’s volleyball is on and I wanna –”

“Alright, alright…” Matt’s laugh cut the description of his plight short. “I think we get the picture.”

“Hey, we’re all guys here!” grinned Fruity, giving an open-palmed shrug.

“I will say, it’s not a total loss,” Goat went on. “I seem to have unlocked a brand-new level of savoring life’s pleasures.”

“Oh, because you had trouble with that before, right?” teased Matt.

“Eh, I don’t know, but this baby must love Ring-Dings and Bud Light.”

“Hey, and at least the ladies eat up this stuff,” Fruity said. “You know, feeling the baby kick and comparing its size to a dill pickle and crap. They must be all over you.”

“Uh, yeah, yeah, right on.” Goat looked past him, letting out a sigh. “Is there a bathroom in this place? I gotta take a leak.”

“Yeah, right over by the back wall,” said Matt.

“I won’t keep you,” Fruity added, motioning in the general direction of the door.

So anyway, when it comes to Fruity’s comment re: the “fairer sex” and pregnancy, I would be remiss not to mention the kindred spirit Goat hit it off with, the child’s second parent (seen in my Downtown posts of yesteryear. However, I did change her name for some reason. Friendship ended with “Jackie”, “Kasey” is my best friend now). *clears my throat and shuffles flashcards* There came a point of awareness that despite their similarities, they were at really different life stages (Goat had been doing his own thing for years, but Kasey, a trans woman who was Goat’s age, had been living as herself for a fraction of that and was relishing her freedom) and while Goat initially hadn’t changed his lifestyle a bit to accommodate the pregnancy, she didn’t want to live like him forever and begrudged his seeming lack of trying. Words were exchanged, and the pair went their separate ways. Not to worry – they would soon rekindle, and both put forth effort to be healthier (in Goat’s case, he was mostly propelled by the knowledge of his physical condition; in Kasey’s, she was inspired to show a sort of solidarity with him, plus she would soon be a parent as well, despite not physically being pregnant).  But given their respective issues, neither swayed the other in a positive direction, and they soon reached the disappointing yet amicable conclusion that they were perhaps too alike to remain close. And in the midst of that, they just knew neither of them were cut out to raise children (what were we thinking?) – so wish granted for a lucky adoptive parent(s). But I digress… I wonder if some of this diverted him from regaling Fruity and Matt with salacious tales when given the opportunity.

Also, by the way? Even though Fruity was being facetious in my picture and Goat wouldn’t name his offspring after himself, he and the aforementioned second parent did discover at an ultrasound (the first and only; Goat completely forgot about an appointment scheduled earlier in the pregnancy 😑) that the fetus was male. Goat after he and Kasey exchanged an overwhelmed glance and muttered fragmented agreeable noises upon being asked if they were interested in finding out the baby’s sex today: “Rock on! Built-in apprentice and wingman, here I come…” *medical technician politely chuckling intensifies*

[darkhymns-fic]

No Longer Just a Church Girl

Vaggie is busy going through a religious crisis and questioning her place. Meanwhile, Charlie the occult enthusiast whirlwinds into her life to offer her an alternate path: a rehabilitation club! That, or, she just really wants to ask her out.

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel Characters/Pairing: Charlie Morningstar/Vaggie Rating: T Word Count: 3515 Mirror: AO3 Notes: Written for the alternate universe prompt for Hellaverse Sapphics Week happening on twitter! Also, seemed fun to put Vaggie into my own disillusioned Catholic experiences.

--

A church feels really different when no one is around, she thought.

Vaggie could hear every creak and bend in the wood from the surrounding pews. She did all she could to not move as much in her seat, but only succeeded in hitting her sole against the footrest before her. The stained glass windows above seemed even larger than before, along with the empty spaces between each color, from pale white to deep-seated red. She craned her neck, catching each detail of the painted filigree mural just past the wooden beams.

Now by herself, with her face still aching, it all seemed just too much. Just being in here was exhausting.

She couldn’t remember the last time she actively enjoyed being in this place. But also, where else could she even go?

What a time to have a religious conflict.

Maybe what happened next was a strange blessing in disguise, one that tore Vaggie away from her swirling thoughts, who looked upon the symbols of the church and saw only shapes instead of what they represented. When she heard the large church doors open, their hinges squeaked loudly, echoing within the space like a discordant bell. Also, whoever opened those doors did it slowly, as if having trouble. 

Or maybe they were trying to do a grand entrance.

Vaggie gave a deep sigh, her headache deepening. She knew one person who would do such a ridiculous thing.

“Hijo de… Adam. I already told you that I’m not going back—”

She rounded over her shoulder, but the annoying frat boy face she’d had to endure for too many years was not what she saw at first glance.

Instead, it was this girl with stunning blonde hair.

“Oof, this seems a little overkill,” came a mutter that sounded oddly adorable. Once past the door threshold, Vaggie got a better look. The girl’s outfit was a little peculiar, for Vaggie didn’t know many women who just wore suspenders like that, but coupled with a white dress shirt, it was oddly a little stylish. Like she was going to a dress-up party, or maybe even a meeting. It was kinda ruined by the pastel-colored messenger bag the girl carried, the one with the weird goat charms hanging off the strap.

Wait, she knew those goat charms. She’d seen them back at campus.

