bbymochiiiiii

[bbymochiiiiii]

Me when y/n is acting like a little fucking child for male validation

[bbymochiiiiii]

Beneath the Makeup

TWO - WORK

BTS X FEMALE/OC

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Yongyi took one look at her new workstation and nearly committed a crime.

Whoever occupied the space before her had clearly been in a toxic relationship—with glitter, expired foundation, and no sense of hygiene. Her fingers hovered above a powder puff that looked like it had survived a war. The drawers were sticky. The mirror lights were uneven. A rogue falsie was stuck to the side of the vanity like a cursed talisman.

She exhaled through her nose.

Okay. Okay. We don’t cry. We conquer.

Rolling up her sleeves, she got to work. In under ten minutes, the clutter was gone, the surfaces sanitized, her brushes laid out in military formation. Her setting spray took its rightful throne at the center like a crown jewel. This was her battlefield now.

Then the door creaked open.

Jungkook shuffled in, looking like he’d crawled out of a nightmare and barely survived the journey. Sleep clung to his eyes, and his hair—his poor, beautiful, betrayed hair—resembled a haystack that had offended the wind.

Yongyi didn’t hesitate.

“Absolutely not.”

She was on him in seconds, brandishing a comb from her hip like a blade. “Chair. Now.”

Jungkook blinked. “Wait—hi?”

“You get one greeting. That was it. Sit.”

Startled, he obeyed.

The mist from her spray bottle hissed into the air like a warning. Her fingers moved through his hair with practiced ease, tugging through knots with no regard for his mortality. She was muttering under her breath—something about gremlins and revenge via texturizing shears.

“I don’t think I—ow—slept,” Jungkook tried again, wincing.

“Yeah? Me neither. Now stop talking. You’re disrupting the rhythm.”

In the doorway, Sin-jae stood frozen with a coffee cup halfway to his mouth.

“...Is she already working?”

“She didn’t even take off her coat,” Geon murmured, impressed.

“She’s caffeinated and cleaning,” Eun-jae noted. “We’ve summoned a demon.”

Haru peeked in from behind a makeup cart, clasping her hands like she’d witnessed a spiritual rebirth.

And somewhere in the back, Bada whispered reverently—

“Let the girl cook.”

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Jungkook emerged from the prep room like a man reborn.

Hair perfectly tousled, not a single curl out of place. His skin looked brighter—like she’d willed hydration into his pores. Even his posture had changed. He blinked against the hallway light like he’d just come back from a sabbatical.

Taehyung, halfway through a lazy stretch, paused mid-yawn.

“…What happened to you?”

Jungkook rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I think I got… handled.”

Yoongi squinted. “You let someone touch your hair?”

“I didn’t get a choice,” Jungkook replied, and then—with equal parts awe and fear—added, “She moved faster than my reflexes.”

Namjoon arched a brow and headed toward the prep room. “We’ll see about that.”

The team, still loosely gathered around the doorway, collectively held their breath as the leader entered the lion’s den.

Inside, Yongyi was mid-clean again—sanitizing tweezers with a kind of focused ferocity that suggested she was plotting her next war crime. Her coffee cup, now on refill number who-knows-what, steamed beside a lineup of serums and scalp oil.

“Choi Yongyi?” Namjoon asked carefully.

She looked up. “Oh. Namjoon.”

She did not bow. She did not stammer. She nodded once, already scanning his face like a puzzle she was halfway through solving.

“You’re five minutes early,” she said. “And your eyebrows are uneven.”

He blinked. “They are?”

“Mm.” She gestured toward the chair. “Left one’s lower. I’ll fix it.”

Namjoon hesitated.

“Unless you want to walk out there looking like one of those ‘find the difference’ puzzles.”

Sin-jae let out a strangled wheeze from the doorway.

Namjoon exhaled through his nose—amused, maybe. He stepped forward and lowered himself into the chair like a man preparing for battle.

Behind him, Geon gave a slow, approving nod. “She passed Jungkook and Namjoon. She’s either fearless or running on fumes.”

Eun-jae clicked her pen thoughtfully. “Six coffees and spite. Classic stylist fuel.”

Bada crossed her arms and smiled. “She’s ours now.”

