4rtmist

[4rtmist]

the witches of aiaia

[4rtmist]

and penelope stays

Story Summary:

Circe knows better than to seek permanence in pleasure. In joy, and most of all, in companionship.

Yet as Penelope stands behind her, careful fingers undoing the buttons straining against Circe’s back, she longs for a forever that even her immortality cannot satisfy.

Will you still choose me, when I remind you of everything you lost?

_

Slowly, but surely, Circe and Penelope surrender to their love.

______________________________________________________________

Story Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58631854

[4rtmist]

"Odysseus x this " " Odysseus x that " WHAT ABOUT PENELOPE??!?!?!?!?!?!? WHAT ABOUT HERR!!!!!!!!!!!! 😾😾😾😾??!?!?!?!?

[4rtmist]

Not Elphaba reading Glinda's note saying she hopes Elphaba gets her heart's desire and then having the trailer immediately cut to the scene of the two of them together at school?! Excuse me 😭

[4rtmist]

But only one that mattered.

WICKED: FOR GOOD 2025 | dir. Jon M. Chu

[4rtmist]

why are they about to make out

[4rtmist]

Redraw also Happy Pride Month and Trailer release day!

Warning! suggestive!!!

[4rtmist]

Gelphie dancing together during Wonderful with a full Rainbow behind them. Happy PRIDE!

[4rtmist]

WICKED: FOR GOOD (2025, Jon M. Chu)

[4rtmist]

Ithaca's Royal Family <333

[4rtmist]

Imagine you HAVE TO MARRY but both YOU and your GROOM are thinking about the SAME GIRL you ATE OUT on the way to EMERALD CITY instead LMAO

[4rtmist]

What the Loom Forgets

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

Word count: 1.2k

Summary: A secret first love with Penelope, shared in quiet moments before Penelope was forced into marriage. Despite your deep bond, Penelope chose duty over love. Years later, the one is left with memories, wondering if she was forgotten—or remembered and still left behind..

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Young!Penelope

Warnings: hurt/no comfort, emotional abandonment, implied internalized grief, raw heartbreak, forced marriage Extra: i present to you, DOOMED YURI ! i suggest listen to television / so far so good by rex orange country OR goodluck, babe! by chappel roan while reading this emotional heartbreak<3

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

The first time she kissed you, it was under the pomegranate tree in the palace courtyard—where the marble met soil and everything green tried so hard to survive. The afternoon sun was thick and golden, the kind that clung to your skin like a second breath. One of the fruits had split on the ground between you, cracked open on impact—its blood-dark seeds spilling like something sacred and ruined.

You were sixteen. Soft. Hopeful. Wild in ways that made the servants whisper when they thought you couldn’t hear.

She had pulled you away from the others after your rhetoric lesson, her fingers slipping around your wrist like a vine that didn’t know whether to hold or retreat. Her hand was cold. She didn’t speak at first. Her breath was shallow, eyes flicking over your face as though memorizing it—every lash, every freckle, the curve of your mouth she hadn’t yet tasted.

You thought she might be ill.

“Penelope?” you asked, and her name caught between your teeth like a secret. “What is it?”

She hesitated. Then, very softly, her thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I want to kiss you,” she said. “Just once. Before they marry me off.”

Her voice was shaking. Her eyes weren’t.

And gods help you—you didn’t even hesitate. You leaned in.

Your lips met hers beneath that tree, with its fruit dripping red onto the earth. The kiss was clumsy, trembling. Her mouth was chapped, her hands balled in the fabric of your chiton like she needed something to hold onto or else she’d fly apart.

You tasted pomegranate and panic and something unspoken—something already grieving its own existence. And when she pulled back, she looked at you like someone already mourning a loss they hadn’t suffered yet.

And you—stupid, brave, naive—looked back like you still believed in forever.

She was never just beautiful.

Penelope was sharp edges and silence, a girl made of maps and mirrors. She read people the way others read scrolls—eyes skipping over lies and longing with equal precision. She never spoke unless it mattered. But when she did, it carved something into your bones.

And you became hers. Not in ceremony. Not in front of gods or kings. But in the quiet. In the spaces between what was allowed and what was real.

She would come to you late, wrapped in a servant’s cloak, smelling of oil lamps and lavender. Her hair pinned up like a lady, her lips trembling like a girl. She would wait by your door, two knocks and a pause. Always the same rhythm. You’d let her in without a word.