“Whoa…” The girl looked around the church, eyeing the stained glass, as well as the votive candles that were placed within the recesses of the walls, along with one depiction of the Pieta. “This is so exotic!”

Vaggie cleared her throat, which of course sounded too loud within the church air. “Charlie?”

“Ah!!” The girl turned quickly, like she’d been caught. Vaggie left her seat at the pew to stand in the aisle before her. She unconsciously reached to cover the bandage that was wrapped over her right eye, but her hair was already doing that for her anyway.

“It-It’s fine! Um, are you here for service? The next one starts this evening if you’re wondering.”

Not that she’d ever even seen Charlie in church before. Was she a new convert?

The girl blinked, and then, the biggest smile stretched across her face. The soft lighting from the rafters fell across her rosy cheeks. Her eyes seemed to gleam as well—with red. That was another odd thing about her, how she seemed to wear red contacts that definitely gave her a weird vibe. Also, was she wearing fake fangs? That was new. Or did she alter them…?

“Oh, Vaggie! I was hoping you’d be here! I lost you a bit when I followed you from the campus grounds, but then I remembered you wore a crucifix so I figured—”

“Wait,” Vaggie interrupted. “Were you stalking me?”

“Whaaat, pft, no! Noooo…” Charlie fixed a lock of hair behind her hair. “Maybe?”

“Eh.” Vaggie shrugged. “Been stalked by worse.” And hit those that did. Charlie was at least a pleasant surprise.

“A-Anyway! I’ve been trying to reach you but  you always leave our classes so fast. And I wanted to extend this invitation personally!”

Charlie didn’t seem to have any sort of volume control on her voice. Church acoustics were for hearing the preacher go on about their sins, the choir singing the same songs she’d known since she was a child, as well as those who joined the hymns and turned to wish good will on their neighbor with a fake smile. It was not meant for someone who was happy-yelling and seemed absolutely genuine in that fact.

Maybe Vaggie was still feeling a little bitter about things. Sure, Charlie’s voice was kinda loud but at least it was keeping her awake. “So… is this like a party or…?”

“Even better!” And with that, Charlie reached into her way too cutesy messenger bag and pulled out a pamphlet made from cheap paper. Oh, she recognized that cheap paper too. So Charlie must have been at the campus after hours unlike most people.

Charlie was smiling so wide and with such watery and devilishly red eyes that Vaggie would have felt like a complete jerk if she didn’t accept it. Pamphlet in hand, (after a miss or two. She was still getting used to her new sense of perspective now with only one eye working), she peered down at the front where it looked like Charlie had discovered clip art and had gone mad in plastering it all over the place, nearly overtaking the actual text. There was also glitter sprinkled all over the page, much of it loose and already getting on Vaggie’s fingers.

A happy place for everyone!

Join the Happy Brigade at Morningstar College and turn that frown upside down!

A first-ever rehabilitation club of its kind!! 

(Rehabilitate; verb, re•ha•bil•i•tate: to restore to good repute–)

She shook her head at the sudden definition drop, but one thing definitely stuck out here.

“...A rehabilitation club?” Vaggie read out loud, as if doing so would help it make more sense. It didn’t.

“Yes, that’s it!” Charlie said so quickly, ready to burst with excitement. She was stretching up on the toes of her shoes up and down. “I’m making a new club! The Happy Brigade!”

Vaggie’s answer was silence, still wondering if what she was experiencing was some fever dream. Charlie took that to mean criticism.

“Okay, the name needs a little bit of work, yes, but the message of the club is clear! We’re here to help rehabilitate other people into a better life and kick them from their bad habits! All after class time!”

“That sounds illegal.”

“Oh, don’t worry! My dad pulled a few strings so it’s all in the clear!”

Did she mean her dad, the head dean of their college? Yeah, that made sense. For an important faculty member, the man was rarely ever in the building. And when he was, he would just go visit Charlie in her classes, which got distracting enough for a few professors to kick him out during a lesson.

“And we already got a few club members too! There’s Anthony, and that man who calls himself Husk for some reason, and—”

“The dude who hangs out at the red light district?” Vaggie uttered in shock. “And the drunk who got caught sneaking in vodka bottles on college grounds?”

“Yeah! So you know them too?”

“I know of them.” When people had reputations like that, it was hard not to know…

“We also have Mrs. Niffty. She offered to help clean up the library room we’ll be using. I guess her husband has been away for a while so she has a lot of free time on her hands!”

Niffty’s marriage was one to question, especially if a husband of hers had disappeared suddenly.

“That funny Pentious guy is also joining! Though it’s sorta forced since he blew up one of the science rooms, but I’m sure this will definitely help his parole!”

That was the man from England who looked like he came out of some steampunk convention and who definitely had a few screws loose…

“Oh, and guess what? We even got Alastor! He says he’ll help us promote our club during the radio program he holds at school. Isn’t that great?”

Vaggie blinked. “You got the creepy guy.”

“He’s not that creepy. Just enthusiastic!”

Yeah, and the rumors of him having decapitated heads in his freezer was also just as widespread. How the fuck that guy was still allowed to stay enrolled, she’d never know. She was pretty sure even the dean hated his guts.