[bbymochiiiiii]

Beneath the Makeup

ONE - THE GLAMFAM

BTS X FEMALE/OC

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📱 Group Chat: Name: ✨GLAMFAM (do NOT change this, Haru will cry) Icon: A picture of Sin-jae holding up a curling iron like a sword. Description: “We don’t do drama. We do eyeliner.” – Bada

[10:04 AM] Bada: someone tell geon that flannel is not a fashion statement

[10:05 AM] Geon: it is if i say it is

[10:05 AM] Eun-jae: Just coordinate it with the color board or I will set you on fire in front of the interns

[10:06 AM] Haru: peace and love on planet glam 🧘🏻‍♀️✨

[10:07 AM] Sin-jae: No peace. Only panic. Jung Hoseok just walked in wearing crocs.

[10:07 AM] Bada: WAR

[10:08 AM] Min-ji (admin): New blood arrives today. Be nice or I’ll take your espresso privileges.

[10:08 AM] Sin-jae: delete the chat. we start over.

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Min-ji grinned with the delight of someone not about to be trapped in a room with BTS for five hours.

“Everyone, meet your new chaos coordinator,” she announced, smacking a hand onto Yongyi’s back hard enough to dislodge a lash curler from her pocket. It clattered to the floor like a starter pistol.

“Choi Yongyi. She’s got the touch. Don’t scare her off—she’s the only one who agreed to handle all seven of them.”

A beat of silence.

Geon looked up from a rack of jackets, one eyebrow twitching in approval. Haru, mid-swatch with a shimmer palette, gave a soft two-finger wave without breaking eye contact with her mannequin head. Eun-jae’s eyes narrowed, not out of hostility—just the laser focus of someone already evaluating skin undertones and stress levels like diagnostics on a car engine. Sin-jae looked her up and down once, then let out a short laugh.

“Tiny,” he said, appraising. “Looks like she’ll fly away if someone breathes wrong.”

“I wish I could,” Yongyi replied dryly, “but I’m running on six coffees and spite.”

That earned a chorus of surprised chuckles—except from Eun-jae, who tilted her head.

“Espresso or drip?”

“Espresso. Double shots. One was… possibly stolen.”

“Promising,” Eun-jae murmured.

Geon shifted aside to let her pass. “Welcome to the fire.”

“Hope you brought a fan,” Sin-jae added.

“I brought setting spray.”

Bada strolled in late, sunglasses perched in her hair and a lipstick bullet in one hand. She stopped short, looked Yongyi up and down, then smirked.

“Well,” she said, uncapping the lipstick like a weapon, “let’s see if you can survive the group chat.”

[bbymochiiiiii]

Beneath the Makeup

BTS X FEMALE/OC

CHARACTERS

BTS as themselves

Choi Yongyi

Birthday: October 15th, 1995 Gender: Female

Kim Geon -

GEON - From Sino-Korean 建 (geon) meaning "to construct", 健 (geon) meaning "strong", 虔 (geon) meaning "respect" or other characters which are pronounced similarly. Birthday: January 8th, 1993 Gender: Male

Lee Eun-jae

EUN-JAE - From Sino-Korean 恩 "kindness, mercy, charity" and 才 "talent, ability". Birthday: May 21st, 1991 Gender: Female

Fuji Haru

HARU - Means "day" in Korean. Birthday: March 30th, 1992 Gender: Female

Park Sin-jae

SIN-JAE - From Sino-Korean 信 "trust, believe" and 哉 "final exclamatory particle". Birthday: December 18th, 1994 Gender: Male

Jung Bada

BADA - From the native Korean word meaning "sea, ocean," perhaps deriving from Goguryeo 波旦 (patɐrɐ) or 波豊 (patərə). Birthday: August 9th, 1991 Gender: Female

Hong Min-ji

MIN-JI - From Sino-Korean 敏 (min) meaning "quick, clever, sharp" combined with 智 (ji) meaning "wisdom, intellect" or 知 (ji) meaning "know, perceive, comprehend". Birthday: July 4th, 1987 Gender: Female

[bbymochiiiiii]

Beneath the Makeup

BTS X FEMALE/OC

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DESCRIPTION-

Doing makeup is easy.

Falling and staying asleep is impossible.

Until she meets her new model.

Well, models.

"Everyone, this is Choi Yongyi." Seven pairs of eyes stare at the tiny woman standing next to the head of the division, Lee Minji. "From now on, she's in charge of your clothing, makeup, hair, and the like!" Minji gives the tiny female a friendly, but harsh, pat on the back. "Do get along!" And then there was eight left in silence.