You remember the way she’d press her forehead to your shoulder first, as if seeking permission to breathe. How her hands would unclench one finger at a time before settling on your waist. How she moved with restraint, like her whole body was afraid of being witnessed by the walls.

One night, she kissed you so hard she split your lip, then kissed the blood away like it was a prayer. Another night, she collapsed into your arms and whispered, “I hate my name. I hate that it isn’t yours.”

You kissed her palms. You traced her collarbones with trembling fingers, learned the sound of her breath when she unraveled. When she cried, you curled around her like a shell around something fragile. You whispered poems you half-remembered from your studies. You told her it could be different. That you’d leave. That you didn’t need palaces or temples. Just her.

“I wish I’d been born a boy,” she murmured once, her mouth against your bare chest, her lashes wet. “I would have married you.. Said your name like a hymn in every hall in Greece.”

You didn’t tell her that women like you didn’t win, no matter the form you were born in. You didn’t want to say that even the gods turned their faces away from women who loved each other like this. Who burned.

You didn’t want her to stop dreaming.

Then the suitors came.

They arrived like a storm—chariots rumbling, coins flashing, tongues wagging about bloodlines and dominion. And her face, once open to you in the dark, became unreadable in the light. Marble. Remote. Her shoulders never dropped. Her gaze never softened.

You watched her stand among them, rigid and radiant, while men cataloged her worth like livestock. You saw her smile—tight, practiced. You saw the way her hand twisted at her side when she thought no one was looking.

You saw her look for you, once. And then look away.

That night, she came to you barefoot. No cloak. No guards.

Just herself.

She paced your room in silence, your bed still warm from where you’d been lying. Her eyes were raw. Her voice, when it finally came, was a scrape of flint.

“They’re choosing him,” she said. “My father. The council. Everyone.”

You stood. “Say no.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.” You took her hands. “We’ll leave. We’ll take nothing. We’ll go to Lesbos or beyond. Somewhere with no crowns. No names. Just you and me.”

She closed her eyes. Her lip trembled.

“I’ve dreamed of that,” she said. “More nights than I can count. But what would we be out there? Two women with no names, no dowry, no sword? We’d be prey. And my people—my mother, my land—they’d suffer. I can’t doom them all just to be selfish.”

You stared at her. Waiting. For something. Anything. For the miracle.

...But it didn’t come.

And she didn’t say she’d choose you anyway.

The wedding was quiet. Spartan. No garlands. No song. You weren’t invited. You watched from the palace steps as the chariot took her away. You remember the sound of the wheels on stone. The way the dust caught the sun. The hollow behind your ribs. She never turned around.

You stayed. For a time. Long enough for the servants to stop whispering. Long enough for her scent to fade from your linens.

You walked the olive grove until your soles bled. You carved her name into the bark of the tree where she first kissed you. You pressed your mouth to it like a prayer, or a tombstone.

And then you left.

You heard the stories, years later.

How she waited for Odysseus for twenty years. How she wove her mourning into a tapestry of lies and patience. How she outsmarted suitors with her loom and her silence. They called her loyal. Clever. The perfect wife.

They didn’t know she had once been yours.

That her first kiss was beneath a tree, not a veil.

They didn’t know she used to tremble in your arms. That she had once told you she wanted to scream your name in every temple.

She never sent word. Never wrote.

You wondered if your name had been unpicked from her memory the same way she unpicked her threads—slow, methodical, necessary.

You grew older. Hardened. You didn’t take a wife. You shared beds, never hearts. You taught philosophy in far cities and lit candles in temple halls, whispering prayers you didn’t believe.

But still—on quiet nights, with no moon—when the wind curled through your window just right, you dreamed of her. Sitting alone in Ithaca, her hair silver now, her fingers moving across her loom.

And you wondered— Was your name ever knotted in the threads? Was your face ever hidden in the patterns? Did she ever look back?

You used to pray she remembered. Now, you pray she doesn’t.

Because if she forgot you, then maybe she never hurt like this. But if she remembers—and still left— Then every thread she wove was a lie.

And you were the first one she unraveled.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

thanks to my friend for giving me the idea! never thought i'd be so excited to write for penelope.. it hasn't even been a full yet I'm on a roll with my posts-

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

[4rtmist]

can we get odypen!!!!

Ofc!! 💞

[4rtmist]

ATHEEENAAA sketch

wolfy's owl-esque design also makes my brain tingle. it's so good. so good. so gooddask

[4rtmist]

aeolus doodles

[4rtmist]

<3

[4rtmist]

Greeks when you shoot them with a bow