Hearing Charlie list out the members, Vaggie was once again reminded how the community college they all attended wasn’t exactly a prestigious place. Not only was the college rumored to be some sort of Satanic cult meeting place, (it had been first established in the 80’s and would have definitely fit the whole Satanic panic that had been prevalent then) they had all sorts of people in their classes, many of them from all walks of life, and in their later years of life as well. Charlie and Vaggie were more of the outliers, typical college age while everyone else jumped up and down from incredibly suspiciously young housewives to seventy year-old deadbeats that gambled away what’s left of their social security checks.

And Charlie was putting the most…colorful of them in one single room—to rehabilitate. This girl must have had a death wish.

Then again, clubs were such a rare thing at their college. And Vaggie always had to leave straight from classes to attend church services and the like.

Well, she used to at least.

She looked at the paper once more with its shoddy printing, the text already having faded from all the clip art Charlie wasted the ink on. “Look, I appreciate it, but…”

Then when she lifted her head, she noticed something that had been hidden by Charlie’s hair, now gleaming around her neck, hanging by a black cord.

“Are you…wearing a pentagram?” Vaggie stared at her blankly. “In here?”

Yeah, maybe those cult rumors had some truth to it.

The manic enthusiasm Charlie had been exuding seemed to vanish. She looked like she was sweating bullets, her pale face turning even paler.

“Um, hold on! It’s not a Satanic thing! I swear!” She hurriedly put away the pentagram-shaped necklace back underneath her shirt. “I just really like studying the occult! I don’t hate God or anything! Religion is cool!”

“Don’t say that,” Vaggie deadpanned. “You know it’s not cool.”

That caught Charlie off-guard, who seemed to be in conflict with agreeing with her and also protesting that no way, of course the thing that she was brought up into her entire life without her consent was cool! The girl was kind of a people pleaser, wasn’t she? 

Vaggie sighed, then handed the pamphlet back to Charlie. “Listen, I know you’re inviting me because you think I also need something in me fixed.” 

She not-so-subtly gestured to her bandage. It was wrapped a bit haphazardly, and a lot of gauze was used. To try and hide away such a grievous loss.

“But I don’t really feel like being someone's guinea pig for her new obsession. Sounds like you got plenty of others for that anyway. I’ve…got a lot on my plate.”

Even if there was something broken in her now. Aimless, even. But she didn’t want to give anyone that power over her again.

But while in her talk, she looked away, half in shame. And when she turned back to Charlie, she nearly jumped at the incredibly kicked puppy-dog expression on her face.

“Vaggie, that’s—!” Charlie sniffled, wiping away her tears with her fingers, which Vaggie just noted now were decked in black nail polish. “It…has to do with this place, doesn’t it? That’s so brave of you…”

“What? No, I just volunteer here part-time,” she answered. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. “Do you need a tissue?”

“Ah no, I’m good! I’m good!” Charlie took out what looked like a rainbow-patterned handkerchief and blew her nose on it. “Sorry, I just get moved very easily…”

“...Okay, but you get what I’m saying, right? I don’t want to join your club. So, unless you’re staying here for service or answering our ad for a new organist player, you don’t need to be here.”

Charlie wiped at her face once more, her low ponytail coming just slightly undone. “I mean, I did come here because I figured something has happened with you. Especially, um, with all the rumors about your ex-boyfriend—”

“He’s not my boyfriend. Or my ex!” Vaggie made a quick cutting gesture with her hands. “Ay, carajo. Just, ew. No. We only go to this church together with Lute.”

“...Oh!” Charlie blinked. “Ohhhh.” Then she shook her head. “Wait, I'm getting off-track! What I meant to say is, I just, um, wanted you to come personally! Because… I want to hang out with you more?”

Vaggie raised an eyebrow. “So you made a club to do that?”

“Yes! I mean, no? I mean, I thought, why not kill two birds with one stone! Except I don’t condone killing, of course. Not here in this house of God!” Charlie put her hands on her hips, lips pressed firm and blinking rapidly. “Is that the right term? I’m sorry if I’m blaspheming, I don’t mean to.”

She seemed to really think she would be struck down by lightning if she said the wrong things. Then why would she still bring in a pentagram? Vaggie thought.

Then she thought back to all those times they’d been in class together. (They attended Music Theory together under Professor Moxxie, who was definitely some has-been theater performer whose plays never got top billing). The way Charlie would always lend her a pen to take notes with, even though she never asked her? And also that time she wanted to team up with her on an assignment, or practice a song together even though the class wasn’t even about singing? Charlie was weird, and very energetic, and could almost be described as aggressively friendly, sometimes getting so close that she couldn’t help but catch the scent of lavender…

…And that was when Vaggie realized she might not exactly be as straight as an arrow, and had to work that out along with all her other religious crises that were rapidly piling up.

“I’m sorry, are you mad at me?”

“Huh?” Vaggie realized she had just been staring off into space, leaving Charlie hanging with that mixture of hope and dread in her eyes. What was she hoping for? And for that matter, what was she dreading?

“I—I’m not mad, just… why me?” Vaggie tried not to pick at her bandages again. Not like it mattered, she was going to be a cyclops forever. “You don’t really seem like the type to enjoy going to Mass.”

“I can too! If that’s what you’re into!” Charlie looked around the church, until her eyes just latched onto the altar where the hanging cross was placed which she took a few steps toward. “I am also okay with the whole thing about worshiping a method of torture. Oh shit, did I just blaspheme again?”