Until....

"You look like a panda."

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So this is a little fun idea! Fast paced because my brain has a hard time filling the gaps when I just wanna write it down. Semi-crack fic lol but I promise there is romance This was an older story I had in the drafts, figured I'd get it out of the garbage can and give it some love. BTS x Female OC. It's not x reader.

Please enjoy!

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CHARACTERS

ONE - THE GLAMFM

TWO- WORK

THREE -

FOUR -

FIVE -

SIX -

[bbymochiiiiii]

You're In Danger

0.1 Meet and Greet

Takemichi vibrated nervously between Mikey and Draken as they walked the late evening streets. He expected Draken’s place to reflect his personality—something rough but grounded. What he didn’t expect was for Draken to live in the red-light district, casually weaving through women in work attire who greeted him like a regular.

Takemichi’s face flamed red as he stared determinedly at the ground.

“Oi, Takemichy. Keep up.”

“Ah—right!”

Draken stopped in front of a nondescript door tucked into the side of a narrow building. Music thumped softly from behind it—low bass and the occasional laugh. He pulled a necklace from under his shirt, a single worn key looped through it.

“I’m home,” he called as he opened the door.

Mikey slipped inside like a ghost, moving fast and familiar.

Takemichi hesitated. The smell hit him first—ginger and garlic, something being seared, and an undercurrent of cigarette smoke and something sweet. It smelled like a memory he didn’t have.

A voice drifted from deeper inside. “Back so soon, ototo?”

It was light, smooth—wry without being warm. Something in it made the hairs on Takemichi’s neck rise.

Then he appeared.

Isamu stepped into view carrying a tray with two plates balanced like a pro. His brown hair was tousled like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His sharp, slanted eyes were feline and assessing. One hand was covered in a pink oven mitt. He looked like trouble dressed in domestic skin.

Takemichi blinked. “Ototo—?”

Draken rolled his eyes. “Don’t be weird. That’s Isamu.”

Isamu offered a lazy wave, his smile slow and sharp.

Without warning, Mikey launched himself into Isamu’s waist. “Mu-chi! I wanna taste!”

“Ne, ne Mikey.” Isamu, completely unfazed, shoved Mikey back with his oven-mitted hand like swatting away a persistent cat. Takemichi panicked as Mikey hit the floor with a thud.

Draken stepped over him. “Smells good.”

“I made dinner,” Isamu announced with a theatrical bow, placing the tray down.

“And you didn’t burn the place down?”

“Like you’re any better.”

“I could be.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it—which will be never.”

“Oi!”

“Loser.”

Watching them was like watching a tennis match in hell. Takemichi knelt beside Mikey, trying to help him up, only for the boy to rise like a gremlin reborn and yank Takemichi to the table.

“This is Takemichy!” Mikey chirped.

Isamu nodded. “You staying for dinner?”

Draken was already pulling out drinks from the fridge. “He’s eating. You cooked. Might as well make it worth it.”

They ate like this was normal. And maybe it was.

Takemichi couldn’t help but ask, “What grade are you in, Isamu?”

“I’m actually in college. Doing online now. Junior year.”

“Online because of work?”

“I’m a camboy.”

Takemichi choked. Soda sprayed. Mikey cackled.

Isamu grinned like the devil. “Not ideal for most, but I like it. Pays the bills. Pays for that food you’re eating.”

Draken snorted into his cup.

Isamu’s eyes sparkled with teasing danger. “Wait… Do you watch me, Takemichy? Is that why you’re so red?”

“No!”

He melted in place. Isamu only laughed and offered him pudding.

[bbymochiiiiii]

You're in Danger

0. Playlst

BTS - Danger

Neon gwiyomi nan jimonmi (You're a cutie and I am pitiful)

Saenggigil niga deo saranghaneun gijeogi (I hope for a miracle of you loving me more than I love you)

PinkPantheress - Just for Me

I'm obsessed with you in a way I can't believe

When you wipe your tears, do you wipe them just for me? (Me, me, me, me)

Billie Eilish - My Boy

My boy, my boy, my boy

Don't love me like he promised

My boy, my boy, my boy

He ain't a man and sure as hell ain't honest

Taylor Swift - Look What You Made Me Do

Honey, I rose up from the dead

I do it all the time (I do it all the time)

I got a list of names, and yours is in red, underlined

Conan Gray - Maniac

And tell them you hate me and dated me just for laughs

So why do you call me and tell me you want me back?

