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eraenaa · 8 months

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Stereotypical (Demi-God AU)

Aemond, Son of Ares x Reader, Daughter of Aphrodite Tag List

Synopsis: The daughter of Aphrodite falls for one of the sons of Ares— the second coming of their parents.

Warnings: Mature, 18+, Dry Humping, Semi-Public Relations, Not Proofread

Word Count: 2, 720

It’s stereotypical, you were aware—a whole cliche. But what were you to do when you realized that you were growing attracted to one of the sons of your mother’s past paramours? It did not help that he was the strongest fighter in camp— the most mysterious and illusive Demi-God there. You watch him by the benches whilst you sit and chat with one of the daughters of the Goddess Demeter, Helaena. “You’re staring at him again,” She teased as her fingers twirled the stem of a dandelion whose buds she blew away. You rolled your eyes and shifted your gaze, denying the accusation. “Just speak to him; I’m sure he won’t be as standoffish as he seems.” Helaena hummed, but you shook your head.

“What are you two talking about?” Aegon, the son of Dionysus, appeared, seemingly intoxicated, even though wine was banned from camp. “No— let me guess,” he quickly said. “I’m guessing… the brooding swordsman? Hm?” He asked you, and you felt color bloom on your cheeks. Were you that obvious? You groaned and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear in frustration. “I do not understand! They… usually fall at my feet, trying to get my attention! But not him,” You complained, making Aegon and Helaena smile in amusement at the expense of your irritation. “Whatever, I’m going for a walk,” You grumbled and stood, trying hard not to let your gaze fly over to Aemond, who trained with a sword.

You find yourself in the woods, threading closer to the lake where you often stare at your reflection in the water. You took in a deep breath and stared at your face blessed by your mother— the prettiest girl in camp, they say. You attracted all sorts of attention, good and bad, but the only attention you wanted was never bestowed upon you. He denied you of his lone gaze. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing here all alone?” You hear a voice ask. You sighed and cast your gaze upward, landing on Jacaerys, son of Hephaestus. “Hello, Jacaerys,” You say politely.

“Do you mind if I join you?” He asked, dark eyes hopeful. “I… I’d actually prefer to be alone right now,” You reasoned. Watching his face drop. You sigh; if only Aemond were this excited to be in your presence. “Oh,” Jacaerys said, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’ll see you at dinner, Jace,” You give him a fleeting smile, and you thank the gods that he actually took the hint and left. You returned to stare at yourself, trying to define which aspect you could improve upon, highlighting them in hopes that it would catch the attention of one of the sons of the God of War.

“What are you doing?” A different voice asked, a reflection joining yours on the surface of the water. You yelped and backed away in surprise. “Gods, Aemond,” You said as he finally cast his eye upon you. “What were you doing?” He asked once again, leading out his hand to assist you to stand. “Staring at myself,” You mumbled, feeling heat rise to your cheeks as he caught you. You hear him scoff, “Of course,” He said and let go of your hand that tingled from touching his. “Best you be reminded by the fate of Narcissus,” Aemond stated. You bit back your tongue; this is what you wanted. He was speaking to you— his attention on you, but now it came; why were you frozen as if you had gazed at Medusa?

“Do you not have to train?” You asked Aemond as you perched yourself upon a log near the river banks. You watch him take a pebble into his fingers, skipping it on the water. “I’ve just finished,” he said and moved to take a seat next to you. You took your lower lip between your teeth as you felt your shoulders brush, the heat of him reaching you. “What do you think we’re doing here?” You suddenly ask as both of you stare off into the orange sun that reflects on the lake. “What do you mean? We’re here to train. We’re here for protection from the outside world.” Aemond stated the obvious, but you shook your head. “Train for what?” You asked, “A war.”