“Kinda, I guess?” Vaggie found herself smiling a little. This girl was so dense. “But God’s the forgiving type now so I’m sure He’ll let it slide.”

“Phew, okay! …Wait, what do you mean now?”

“It’s a long story. Seriously.” Vaggie flicked a glance to the double doors of the church that were now closed again. She heard no one else coming, but… “So is this club happening right now or what?”

Charlie seemed to have been stunned at the answer, but quickly recovered with another of her smiles that always shone so bright. (She must have had one heck of a dentist). “It’ll be starting really soon! I can’t wait for you to meet everyone, and we also got a bunch of snacks!” Then a pause. “Oh fuck. I mean! Sorry, for the cursing, but if you were busy with church stuff…”

A quick wave of her hand, and then Vaggie turned to face the altar. “It’ll be fine. Just…give me a moment then?”

“Oh, of course! Please, don’t let me get in your way.” Charlie remained standing in the aisle, hands clasped and blinking innocently.

“You kinda are in the way.”

“Ah!”

And after Charlie finally stepped away from the altar, Vaggie stepped up to it to clasp her hands. She took a deep breath, trying to fall back into routine. It still meant something to her, in the end.

Even if her place in the world had fallen apart, and even if those whom she barely called friends before had effectively left her behind. Lute had never even apologized for her injury either. All of it, just swept under the rug. 

Maybe a new environment would be best. At the most, maybe she prayed for a better outcome.

“En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo. Amen.”

She closed her eyes as her hands made the sign of the cross, from the middle of her forehead to her heart. But even in the silence, she could just somehow hear Charlie’s stare.

She turned, and saw Charlie looking at her with wide eyes. “Uh…what?”

“Wow… Is that ancient Latin?!”

“...I’m just Hispanic.”

--

After leaving through the church doors, Charlie was already going on and on about the so-called ‘activities’ they’d be doing at the rehabilitation club.

“We’ll be doing a lot of bonding activities and some trust exercises! I was also thinking of pairing everyone up for a three-legged race at the campus’ track, but my dad said we’d need to get some consent forms signed. Then it should be smooth-sailing from there!”

“Sounds, um, experimental,” Vaggie offered. How this was supposed to cure anyone of their debilitating addictions, probably not even God Himself knew. Still, she smiled all the same. “My doctor said I can’t do any strenuous exercise for like the next three weeks so I might have to skip out on that.”

“Oh, no problem! We can do arts and crafts instead!”

Then, just as they got to the bottom steps, Charlie stopped, then turned to gently grasp at Vaggie’s hands.

The sudden skin-to-skin contact made Vaggie flush under her bandage. Hopefully she wouldn’t faint from the sudden blood rushing through. “Uh…”

“Sorry for being so forward, but thank you for giving me a chance. Also, um…” Charlie laughed nervously, then cleared her throat. But in the process, she sounded more like she was gagging instead. “I mean! Even after the club, would you like to grab something to eat? Maybe watch a movie or…?”

Vaggie had to be sure of this. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

Charlie giggled again, and the motion made the pentagram necklace slip out again, the sunlight gleaming on its fine points. “Well, I was hoping…”

There was a lot to process here.

Charlie was hitting on her—no, outright asking her out on a date. Outside of her church’s steps. Wearing a pentagram necklace. And she was doing all that with another girl?

Suffice to say, Vaggie was a little impressed.

“If I say yes, would that brighten up your day?”

Such an answer must have definitely sent Charlie into hyperdrive. Her red contacts were shining, almost demonic-like in her happiness. “Oh, fuck yeah!!” And then, Charlie did an adorable fist-pump in the air.

Which promptly upended her messenger back to dump out all of its contents onto the church’s steps.

It was a whole mess of what Vaggie’s elders would have called devil memorabilia. From books of demonology (several volumes in a series?) to candles and multicolored crystals, to even more pentagram symbols and other strange sigils—on pins and other necklaces. There was even a Ouija board here, one that was definitely well-used going by the scratches on its surface, and what looked to be a statue of Baphomet.

Even a few tarot cards had flown off, Charlie desperately grabbing at them while simultaneously trying to cover up all the objects of sin and paganism with her body. “D-Don’t look! I’m just… borrowing this from the library! For research! Historical research! I’m not a Satanist, I swear!”

Vaggie happened to catch one of the tarot cards, its surface depicting a tall, standing owl with a crown on its head. She looked at the lettering on it. “Ars Goetia?”

Charlie looked up at Vaggie from the ground, once again looking like a kicked puppy—a demonic kicked puppy with red eyes. “I’m sorry… I just really like the occult…I just think it’s neat…”

With that, Vaggie sighed, then fully turned around on the steps to face Charlie. She knelt down to help pick up the rest of the items, her hands not burning as she picked them up. 

“Did I ever tell you that I think your goat charms are cute?”

[cerseimikaelson]

Episode Five: Sound of Music [AO3]

[A/N: "Christmas market" was the prompt chosen by the poll I made for Episode 5, so I hope you enjoy and thank you to everyone who voted!]

They say to never bet something you aren't absolutely certain you are willing to lose.

In Athena's case, time.