You maniac

Saweetie, GALXARA - Sway with Me

When marimba rhythms starts to play

Dance with me

Make me sway

Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore

Hold me close

Sway me more

Doja cat - Ain't Shit

Said that's not cheating if I wasn't with your ass, yo

You kept secrets and your cousin told me that, so (Your cousin)

Logical thinkin' is just something that you lack, so

Jessi - Gucci

'Cause I'm self-made

Ain't nobody ever made me

I'm in the party going crazy

Just extra snippets

Amaarae - Sad Girl Love Money Remix

Eminem, Little Smiz - Venom x Venom

Tesher - Jalebi Baby

[bbymochiiiiii]

You're in Danger

A Tokyo Revengers Fic

Wakasa x male!oc X Shinichiro

Description

Takemichi stared back and forth between Draken and the stranger beside him with an expression torn between awe and grief. "Brothers?!" How was this possible? Naoto never mentioned anything about a brother! Who is he? Where'd he even come from- "Oi stop being weird about this." How the hell does this effect the timeline now?

Chapters

0. Playlist

0.1 Meet and Greet

0.2 Anomaly

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7. The Cupbearer

Story - While You Were Gone

Eirion moved like steam rising off water. He was always there, even when no one noticed.

He slipped into the courtyard through the servant gate, briefly glancing with a curt nod to a guard who didn’t return it. His tray held three cups—two for the men arguing by the fountain. One for Myros, who never asked for anything but drank whatever Eirion placed beside him.

Eirion didn’t pause, motion fluid, practiced. Second nature.

He set the tray down, hands careful, posture low.

A folded piece of parchment lay beneath the third cup.

Myros didn’t look at him. But his fingers brushed the paper a second too long as he took the drink.

“Thank you,” he said flatly, for the others to hear.

Eirion only nodded.

As he turned to go, he passed Philos in the corridor.

The boy reached out, caught his sleeve. Wordless. Urgent.

He pointed up—toward the sunroom.

Then he mimed a goblet, raised it to his lips, and tapped his tongue twice with two fingers.

Eirion’s brow twitched.

Understood.

He touched Philos’ shoulder once, brief as a breeze, and vanished around the corner.

[bbymochiiiiii]

6. Detour

Story - While You Were Gone

Philos didn’t argue. He never did.

He bowed his head to his nana, wiped his hands on his tunic, and turned to leave—but not toward the basin. Not yet.

The kitchens were warm, safe. But outside? The palace had gone still, like an animal that sensed it was being watched.

He padded through the narrow side hall that led to the sunroom. Few people used it anymore. Fewer still noticed the vent tucked into the wall just beneath the stone seat where the suitors liked to sprawl.

He pressed himself into the shadows. Listened.

There—just ahead.

One suitor, alone. Hair too perfect, eyes too pale. Philos didn’t know his name, but he knew his scent—cheap perfume and crushed mint leaves.

The man lifted a goblet to his lips, sipping slowly, staring at nothing.

Philos’ gaze followed the movement. Traced the handle. Noted the cup. Bronze rim. Slight dent near the base.

He backed away slowly, memorizing the sound of the man’s voice as he muttered to himself:

“She smiled at me. I know she did.”

Philos blinked once. Then turned and ran.

[bbymochiiiiii]

5. The Walls have Ears

Story -While You Were Gone-

The corridors above were loud.

Not with shouting—no, not yet—but with the too-careful quiet of men trying not to be overheard. Philos could feel it in the walls. In the way the floorboards held their breath. In the hush before someone opened a door.

He slipped through the crawlspace behind the suitors’ quarters, bare feet silent, eyes sharp. The panel by the cracked statue in the east hall was always left loose—he popped it open with one hand and slithered out like shadow.

He crouched in the corner behind a pillar.

Three of them—suitors—stood in the hall, voices low and harsh. He didn’t know their names. Didn’t care. They all spoke like kings and smelled like meat left too long in the sun.

“He was a fool,” one hissed. “Thought she favored him.”

“She smiled at him once,” another said, bitter.