“Is there one?” Your eyes locked upon his. “I… I just do not understand why I was brought here,” You confessed as you saw the confusion in his lilac orb. “They say the world of mortals was filled with danger— but mine wasn’t. I was living comfortably— I do not understand why my mother had summoned me if I am not to do anything here,”

“The gods have a purpose in every action they make— even if we do not understand it,” You hummed at his statement. “Do you truly believe that?” Aemond looked at you with a question once more. “I just… feel like we’re pawns being played here— born to do their bidding. We make the sacrifices; they get the glory. I just think that the minuscule scrap of recognition they throw is not at all worth it.” You saw a smirk rising to his lips despite the seriousness you posed. “What?” Aemond shakes his head; you feel him inch his way closer to you. “My sister seems to think that you’re filled with air in that pretty little head of yours,” You blinked at his statement; should you be offended or flattered?

“And do you agree?” You ask, fearing for his statement. Aemond hummed, gazing at your face. It was the first time in your life that you felt insecure under someone’s gaze— the first time you felt fear that someone might not think you agreeable and comely. “I agree with her when she said that you were pretty… very pretty,” You bit your cheeks as his eyes flew to your blushed cheeks and then ever so quickly to your lips. “But, no, she was completely mistaken to underestimate you,” You feel your lips twitch, catching Aemond’s attention. You inch towards him, your desires swirling with your assumptions. Aemond stayed rooted where he sat; he did not lean in, nor did he pull away. When your nose brushed, you hear him take in a harsh breath. “We should head back,” he said and pulled away, leaving you confused and overly embarrassed and rejected.

You were so close— you took the courage to move first. It was all Aemond wanted— all that he had dreamed of. All his offerings to the gods were for this moment, which was why he was greatly disappointed and infuriated with himself when he backed away and left like a coward. It was too much— it was so much more than he could handle. Ever since you’ve arrived at camp, all he did was try and keep your attention on him. He trained day and night, purposefully choosing grounds where you would pass by. He would relish with each moment that he would feel your gaze upon him. Watching intently as he would fight and show off his skill, hoping that it would impress you. Knowing that it was how his father had caught the attention of your mother.

Aemond’s eye would fly to you during dinner, you sitting with your brothers and sisters. There was no smile on your lips, unlike the previous nights; you sat limply and played with your food, your cheek resting on your palm as a pout formed itself on your luscious lips. What had he done? How could he subject the most beautiful girl his eye has ever seen to such a sullen state? Aemond dug his nails into his palms. You were the daughter of beauty and love, and he was the son of war and strife. He did not deserve anything so precious and delicate as you. He could only offer you ruin and struggle. The thought of bringing you conflict only fortified his decision to back away. To instead protect you from afar— to relinquish his desires to be with you, to hold you, kidding himself that gazing at you was enough. That simply looking at you had to be enough.

Days passed as both you and Aemond avoided each other. You, embarrassed by your wanting actions and him, controlling himself from giving in to his desires. You no longer watched as he would impressively train with the sword, and he would no longer silently trail you wherever you went. Aemond only picked specific moments to follow you and made certain that no danger would find you— even though the two of you were in the safety of camp where no danger could reach, Aemond was just simply cautious.

You traded the lake for the beach. Walking alone on the sanded path, the moonlight shining bright atop the water. Your mind consistently loops your foolish actions, making you cringe at yourself. You called for your mother the other night, trying to find guidance or perhaps comfort, as rejection did not sit well with you. The thought of someone not falling for your charms when everyone so easily did, scared you. She ignored your offerings and pleas, leaving you to face your confusion and fears by yourself, only solidifying your beliefs that you and all the children in this camp were simply pawns by the gods. Expected to answer their call when it first rings whilst they constantly ignore yours.

You sighed heavily, staring off into the sea where your mother was born. Stepping foot into the water, you tried to connect with the woman who disrupted your peaceful, mortal life only to bring you here and ignore you. You took deep breaths, walking deeper into the water, not caring that you were still clothed as you submerged yourself in the sea. Aemond watched by the shore, battling with himself if he should follow. When you disappeared under the water, with each passing second, you did not emerge; it only put forth fear in the bravest demi-god in camp.