One might argue it was an easy decision all around, given that she, as an immortal being, had an infinite amount of time to spare. Truthfully, that was her reasoning when she made that blasted bet.

The greatest irony of all was that she thought herself so crafty, too. She had finally found a way to get Viola to read those books on battle strategy that had been collecting dust on the girl's nightstand for about a month.

"If you finish them and write a report by the end of the week, I'll take you to the Olympian Christmas market that opened this week."

Viola's eyes had lit up, and Athena had walked away fully confident that her daughter, who couldn't sit still for five minutes at the time and hated "the stuffy, yellow tomes you force upon me, Feathers" would never fulfill her side of the bargain. This little wager was ingenious.

Athena made her first error in judgement since that travesty with Napoleon and Waterloo. 

Viola aced Athena's quiz on the material. She provided keen, insightful and intelligent remarks that Athena wanted to be mad about but at the same time she just... couldn't. After all, it would be absurd to be mad at the girl for doing what was asked of her, right?

Viola, for her part, observed her dilemma with thinly-veiled amusement.

"Your expression is so I-just-ate-a-lemon-thinking-it-was-an-orange." she said, practically oozing smugness. "So, my dear Feathers, I believe I am owed a Christmas venture."

And so Athena found herself trying to navigate the hustle and bustle of the market, grey eyes watering at the sheer amount of lights that shone like beacons from seemingly every direction. The scent of mulled wine and baked sausages and fresh honeyed pastries on sticks (Athena had honestly no idea what they were called) assaulted her senses.

Viola, of course, was in her element, beaming as she nearly dislocated her neck trying to take everything in at once. Her ability to fully immerse herself in the joys of the mundane never ceased to inspire a substantial amount of awe in Athena. 

Not that she'd ever tell her that. The girl didn't need any more ammunition to cause mischief wherever she went.

"Oh, what should we do first?" Viola was literally bouncing off the balls of her feet, and she hadn't even had coffee yet.

Not good.

"Ornaments? Pastries? Wine?" Viola wriggled her eyebrows suggestively. 

Athena raised hers.

"If you honestly think I am going to allow you to consume alcohol, then you and I must reacquaint ourselves. You're seventeen. The other day you talked my ear off about the Olaf marshmallows in your hot chocolate."

Yes, Athena knew who Olaf was now. The Disney Jar had striked again. 

"Don't rain on my parade, Feathers." Viola pouted, but obediently led them both to a booth where a kindly-looking satyr with holly hanging from his horns was selling steaming cocoa in paper cups.

“Hi, Peter. We’ll take two, please.” Viola greeted.

“Ah, I was wondering what was taking you so long.” the satyr (Peter, apparently) said pleasantly. “Here I was thinking you decided to skip your chocolate fix today.”

“Peter, seriously, the day I fail to show up for my chocolate fix is the day you report me missing.” Viola deadpanned. “I just had to get this one out of the house and it took me a while.”

Peter just then noticed Athena for the very first time. Eyes widening to the size of saucers, he nearly leaped out of his skin, almost scalding himself with the hot drinks he was pouring in process.

“My Lady Athena!” he let out a nervous bleat that resembled a panicked goat. “My sincerest apologies, I didn’t see you. I mean- not that you’re easy to miss. No, that sounded wrong. I was just-“

“Getting some cocoa?” Athena cleared her throat a little, reminding him of the task at hand.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Viola waited until they had left the flustered satyr behind to bite back a snort of amusement.

“You really should get out more, Feathers. It’s kind of alarming that people are this fazed to be seeing your face in public outside of a temple or a library.”

Athena opened her mouth to tell her this was deliberate, but she couldn’t help but notice the hushed whispers and hastily-diverted stares aimed at the two of them as they walked by. It was in moments like these that the goddess was keenly aware of just how much her daughter resembled her. Browsing through the Christmas market side by side was a domestic activity she wouldn’t have engaged in for anyone else, and it was sure to fuel the gossip mill for the weeks to come.

“You’re rather popular.” Athena noted as a trio of dryads bundled up in fuzzy white mittens waved cheerfully at Viola. They vanished in an instant when they saw Athena’s eyes on them, though, as if terrified she’d turn them to stone.

“Those are the nail techs at the beauty lab.” Viola supplied. “Sweetest girls in the world, honestly. They’d get along with my Faerie friends like a house on fire. All it would take is one ten-minute conversation about this season’s fashion. Who said clothes don’t bring people together?”

Athena was so caught off guard that Viola openly talked about her Fae connections (a Topic she never even skirted around) that she almost missed the arrival of a god.

“Well, well, well.” Poseidon greeted, sea green eyes twinkling with suppressed mirth as he took mother and daughter in. “Can’t say I expected to run into you guys today.”

“Feathers drives a hard bargain, but I won.” Viola supplied without a hint of discretion.

Athena choked a little.

“Good for you, baby owl.” Poseidon grinned far too jovially. He was holding a half finished stick of blue cotton candy. That probably had something to do with his unusually cheerful demeanor.

“Are you on a sugar high?” Athena demanded incredulously.

“It’s Christmas, Athena! What makes the most wonderful time of the year, well, wonderful, if not a little indulgence?” the sea god argued. “Besides, I’ll eat anything blue.”

Athena and Viola’s responses just about summed up their entire personalities.