“She smiles at everyone. Until they stop breathing.”

A pause.

“You think it was her?”

A snort. “Does it matter?”

They moved on, boots echoing.

Philos waited three heartbeats longer, then darted across the stone. Down the back steps, past the empty basin, through the corridor no longer lit with oil.

He burst into the kitchens, breathless and flushed, the heat wrapping around him like a blanket of salt and fire.

“Nana,” he whispered, wide-eyed.

At the long table, Bryssa didn’t look up. Her hands were deep in dough, flour dusting the air like smoke.

He came closer, heart still thudding.

“Another suitor is dead,” he said, louder now. “They’re whispering. Saying he thought she loved him.”

Bryssa turned the dough, pressing her knuckles into it with steady strength.

“Mm,” she said. “They all do.”

Philos hovered. “Are they right?”

Bryssa’s eyes flicked up—just once. Calm. Sharp. Knowing.

She shaped the dough into a clean round, then split it with a quick, practiced cut down the center.

“They don’t die because she loves them,” she said. “They die because they forget she doesn’t have to.”

She set the bread aside to rise. Then looked to Philos.

“Now go wash. You smell like gossip.”

[bbymochiiiiii]

4. Telemachus

Story - While You Were Gone

The marble was cold beneath her sandals. The halls were silent but for the soft rhythm of two pairs of footsteps—measured and in sync.

Penelope moved like morning fog: graceful, quiet, untouchable. Thaleia followed a half step behind, always to the left, always watching.

Neither spoke. They didn’t need to.

Sunlight spilled through narrow windows in gold shafts, catching dust motes and making them look holy. The palace was too quiet this morning. Another suitor had left early. Some said to tend to lands. Some said he was never seen again.

Penelope didn’t ask which it was.

They turned a corner.

The sound of steel on steel met them—blades clashing, breath held in grunts, feet shifting on stone. In the far courtyard, Telemachus stood opposite Myros, his grip tight around the hilt of a dulled practice sword. Sweat clung to his brow. His eyes, sharp and bright, flicked up only once—to her.

Penelope didn’t stop walking.

Thaleia didn’t either, but her gaze lingered a moment longer, dark eyes tracing the boy’s form, the wound-tight stance of a child trying to become something he wasn’t ready to be.

“He’s favoring his right side,” Thaleia murmured, just for her queen.

Penelope hummed in agreement. “He overcorrects when he’s uncertain.”

In the courtyard, Myros barked a command. Telemachus moved—but too slow. The soldier knocked the sword from his hand with a single, brutal motion. It skidded across the ground, stopping near the edge of a dry fountain.

Thaleia’s fingers twitched at her side.

Penelope’s did not.

They paused at the archway, half veiled in shadow.

“He doesn’t cry anymore,” Thaleia said softly.

“No,” Penelope replied, eyes never leaving her son. “But he used to.”

A breath passed between them. A breeze swept through the stone halls, tugging at the edge of Penelope’s veil.

“He’ll be ready,” Thaleia said.

Penelope’s voice was quiet. Cold. “He must be.”

Across the courtyard, Telemachus retrieved his sword. Myros nodded once—approval, earned and rare. The boy straightened, shoulders stiffer now.

He didn’t look toward the archway again, but Penelope didn’t need him to.

She turned, continuing on her way. Thaleia followed without a word.

And behind them, the sound of practice resumed.

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

Telemachus

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

The queen was gone. So was her shadow.

Telemachus stood still, sword in hand, knuckles white. The sun beat down overhead, catching the edges of his sweat-slick hair. He hadn’t moved since he’d picked the blade back up.

Across from him, Myros rolled his shoulder. It popped—loud in the silence.

“You think staring at it long enough will teach you how to use it?” Myros grunted, practicing a swing.

Telemachus didn’t answer. His jaw was set. There was blood on his lip where he’d bitten down.

Myros crossed to the edge of the practice ring, picked up a rag, and tossed it without ceremony. It landed at the boy’s feet.

“Clean your face.”

Telemachus glared down at the rag like it personally offended him before reaching down to snatch it, wiping roughly across his mouth, then dropping it beside him like it was nothing.

Myros stared at Telemachus, searching.

“She saw,” the boy muttered.

“Good.”

Telemachus looked up sharply.

Myros met his gaze, steady. “Better she sees you fail now, as a boy who knows no better rather than later, as a man when these decisions cost more.”