Aemond shook his head and ran to the sea, diving to where you disappeared only to catch you resurface, shocked as you realized his presence had joined you. “Aemond,” You breathed out, wiping away the salt water from your eyes, the boy holding your arm, the waves pushing him closer to you. “What… what were you doing?” He asked, concern lacing his deep, silky voice. “I wanted to swim,” You reasoned, hoping that the water would clean you from embarrassment and shame. You feel his eye grow downward, looking at the clothes you fashioned. “In your night dress?” He asked, the silk fabric thin, the cool water clinging to your body. “It was a spontaneous decision,” You mumbled, your gaze shifting away from him as your cheeks heated. The both of you floating in the sea.

“Why are you here?” you asked, realizing that he had gone in the water, fully clothed as well. You met his eye, the sapphire orb shifting around. His thin, pink lips parted as he tried to find a reason. “I… I—“ You bit your lip, as you had never seen him so flustered. The most fearsome son of Ares is at a loss for words when faced with the prettiest daughter of Aphrodite.

Aemond stayed silent, only the crashing of waves reaching your ears. It took a while for the both of you to realize that you floated in each other’s arms— the past events of the other day returning to your mind, both making you conscious. “I’m sorry about the other day,” You whispered as you saw it best to address your actions in order for the both of you to forget it and your mind to free you from the torment of your idiotic presumption. “It was wrong for me to assume… I have misread your intentions and made you uncomfortable; I apologize.” You say sincerely.

You hear Aemond sigh, the waves pushing your bodies closer together, his breath fanning your face, your scent invading his senses. “You did not misread anything,” He admitted. Making your brows furrow. “I… I wanted you to kiss me, wished for it for a while now.” He confessed with a small smile, trying to lighten the tense air with his rare but charming smile. “Oh,” was all you could say as you tried to comprehend his words. “Then why… “ you trailed as you had trouble wording out what had transpired in the lake. Aemond sighed, and you stilled as you felt his arms wrap around your waist, flushing your bodies together as the both of you floated. The moonlight lighted your face, illuminating his silver hair as well as your milky skin. “I got scared,” He admitted, daring to cup your cheek. Your skin was soft against his calloused palm.

“You? Got scared? The favored son of the god of war got scared by the prospect of a kiss?” You asked in confusion, resting your hands on his shoulders. You hear him let out a small chuckle. “I was only frightened because it was you who I would be kissing,” He stated, caressing your cheek. “The most beautiful girl I was ever blessed to see… now, I hope you’d understand why I panicked,” Aemond smiled as the blush on your cheeks deepened. You set your gaze downward, staring at the water that sparkled under the silver light. Your heart stilled when you felt Aemond place a finger under your chin to raise your gaze once more, finally having the courage to place his lips against yours.

Aemond wanted to be slow and cautious, to not frighten or pressure you to succumb to all his desires. But as a sigh left your throat when your lips finally met, all restraint he had disappeared. Pulling you impossibly closer to him, making you wrap your legs around him, letting your arms cling to him. Deepening your kiss, his tongue asked for entrance, which you were hesitant to give but relished the feeling when you did. Aemond’s chest rumbled with a sound as you accidentally nipped his lip, enjoying your mistake that only fueled his desires further.

You pulled away from him, suddenly feeling cautious as the both of you were being so intimate in such an open space where anyone could see. You tried to speak reason, to speak caution that the both of you may be caught, but as Aemond placed his lips on your neck, kissing it and leaving his marks, you no longer had the capacity to speak. Pleasure freezing your mind at the new sensation. Aemond hummed as he heard your heavy breathing, your sweet taste mixing with the salted water as he indulged in the feel of your skin. Aemond closed his eye tightly as you, who had your legs wrapped around his torso started to move your hips. Squirming as you felt urgency for something you were yet to know consuming you.