“Artificial food coloring is so unhealthy.”

“Moldy cheese included? That’s blue too, isn’t it?”

They glanced at each other with identical unreadable expressions for several moments before turning back to Poseidon as though nothing happened.

“So, who are you here with?”

As if on cue, three more of the Eldest Six (as the first generation of Olympians was largely known as) showed up through the throngs of market visitors.

“Sibling bonding exercise. I stan.” Viola said as she enthusiastically waved at Hades, Hera and Zeus.

Athena, remembering her manners and having been blessed with all of the decorum her daughter hadn’t inherited, chose a much more subdued and appropriate greeting.

“Father.” she inclined her head in Zeus’ direction. “My Queen, Lord Hades. I trust you’re enjoying the festivities.”

“Why are people walking around with those large canes? The percentage of people with visual impairments shouldn’t have grown so exponentially. Besides, what’s the purpose of those canes if they are being waved around instead of touching the ground?” Hades grumbled with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his thick, black trench coat to stave off the cold.

All his question earned him was five vacant looks. Hades left the Underworld about as often as Athena left her study, but at least Athena had her siblings (and now Viola) to keep her in the loop. Hades, on the other hand, if Persephone didn’t correct him was liable to show up to a meeting in a velvet waistcoat, complete with a pocket watch and monogrammed handkerchief. As a result, following his train of thought occasionally posed a challenge.

After a minute, Viola snapped her fingers.

“Oh, I got it!” she exclaimed. “Selfie sticks.”

“Ah.” the other four gave a collective sigh.

“Sticks for one’s self?” Hades asked, totally confused. “For what purpose? Is it another cosplay thing, like those kids with the scars on their forehead and the oversized glasses?”

“Who have you been talking to?” Zeus shot his brother an incredulous look as they resumed walking at a leisurely pace, Poseidon taking Hades aside to explain what a selfie stick was and how it was, in fact, completely different from a cane used by the blind.

The sight of Viola’s favorite coffee shop logo on one of the booths, Cookies and Cream, Coffee and Steam (widely known as the Four Cs because apparently the all-powerful immortals hadn’t bothered with spelling lessons) sparked an idea.

A brilliant, absolutely thrilling, never-been-done-before-but-totally-should idea.

Having made sure Hera’s attention was captured by an array of beautiful, handcrafted ornaments a couple of booths over, Viola whipped around and honest to gods smacked Zeus on the shoulder.

“What?” the King yelped as he turned on his heel with wide eyes.

Athena, Poseidon and Hades stopped whatever they were doing (the former admiring the enchanted icicles hanging off a nearby building and the other two arguing over the health hazard that was walking without watching where you were going while holding a giant stick above your head) to stare at them.

“Go over there and buy a toffee hazelnut latte.” Viola said simply as though she hadn’t just issued a command to the King of the Gods.

Athena’s jaw dropped open, but no sooner than she could so much as breathe a word of apology, or ask the demon child what in the Underworld she thought she was doing, did the words register.

Apparently Zeus found himself in a similar predicament, because he didn’t immediately bring out his master bolt to fry them all to a crisp (taking the entire market out with them for good measure).

“A what?”

“Hera’s favorite coffee.” Viola explained impatiently, looking around to make sure the goddess in question was still out of earshot.

Zeus honestly didn’t seem to know what he was expected to do with the information so unceremoniously smacked into him (literally!).

Athena could painfully relate.

“Why?” he asked, briefly glancing at his brothers as though willing one of them to step forward and explain this concept to him, pretty much like they had just done for Hades and the selfie sticks.

Athena would take the selfie sticks.

Viola’s eyes narrowed into slits in a distinctively Athena-ish manner that the goddess felt a spike of alarm to see mirrored on another’s face. Was that really the effect her own death stare had on people?

“Because she’s your wife and it’s Christmas and it’s freezing and she will love it.” Viola listed as though explaining why the sky was blue to a kindergartner. “And if you are so disinclined, I will just ask Hades to buy it for her.”

Zeus’ eyes widened, while Hades perked up at the mention of his name.

“Oh, I would be delighted to be of service.” the god of the Underworld said in a falsely sweet tone.

“No one is asking you for anything, Hades.” Athena interjected before her father could lose his temper, shooting the dark god a pointed look.

Unbelievably, it seemed to be the only incentive Zeus needed. Glaring daggers at his brother, he pretty much sprinted towards the booth, his large strides carrying him over easily.

“Men.” Viola scoffed under her breath. “Jealous heathens, the lot of them.”

“I have no idea what just happened, but I am going to treasure it forever.” Poseidon looked like Christmas had come two weeks early and his present was his little brother getting bossed around by a moody teenager. “He fell for it, hook, line and sinker! Please do that again!”

“Don’t ever do that again.” Athena emphasized loudly to cover his voice. “It’s a downright miracle he didn’t blast you to bits!”

“Tis the season.” Viola batted her eyelashes, unrepentant as they come, and Athena suppressed a groan. She had walked in on that one.

“Viola, whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t.” she pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a migraine coming in.

“You can’t tell me those two can’t use a gentle nudge in the right direction!” Viola protested.

“You call this,” Athena pointed at Zeus, who was returning with a reindeer patterned coffee cup in hand, “a gentle nudge? You just pushed them off a cliff with no parachute!”