The boy’s chest rose and fell too fast, an ache settling between his ribs. “You didn’t go easy on me.”

“I never do.” Myros spins his blade, nonchalant and a little amused at the prince's petulant tone.

“I’m thirteen.”

“I was twelve when I killed a man for my commander,” Myros said simply. “You’re lucky.”

Telemachus looked away. The stone beneath his feet shimmered in the heat.

“She’s waiting for something,” he said after a moment. “From me. I don’t know what it is.”

“Then give her everything,” Myros said, walking past him. He picked up the sword Telemachus had dropped earlier, weighing it once in his hand. “And when that isn’t enough, give her nothing.”

Telemachus frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It will.”

Myros turned, the practice sword resting on his shoulder, shadows casting deep beneath his eyes.

“Your mother,” he said, “lives in a palace full of men who think she’s prey. You want to protect her?”

Telemachus nodded.

“Then stop trying to impress her.”

He walked back toward the armory doors, pausing only once to say, without looking:

“You're mother is not a woman you win. She’s a storm you survive.”

The door closed behind him, and Telemachus was left alone in the courtyard.

He stood a little straighter this time.

[bbymochiiiiii]

While You Were Gone

-Epic the Musical Fan Fic-

In the halls of Ithaca, the war is over—but the battle has just begun. Odysseus is gone. Maybe dead. Maybe not. And Penelope, Queen of Ithaca, remains surrounded by vultures in silk—suitors who want her throne, her body, her crown. But she is not alone. Beneath the marble and myrrh, servants whisper. A blade hides in a cupbearer’s sleeve. A child slips between shadows, listening. A seductress feeds lies sweet as honey. And at the heart of it all, a queen weaves something far deadlier than tapestries. This is not the story of a waiting wife. This is the story of a kingdom held together by a woman wearing a crown.

Rough around the edges, not proofread. A spur of the moment idea that's on here now. Even the aesthetic created is a draft.

Character Sheets

1 - One of Many

2 - She Wakes

3 - Glimpse

4. Telemachus

5. The Walls Have Ears

6. Detour

7. The Cupbearer

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3. Glimpse

Story - While You Were Gone

Morning –

Kleto, with her wild red hair and dark green eyes, leans over a suitor's plate, pouring wine with a smile she doesn’t feel.

“Bad grapes,” she murmurs just loud enough for him to hear under the voices of other men. “That’s what I heard.” She glances towards a specific direction and then back to him.

His face pales, her eyes gleam.

Behind her, another servant coughs a warning.

'Eyes are watching.'

She curtsies low, then glides away.

Midmorning -

In the hallway, Nerissa—barefoot and wide-eyed—lets a suitor steady her when she trips.

She giggles, careful when she places her palm on his chest. Her bright eyes flick to Kleta in passing.

The redhead nods once. Message received. Touch gathered. Voice tracked.

Later, Nerissa will whisper what she learned over a shared basin of washing water.

Afternoon –

Maron, silver in her hair, presses sweetfruit into a suitor’s hand as he returns from training.

"You look tired," she says. "Come to the kitchens later. I'll make you something special."

He smiles, not knowing she poisoned a man once—only a little. Enough to keep him slow. Enough to buy time.

Dusk –

Andros is leaning against the courtyard wall again.

He watches Kleta as she crosses toward the lower rooms, eyes flicking from her hips to her hands to her mouth.

Always watching.

She doesn’t smile. But her fingers trail along the stone ledge as she passes him. An invitation. Or a warning. He won't know until it's too late.

Night –

Kleta changes into a softer fabric. Easier to remove. Harder to escape from.

She doesn’t always sleep with them. But she knows how to pretend like she might. Knows the angle to tilt her chin. The exact second to flinch when they mention Rhexos.

“You must be frightened,” one suitor whispers against her neck.

She laughs, breath warm, voice sugar.

“You’re here,” she says. “Why would I be afraid?”

She’s already memorized his walking patterns. The dagger he hides in his boot. The way he flinches when wine touches his lips.

Tomorrow, she’ll tell Thaleia. Or Eirion. Or no one.

She’s still deciding if he’s worth keeping alive.

[bbymochiiiiii]

2. She Wakes

Story - While You Were Gone -

The scent of oil and myrrh lingered on Penelope's skin like morning dew.