Aemond’s hand moved downwards from your waist to your bottom, cupping them and aiding your movements that sought for friction. You let go of a shaky breath against his lips, your eyes looking deeply at his sapphire eye that turned dark and glazed with deeper desires and restraint. “Aemond,” You whimpered, filled with anticipation of what was to come. You ground your hips further, making him utter a foul word and turn his head to the heavens. Aemond moved one hand to cup your cheek, bringing you closer to kiss your lips once more. “I… I— Aemond,” was all you could utter as you were uncertain what the sensation was building inside you. It was sharp and urgent and pleasurable— an odd mix. “Are you to come, my pretty girl? Hm?” Aemond gritted as his hips met yours. He bent his head down and placed a kiss atop your chest; his head felt light at the whimpers of his name that your mouth spewed.

“Aemond!” You shrieked as all finally fell, your body feeling alight as you came at the sensation of riding against the boy you had desired for long. Aemond gritted out your name as he, too, came, spilling himself in his trousers. You hummed as he kissed you again, tasting him and the sea that was witness to your desires and pleasures being fed.

Sequel: Jealousy, Jealousy

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winxanity-ii · 7 months

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JOIN US FOR A BITE

ship: polities x fem!lotus eater!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 6.1k a/n: Y'all forgive me, i'm currently addicted to EPIC: The Musical 😭😭😭 i had to get it out......so because i'm such a random ass person, expect a few one-shots of these 🥴

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

In the dappled shade of overhanging trees, you, a daughter of the Lotus Eaters, moved with the silence of a whisper.

The island, your home, was a place of serene beauty and hidden sorrows, where every berry and leaf held stories untold.

As you foraged, the unexpected sound of low voices sliced through the quiet, a rarity in this secluded paradise.

In the heart of the island, where the sun played peek-a-boo through the lush canopy, you were lost in your routine of foraging, the familiar, comforting task providing a rhythm to your day.

The island was your sanctuary, a place where each leaf and berry whispered stories of peace and forgetfulness.

But today, an unfamiliar murmur shattered the symphony of rustling leaves and distant waves—a discordant note that prickled your skin.

Hiding wasn't something you Lotus Eaters did often; your island was a haven, not a battlefield. Yet, instinct took over, and you found yourself crouching under the embracing shadow of an overhanging tree, its leaves casting a mosaic of light and dark around you.

Your heart thudded a frantic rhythm, trying to drown out the low, masculine voices that sliced through the serenity of your world.

You couldn't catch their words clearly, just fragments floating through the air like leaves caught in a breeze—"too worried," "need to relax"—phrases that seemed out of place in the tranquility of your island.

Your curiosity piqued as their voices faded, swallowed by the whispers of the forest. The urge to look, to know, overpowered your hesitation, and you peered through the veil of green, your gaze snagging on flashes of gold.

Gold here was not a common sight. It wasn't woven into your garments or hoarded in chests; it was a color of the sunsets, not of men. Yet, there it was, adorning these strangers in the form of armor, glinting with a promise of other worlds, other wars.

Your breath caught at the sight of their swords, tools of harm so alien to your way of life, and a chill skittered down your spine.

They were heading toward your village, toward your people who knew no harm.

Panic, sharp and urgent, spurred you into motion. You couldn't just sit and watch. The safety of your village, of the gentle souls who had never known the cold bite of steel, was in your hands.

As you darted through the underbrush, the island blurred around you, a whirl of green and brown streaked with your anxiety. "Strangers are coming," you rehearsed in your mind, "armed strangers, with intentions as unclear as the shadowed depths of our waters." Your feet knew the way, carrying you faster than thought, driven by a need to protect, to warn.

Reaching the village felt like emerging from water, a sudden rush of air and noise. Your people, your family, they were all there, living their peaceful lives, unaware of the disturbance heading their way. You gasped for breath, words tumbling out in a rush, "Strangers… armed… heading this way…"

The village's rhythm halted, eyes turning to you, a mixture of confusion and concern blooming on familiar faces. Kio, your elder, stepped forward, his presence like a calm in the storm. "Tell me everything," his voice was the steady beat of the drum, grounding and solid.

As you recounted what little you saw and heard, the weight of responsibility bore down on you. You were a community that thrived on harmony and understanding, yet here you were, the harbinger of potential discord. "I saw their swords," you confessed, the words heavy, "weapons that shows tales of war and death."