Whatever Viola was about to say never made it out of her mouth, because in that moment Hera also rejoined their group, lotus blue eyes already searching for her husband.

“Is everything alright?” she asked.

“Great.” the five of them responded at once, causing the queen to do a double take.

“What did you get?”

“Um, it’s for you. Toffee hazelnut.” Zeus answered, wearing the look of a person that was ambushed by somebody he thought was an ally.

Hera blinked in surprise.

“You got me coffee?”

“I did.”

“And not just any type of coffee, but my favorite?”

“I know your favorite coffee!” Zeus responded with way too much outrage for a person that had discovered this information all of two minutes ago, in Viola’s humble opinion.

Not that it mattered. Allowing him to take the credit was kind of the point of this little operation.

Hera glanced at the cup for a second as though expecting it to sprout antlers like the dancing reindeer.

“Oh. Well, thank you. That’s very thoughtful of you.” she said, apparently trying to fit this tragically unprecedented incident into some existing category in her head. As Hera reached out to grasp the cup, her fingers brushed against Zeus’ (neither of them were wearing gloves) and Athena was astonished to see a faint brush gracing both the King and Queen’s cheeks.

She could feel Viola by her side practically vibrating with barely suppressed elation and just about lost her mind there and then.

There was no way this had actually worked. It defied all manner of reason. And yet there was no other plausible explanation for the fact the two rulers of Olympus were standing there shuffling their feet like love-struck, awkward teenagers instead of collected adults that had been married for thousands of years.

“Well, then, this has been fun, but we still have so much to do! Places to be, people to see and all that.” Viola broke the silence theatrically, ignoring Poseidon and Hades who were doing a spectacularly poor job at hiding their grins behind their palms. “See you later!”

And once again before Athena could even think to protest, her daughter had looped her elbow through hers, leaving the others behind until they disappeared in the bustling crowd.

“I still can’t believe you did that.” Athena grumbled a good three hours later, after they had been to seemingly every activity in the market, with the exception of the gigantic ice rink that the wisdom goddess didn’t even consider trying out.

She was already well aware that with her feet on anything other than solid ground, she had all the grace of newborn Bambi learning to walk (Disney Jar… don’t question it… just don’t).

The last thing she needed was broadcasting her utter lack of skill to the rest of the pantheon by hanging off the railing for dear immortality.

Viola had only relented after Athena had agreed to take her to listen to the choir of carolers at the main square, underneath the holographic angel ornaments whose gold and blue lights glittered like a canopy of shooting stars.

“No, you can’t believe you can’t say I told you so because my plan worked.” Viola retorted, not even looking at her. Her grey eyes were fixated on the empty platform with an almost hungry intensity.

“And what was your plan exactly? Test out my endurance by giving me a heart attack?” Athena wanted to know.

“I am going to get the big guy to show his wife the attention she deserves. Hera is a catch and deserves more appreciation from all of us, especially Zeus. She’s the one handling all the meetings with the Fae ambassador, you know. If it weren’t for her cunning Rochus Cerfas would have sold Olympus for scrap metal.”

There was so much to unpack in that absurd statement that Athena found herself momentarily lost. But before she could dissuade her daughter from whatever scheme she had concocted today, or persuade her that meddling with anyone’s marriage, let alone the one of the King and Queen of the Gods was obscenely stupid, the lights dimmed and Viola clutched her shoulder in an almost painful grip.

“Shush! It’s starting!”

Take a look at the goddess of wisdom getting shushed by a teenager.

Athena was seriously beginning to question the fabric of reality. Having a kid was an one-way ticket to an existential crisis.

The first notes of It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas began to ring across the packed square, the tune stirring something familiar and soothing, like your favorite threadbare blanket or watching the first snowflakes land.

Despite the lack of any surprise that came with hearing songs that had been sung a million times before, Athena found herself strangely comforted by the classics. The feeling of a warm body tucked next to her also contributed to it. She usually had no one to enjoy this part with every year. All the other gods were either paired off, had children already, or just went with their friends. Even Artemis got dragged out to buy a trinket or two by Apollo every year, usually silver and deer-shaped. Athena, as a technical only child and a maiden goddess, was used to her outings being strictly solitary.

But this year she had Viola, with her unique brand of chaos and frankly hilarious commentary. Viola, who considered snowman shaped marshmallows the highlight of her day. Viola, who didn’t let Athena skip out on this moment in favor of sticking to her usual routine, no matter how tried and trusted.

It took a while before Athena recognized the feeling blossoming in her chest, deep inside, as gratitude.

She turned around, not sure what sentimentality was about to barrel out of her lips and embarrass her, but just then the last verse of White Christmas echoed through the speakers.

"And may all your Christmases be white..." the baritone singer concluded, drawing out the final note. A beat of silence, and then the amassed crowd clapped and cheered. 

Athena would have thought Viola would be the loudest of them all, given her previous reactions to Let it Snow and All I Want for Christmas, so it was the silence that snapped her out of her thoughts.

What she saw stunned her. Perhaps even more so than any stunt the girl had ever pulled, no matter how daring.