Outside, the sun had barely touched the stones, but within her chambers, soft gold seeped through sheer curtains—warm, but dim. The day had begun but the game had not paused.

Penelope sat in silence, spine straight, chin tilted ever so slightly as Thaleia worked through her curls with practiced ritual. Each twist was a message. Each pin, a signal. Her purple-hued robe was cinched in tight, a queen’s version of armor.

"Report." Penelope murmured, voice low. Straight to the point, without delay.

Thaleia hummed, eyes on the braid she was weaving. “Rhexos is dead.”

The name held little meaning to either woman, just another to add to a list of growing names in an endless cycle.

Penelope’s gaze drifted to her reflection—half-formed in a polished bronze mirror. “How?”

“Quietly,” Thaleia replied smoothly, her dark eyes meeting Penelope's briefly through their reflection. “Blood. Struggle. Then silence.”

“Servants?”

“Myros. Eirion. Andros.”

A pause.

“Gone before the maids found the room,” Thaleia's deft fingers looped through another curl, brushing it aside with another pin. “Blood’s been scrubbed from the rug. Myros handled it. Andros helped.”

Penelope pursed her lips, “And the boy?”

“Gone before sunrise.” A ghost of a smile touched Thaleia’s lips. “He knows the dark better than any of us.”

The Queen closed her eyes, lashes still heavy with sleep. Or grief. Or maybe nothing at all.

“Kleta?”

“She met with me before the changing of the lamps,” Thaleia took a step back to admire her work. “Said the suitors are already whispering—trying to place blame where there’s no evidence.”

Penelope raised a brow. “And?”

“She’s feeding them a story. Sickness. Bad wine. A fall. Something soft enough for them to swallow. Something they can argue about, instead of looking too closely.”

The faintest of smiles graced Penelope's face. “Let them gnaw on lies. It will keep them from gnashing their teeth on truth.”

Thaleia tilted her head, hands resting in front of her stomach, fingers interlocking. “You’ll need someone to pour wine for them tonight,” she adds. “To soothe them. To remind them the palace still smiles.”

Penelope nodded once. “Kleta will know who to send.”

Thaleia twisted the final braid into place and stepped back, hands falling to her sides.

“Men don’t care for dead men,” she said softly. “They only care about who gets his place at the table.”

Penelope rose from her seat, the robe around her shoulders catching the light just so—less a garment, more a shroud. Less like a queen, more like a blade wrapped in silk.

“Have Philos fetch word to the kitchens,” she said. “Breakfast will be served later than usual.”

“Understood.”

Penelope turned to the door, pausing just long enough to name the ghost.

“Rhexos,” she said. “He fancied himself a lion.”

Thaleia tilted her head slightly.

Penelope’s smile was razor-thin. “But even lions bleed.”

[bbymochiiiiii]

1. One of Many

Story -While You Were Gone-

The body lay crumpled at the foot of the bed, limbs bent wrong, blood soaking into woven rugs that had once been the pride of Ithaca’s halls. A suitor. Young, arrogant, nameless now.

Eirion stood over him, silent and still. His tunic was torn at the shoulder, smeared with blood not his own. His eyes—always soft, always unreadable—looked vacant in the flickering candlelight.

Behind him, Myros heaved the corpse over his shoulder with a grunt. The old soldier’s jaw clenched; the weight familiar. "Andros," he muttered.

At the door, Andros leaned against the frame like a man waiting for wine, not murder. His keen gaze drifted up and down the corridor. He cocked his head, listening. Nothing.

“We're clear.”

Myros gave the room one last sweep with his eyes. Blood. Broken glass. A toppled stool.

He turned to Eirion, who hadn’t moved. Only when Myros looked directly at him did he stir—just enough for the faintest glint of metal to catch the light. A slim blade, slick and silent, disappeared back into the sleeve of his tunic before the breath between candles.

Myros exhaled through his nose. Low. Measured.

“Clean up,” he said. The words weren’t harsh. They were habitual.

“You know the drill.”

Eirion nodded once.

Myros catches the smallest flicker of his eyes as he passes. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch. Just watches him go. Andros says nothing—but smirks. Myros adjusts his grip on the body, jaw clenched tighter now.

And the Eirion vanished into the wall like a breath held too long. The stone swallowed him, no footsteps trailing after.