The air was thick with unspoken fears, with the weight of what was to come. You stood there, amid your people, feeling the shift in the breeze, a harbinger of change, unwelcome and unbidden.

In that moment, you realized that the sanctuary of your island was no longer a given—and you can't help but wonder what the arrival of these strangers heralds for your people, for your way of life, and for the harmony that has always been your world's heartbeat.

As the last echoes of your warning hang in the air, a sudden rustling at the village's edge cuts through the stillness. You barely have time to finish, "We must hide!" before the underbrush parts, revealing the very strangers you feared. The village, usually a bastion of tranquility, pulses with a mix of apprehension and curiosity.

Your eyes are immediately drawn to the darker-skinned man, whose presence seems to command the sun's rays, casting a warm glow on his deep-toned skin.

He stood out with a demeanor that contrasts sharply with the tense atmosphere, his short, dark curls restrained by a golden headband that speaks of valor yet does not overshadow his approachable aura. His face, framed by a full beard, is alight with a friendly smile, his brown eyes reflecting a depth of wisdom and kindness, suggesting a soul seasoned by journeys and battles yet untouched by their harshness.

He is clad in a heroic ensemble that marries form and function—a chest plate of polished bronze that narrates tales of past skirmishes, worn over a tunic vibrant against the natural backdrop of the village. Golden armlets encircle his muscular arms, shimmering with each movement, while a belt with intricate designs anchors a leather skirt, designed for the dual demands of agility and protection. His attire is completed with greaves and sandals, hinting at readiness for both celebration and conflict.

Beside him, a man with lighter skin presents a stark contrast, his rigid posture exuding a sense of urgency and latent power. His armor, less adorned yet no less formidable, speaks of a life spent in strategy and combat, his expression one of focus and resolve, his eyes scanning the surroundings with a commander's vigilance.

You watch, your gaze hardening, as Elder Kio and the other respected leaders step forward, their arms spread in a gesture of welcome that's as much a part of your culture as the lotus itself; it's a silent offering of peace and welcome, a tradition unbroken for generations.

The children, with their innocent faces peeking out from behind their mothers' skirts, gawked at the men, their usual playground of earth and sky momentarily forgotten.

The mothers, though curious, held their children close, sensing the shift in the wind, the ripple of change that these strangers brought with them.

A greeting that's supposed to be met with gratitude is instead met with tension.

The lighter one, his armor catching the sun's rays, draws his sword in a swift motion that cuts the air and the brief moment of peace.

The reaction is immediate. The elders halt in their tracks, their expressions morphing from open welcome to guarded caution. The villagers, their voices once rising in a harmonious welcome, now fall silent, their songs of greeting dissolving into a tense hush.

The children, sensing the shift, draw closer to their mothers, their expressions morphing from excitement to a dawning unease.

"Stay back!" the command ripples through the gathered crowd, a stark contrast to the open-hearted reception offered by your people; it acts as chilling reminder of the potential danger these strangers represent.

The villagers, once buoyed by curiosity and the novelty of new faces, now retreat into a wary distance, their initial welcome cooling into a collective apprehension; unused to such intensity, leaned in, their eyes flickering between the sword in his hand and the stoic expressions of their elders.

Yet, you, alongside the village elders, remain steadfast, your eyes locked on the two men who've disrupted the peace of your haven.

"We're only here for food," the lighter one said, his voice carrying the weight of command and desperation. "I need enough to feed 600 men."

The word 'food' echoed through the crowd, a simple yet profound need that resonated with every villager. Your people, always so giving, now faced a dilemma as the shadow of the upcoming drought season loomed over the island like an ominous cloud, now facing the prospect of feeding an army.

Elder Kio looked worried; his face, etched with the lines of countless smiles and furrowed brows of concern, now bore a look of deep contemplation. He's seen a lot over the years, and you could tell he was trying to figure out what to do. His eyes, reflecting a storm of thoughts, met the soldier's—an exchange brimming with the weight of unspoken negotiations.