Viola, whom Athena had never, ever seen cry, who had been yelled at by Zeus in front of the entire Council, who had raged over the injustice of being sent to Olympus from the Faerie realm without being asked, who had even shouted at Athena's face it wasn't at all curious nobody could stand the goddess, had tears running down her cheeks.

And it must have been the holiday madness getting to her, because Athena felt her heart lurch at the sight, something tight and uncomfortable, like Viola crying was a personal offence, something wrong she had to rectify.

"Why are you crying?" It came out half panicked and half accusatory, as if Athena couldn't really decide between the two moods. 

"My eyes are just wet, Feathers." Viola hastily wiped them. 

"Does your stomach hurt? I told you hot chocolate isn't meant to be guzzled down like that, but no, who ever listens to-"

"My stomach is fine, Athena." Viola cut her off with a hint of her trademark impatience. "I just... really loved that song. I'd only ever heard carols like, once or twice before, and it was usually a drunken retention. Off-key, the lyrics all messed up. I am just glad I got to hear the real thing. It was a dream come true." 

Athena blinked, trying to process this. Each word Viola said sparked about five follow-up questions. She sorted through them in record time, promptly realizing the blank space in the center couldn't be filled with assumptions. 

Whatever she was missing, it was the size of Santa’s sack of presents.

"I am afraid you've lost me." Athena admitted honestly. "Are carolers and choirs not common in Faerie? Didn't you ever hear them for Christmas?" 

Viola's eyes widened before realization sank and her shoulders tightened.

"Oh. I thought you knew..." she mused.

"Evidently I don't."

"Feathers, there's no Christmas in Faerie." 

Athena stared. This was the first she had ever heard of this and it simply didn't make sense.

"Are there religious concerns or something?" she asked, completely floored. From what she knew of the Fair Folk, they were as famed for their revels as the Olympians. That they would entirely miss out on a whole month of festive activities was bewildering at best.

"The Faerie realm only knows one season, Athena. Eternal spring. It's called the land of blooms for a reason. Haven't you heard the tales? The faeries of old luring unsuspecting wanderers deep into the woods, to lay on the softest grass and drink the clearest water and smell the sweetest flowers?"

"Of course I have." Athena persisted, mind racing. "But I didn't think it was quite so literal."

"Well, it is. All true, in most respects anyway. Faerie knows not the bite of frost nor the heat of summer nor the tart kiss of autumn, as the poets say." Viola rolled her shoulders like there was nothing unusual about the conversation. Athena would have believed it had her eyes not looked so fathomless. "It's a land where things always grow. That's why they are so powerful, you know. There's no shortage of things to trade with the other realms, and even if attacked or under siege, their people will never have to ration their food. Strategically speaking, it's a huge advantage." 

The key points in this analysis honestly shocked Athena more than anything else that day. 

"I can't believe I didn't know that. Nothing I've ever read about the Fae mentioned such a thing."

She had known of course that the Fae were formidable allies and deadly enemies to have. Hell, it was the entire reason she had worked so hard to secure their support. But she never could have imagined she had missed something so essential about the people she was trying to get to her side. 

"It's not like you could have visited. The Fae love their secrets. They are isolated and don't trust strangers.” Viola bit her lower lip, contemplating the next words carefully before saying them out loud. “Honestly, the fostering programs are probably a good thing. Even getting them to agree is an accomplishment. Hopefully in time they'll accept enough people to open the crossings. Then you can sign a new treaty." 

To be hearing this from the very child Athena sent away as a toddler, all because of said program's existence, honestly was mind-numbing. 

It wasn't often that Athena genuinely didn't know how to respond to something.

"You... you're being very nonchalant about this." she finally found her voice.

"I thought about it a lot." Viola said. "I was pissed as hell in the beginning. I mean, don't get me wrong, I still think there's a lot of stuff that could have gone down better. But on the other hand this is the mythological world. When was anything ever simple? Not to mention, everyone who fought in the Wars would have been really fucking proud to see where we are now. So many generations grew up hating the other pantheons, full of bigotry and taboos. To them, exchange programs and foster families and field trips were on the same league as Star Wars. To us, it's our reality. I am proud of what has been achieved. And I want to contribute in that too. Even if it means sacrificing things along the way." 

A new feeling reared its head, outshining all others, and this one Athena knew very well.

Pride.

It usually followed a tiring but productive training session, a well-fought battle, a victory rally, an honorary feast. But out of all those times, which were beyond measure considering how long Athena had already been alive for and how long she had yet to live, this was probably one of the few that the feeling was directed at someone other than herself.

Wholly. Completely. Every drop of it.

All for her. Inspired by her.

The sarcastic, meddlesome, precocious, daredevil, stubborn demigoddess.

Viola. Her daughter.

Who was now staring at her with undisguised trepidation, waiting for Athena to respond. Because that was the expected course of action during a conversation after one party had finished talking.

Athena may not have been in a position to verbalize everything that was happening in her head, (it would take several long nights of reflection for that, with strong tea and an unexpected ally in Aphrodite, the love goddess’ facade giving way to a softer, gentler side that only revealed itself for Ares and her own kids) but something told her Viola understood anyway.

Her baby owl was ridiculously perceptive, after all.

“Come along, then. Your spiel earlier has me curious about the merits of ice skating. Just kindly make a solid effort not to break your skull on the ice.”

See you next Tuesday for Episode 6!

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