The corridor went still again. Just Myros, just Andros. One carrying the weight of justice. The other watching the dark like it might bite back.

Entry #52 “One less mouth at the queen’s table. One less name to sing songs about.” (Struck through: Rhexos)

[bbymochiiiiii]

While You Were Gone

⚔️ Ithaca: Started 4/7/2025 at 10:48pm

(Note: Not fully polished. Just getting the ghosts out of my head. Chapters are short, snippet-style. Enjoy anyways. ✧≖ ͜ʖ≖)

👑 Core Cast: Penelope's Inner Circle

1. Thaleia – The Shadow Sleeper

“I exist to ensure the queen sleeps in peace.”

Role: Penelope’s personal handmaid. Sleeps in her chamber. Decoy, shield, and keeper of secrets.

Vibe: Knight-to-queen. Priestess-to-goddess. She moves like ritual—elegant, devoted, and silent.

Backstory: Penelope saved her during an uprising. Since then, her loyalty has been unshakable.

Notes:

Not romantically entangled with Penelope.

Her love is reverent, spiritual, almost sacred.

Centers Penelope as a force worth worshipping.

2. Myros – The Blade in Waiting

Role: Palace guard. Wounded veteran of Odysseus’ early campaigns. Now trains Telemachus.

Vibe: Stoic, gruff, built like a stormcloud. Says little—every word carries weight.

Backstory: Sent to serve in the palace after an injury. Always watching. Always waiting.

Secret: Plotting an “accident” for a suitor. Hasn’t told anyone.

Additional:

Leads two subordinates:

Theron – Young, eager, sometimes clumsy but loyal.

Andros – Sharp-eyed, says little, watches everything, especially Kleta. A certified smartass.

Possibly shares a quiet, secret intimacy with Eirion. (Major age gap, never spoken aloud.)

3. Kleta – The Flame in Silk

Role: Courtyard servant, central figure in the network of women infiltrating suitor circles.

Vibe: All coy glances and clever words, but every smile is loaded.

Backstory: Sold into servitude. Learned fast—uses her desirability like a blade.

Position:

The linchpin of an unspoken alliance of women.

One pretends to be noble.

One plays innocent.

One actually sleeps with suitors—for safety, but trades secrets.

Themes:

Sisterhood, grief, and slow-burning tragedy.

Power in powerlessness.

4. Eirion – The Cupbearer

Role: Wine servant to the suitors. Ghost in the halls.

Vibe: Soft smile, wordless presence. Looks harmless—he isn’t.

Backstory: Grew up in the palace with Telemachus. Lost his tongue in an accident meant for the boy.

Weapon: Blades up his sleeves. Notes passed through hands. Silence is his camouflage.

Loyalty:

Not about prophecy.

He doesn’t care about thrones.

He wants Telemachus to live. That’s it.

Relationship Threads:

Deep, silent bond with Telemachus.

Quiet tension with Myros. Ghost touch. Never acknowledged.

5. Bryssa – The Bitter Mother

Role: Elder servant. Matriarch of the kitchens. Knows everything.

Vibe: Dry, blunt, unimpressed. Might curse you. Might feed you.

Backstory: Raised within the palace. Watched Odysseus grow up.

Power:

Knows the location of emergency tunnels.

Only Penelope and Thaleia know. Myros suspects—she won’t confirm.

Quote: “It’s not an escape. It’s a grave with two exits.”

Themes:

Survival.

Intergenerational wisdom.

Ruthless tenderness.

📜 Supplemental Cast

6. The Scribe – Unknown Observer

Role: Not part of the resistance. No name. No voice in the story—except at the end.

Mechanic: Notes, journal scraps, or cold entries placed after chapters.

Names crossed out.

Creeping sense of fate.

Sample line: “Suitor 49 said Penelope wore mourning well. He’ll be next.”

Tone: Detached. Creepy. Feels more mythic force than person.

7. Philos – The Mouse in the Walls

Role: Bryssa’s grandson. Entertains by mimicking suitors. Secretly gathering intel.

Vibe: Mischievous, quick, sweet with a bite.

Skills: Small enough for ducts, rafters, dumbwaiters.

Relationship:

Protective of Bryssa.

Admires Telemachus like a brother.

Themes:

Innocence in a violent world.

Child spy.

The kind of clever that saves lives.