With his stance firm and his expression unyielding, the pale one held Kio's gaze. The elder's eyes, usually reflecting pools of calm, now mirrored the tumultuous sea of issues before him.

The island, a paradise of peace and plenty, was unused to such extreme demands, and Kio's hesitation was a testament of the conflict within—a battle between the inner desire to extend a hand in hospitality or the impending need to safeguard their future against the looming threat of scarcity.

Before Elder Kio could open his mouth to offer a bit of help despite future trouble, the soldier cut him off, sensing the hesitation, sharpened his stance, "Stay back, I'm warning you," he repeated, his sword gleaming menacingly in the sunlight. "If we don't get back safely, my men will turn this place into blazes."

The threat hung in the air, stark and chilling. A collective shiver ran through the villagers, a silent wave of fear that you felt keenly. Your own reaction was immediate—a frown, a tightening of your jaw, an instinctive readiness to defend your home against this thinly veiled menace.

Yet, from across the clearing, your mother's calm gaze met yours. Her presence, unswayed by the lotus's usual soporific effect, served as a silent beacon of restraint. Her eyes, so like your own, whispered a message of patience and wisdom, cooling the fire of your indignation.

Around you, the elders, those first-generation Lotus Eaters who seldom displayed such collective lucidity, stood with a shared gravity. Their usual, dreamlike detachment was replaced by a sharp, collective focus, a rare and telling shift that spoke volumes of the gravity of the situation.

"Odysseus, my friend, it's okay to greet the world with open arms, no need to be harsh," the darker one spoke in a gentle tone, trying to dispel the tension; his words, meant to soothe, seemed almost out of place against the backdrop of his companion's stark ultimatum.

The lighter one—Odysseus—still on edge, shot a glance at his friend, his expression a mix of frustration and urgency. "We need to find food for our men, Polites," he insisted, the weight of his responsibility evident in his voice.

The villagers watched, a silent audience to this back-and-forth between the two men. Elder Kio, after a moment of anxious contemplation, stepped forward, his voice steady but his concern clear. "We can offer you some of our reserves," he said to Odysseus, "It's not much, but we're willing to share what we have."

With a nod from Kio, a few of the women villagers moved toward the storerooms, their steps hesitant but determined. Kio then turned his gaze to you and a small group of young villagers standing nearby.

With a subtle but firm nod, he signaled for you to assist in gathering the provisions.

Watching you all get into action, Polites' face lights up in with relief, nudged Odysseus. "See? You were worrying for nothing," he said, a small smile playing on his lips.

Just then, a young child, innocent to the tension, approached the men with a tray of refreshments, among them the lotus fruit. Polites reached out, his hand hovering over the fruit, drawn to its vibrant hue.

Odysseus's hand shot out, stopping Polites just in time. "Wait," he cautioned, eyeing the fruit with suspicion.

And as the little boy who had offered the tray turned to leave, Odysseus called out to him, "Hey, wait a minute, boy." His voice, firm yet not unkind, prompted the child to halt in his tracks and look back, a mix of curiosity and wariness in his eyes.

The boy, clutching the hem of his shirt, took hesitant steps back toward the two strangers. His gaze flitted between the fruit in Odysseus's hand and the stern look on the man's face.

"What's this?" Odysseus asked, holding up the luminescent fruit for the boy to see. The child, now standing a safe distance away, glanced at the fruit and then up at Odysseus's questioning eyes.

"I-It's what we eat here," the boy replied, his voice a soft murmur against the backdrop of the watching villagers. "It makes people happy."

Odysseus exchanged a quick, meaningful look with Polites, who wore an expression of dawning understanding mixed with concern. The child, sensing the men's unease, added, "It's good… it helps people forget their sadness."

Odysseus, still locked in his silent communication with Polites, missed the approach of an older teenager who came to retrieve the young boy. The girl, with a respectful bow, offered a gentle apology for the interruption, her actions protective as she guided the boy to stand behind her, his curious eyes peeking out from her leg.

As the villagers began to place baskets filled with an assortment of foods beside the men, Odysseus turned his attention to the girl. "Is what the child said true? You eat these?" he inquired, gesturing towards the lotus fruit in his hand.

The girl nodded, her eyes fixed on the ground, a hint of defensiveness in her posture. "Yes," she confirmed softly, "we use the fruit as a base for many of our meals." Her hand swept towards the growing pile of food offerings, which included more than just the fruit, illustrating the variety in their diet.

When the girl and child left, Odysseus picked up one of the fruits. "Look at this," he said, holding it high, its seeds emitting a faint glow. "Do you see how it glows? This is a lotus fruit. It's not just any food; it affects your mind, traps you in bliss." He then turned to Polites with a stern look, his words sharp and clear. "If we indulge in this, we could become like the lotus eaters here, essentially addicts lost to their escape, detached from reality."

With a gesture that carried a mix of disdain and warning, Odysseus dropped the fruit to the ground, his hand swiftly brushing against his pants, as if to rid himself of its influence.

You returned to the scene, arms aching slightly from helping to transport the village's food reserves, only to catch Odysseus's dismissive gesture as he dropped a lotus fruit to the ground. His words, laden with disdain, hung heavily in the air, criticizing the very essence of your people's way of life.

You felt a surge of emotions as you stood there, witnessing this display of ignorance. Anger bubbled up inside you, mixed with a deep sadness.

These outsiders didn't understand. They didn't see that the lotus fruit, while powerful, was not a chain but a choice for many who came to your island seeking peace from their troubled pasts.

You knew the stories well—of travelers and wanderers, lost souls who found solace on your shores, much like your own parents had.

You were a child of two lotus eaters who had discovered love and a new beginning amidst the island's gentle embrace. Unlike the outsiders' assumptions, you all lived in harmony, connecting deeply with each other's hearts and minds, a unity that was rare and precious.

Odysseus's words, though meant for Polites, echoed through the village, casting a shadow over the offered hospitality. The villagers' expressions shifted from welcome to wariness, their eyes reflecting a mix of hurt and disappointment.

The notion that your home, your culture, and your people were reduced to being labeled as 'useless' by those who knew nothing of your world cut deeply.

It was a stark reminder of how the outside world viewed the lotus eaters—a place of forgetfulness and oblivion, not healing and community.

The tension in the village was palpable, a thick veil of unease that hung over the villagers, all felt but unseen by Odysseus and Polites. Polites, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, took a modest step forward, his head slightly bowed, exuding a sense of genuine remorse.

"Lotus eaters," Polites addressed the villagers with a tone full of sincerity, "I apologize for the misunderstanding. We, as soldiers, must remain vigilant and at our peak, which means we cannot partake in your lotus fruit." While his apology was sincere, it didn't sit well with the villagers.

The fact that it was Polites apologizing, and not Odysseus—the one who had actually insulted the community—only intensified the villagers' resentment and frustration.

The villagers exchanged glances, questioning why the man who had caused the offense hadn't stepped forward to make amends himself.

Elder Kio, masking the village's collective discomfort with a practiced ease, responded, "The cave," he stated simply, his voice imbued with a reassuring calm that seemed to gently brush away the lingering tension.

Polites's interest piqued. "A cave! You're saying there's a cave where we could feast? Where might we find this food-filled cave?" His tone carried a mix of curiosity and relief.

Kio, with a gentle nod, extended his arm eastward, as if presenting a gift. "Eastward…There lies a cave you seek, abundant and generous, just as our village strives to be. It'll take 3 days and 2 nights to reach."

Gratitude washed over Polites's features, lighting them up with a grateful smile. "Thank you!" he exclaimed, his appreciation clear.

"You are most welcome," echoed the villagers, their chorus of voices a blend of politeness and restraint, a testament to their enduring hospitality even in the face of discomfort.

Kio then turned to you, his next words taking everyone by surprise—including you. "We also offer a guide's service to lead you there," he said, gesturing toward you. "She's the best on the entire island."

You felt a jolt of responsibility as all eyes turned to you. As Kio's gaze met yours, a silent message passed between you, clear and unmistakable.

You could almost hear his unspoken strategy: Feed them to the beasts, since they want to behave as such.

Understanding Kio's underlying intention, you stepped forward from the crowd, now the focus of Odysseus and Polites's attention. "I need just a moment to prepare," you told them, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of thoughts inside you. "Then, you'll guide me to your ship to gather more of your men before we start for the cave."

As you stepped out to meet Odysseus and Polites, their eyes landed on you, taking in your appearance for the first time. The tropical sun of your island home cast a warm glow on your rich brown skin, highlighting your beauty and the distinctiveness of your village's attire.

You stood there, embodying the spirit of your people with your attire that was both practical for the island's warmth and symbolic of your culture.

Your outfit consisted of a dark brown loincloth, complementing your skin tone, paired with a bralette fashioned from sparkling beads that caught the light with every movement, signaling your status and style.

Your hair, a cascade of back-length, fuzzy locks, was adorned with beads whose colors denoted your age and status within the village.

At 19, the azure and emerald beads woven into your hair were a vibrant mix, reflecting your youth and vigor, and marking you as one of the youngest warriors and hunters of your people.

Your arms bore white tattoos, striped patterns that ran up to your shoulders, interspersed with specks of blue and seafoam green, signifying your prowess and skill.

Around your lower stomach and navel, intricate grayish designs sprawled, symbolizing your single status and fertility, a visual marker that you are of age and ready to bear children, aligning with the island's traditions and its deep-rooted connection to the cycles of life and continuity.

Beauty marks dotted gracefully along the bridge of your nose and over your cupid's bow, drawing attention to your face, enhancing your natural features, and expressing the unique blend of strength and elegance that characterized your presence.

Polites's reaction was immediate as his gaze swept over you; his brown cheeks flushed a slight shade of pink, a subtle but telling reaction to your striking appearance. There was an unmistakable look of admiration in his eyes, a clear indication that he found you to be perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever encountered.

Under his breath, awestruck, he murmured a phrase that likened you to the goddess of beauty herself, "By Aphrodite's grace…" His words were a whisper, a testament to the impression you'd made on him, acknowledging your beauty as one that could rival the goddess's unparalleled allure.

Even Odysseus, whose heart was steadfastly anchored to Penelope, couldn't ignore the striking presence you radiated.

While loyalty to his wife remained unshaken, he recognized the undeniable fact that your beauty was something extraordinary, a rare and captivating elegance, one that could easily stir the hearts of men and gods alike.

He thought to himself that your beauty was such that, were it known beyond this secluded island, it might provoke kingdoms to vie for your favor, much like they once did for Helen of Troy—igniting conflicts driven by desire and admiration.

You quickly made your way to your family's tent to collect the necessary items for the journey ahead. Inside the small, familiar space, you grabbed a satchel, packing it with essential items: a few lotus fruits, a canteen of water, a bow and arrows, and a knife, which you secured around your thigh.

As part of the preparation, you began to apply dark paint to your face, a method used by your village's hunters to meld into the night, a tactic you knew would serve well in the environment you were about to navigate.

Your mother entered the tent, her face etched with concern. She understood the gravity of your task, her maternal instinct overshadowing the usual lotus-induced calm. "I know you can handle this," she said, her voice laced with a mix of pride and worry, "but be cautious around those soldiers. It's not the giants that I fear for you, but the company you'll be keeping on this journey."

Your heart softened at her words, touched by the depth of her concern. Your mother, with her gentle spirit and enduring strength, had faced her own harrowing journey before embracing the lotus's forgetful peace.

The fact that her past might include such dark experiences, particularly involving men, made her caution all the more touching.

It was a reminder of the life she led before the island, the trials she endured, and the refuge she found among the lotus eaters. Her concern for you now, in the context of being alone with the soldiers, was a reflection of her own vulnerabilities and the protective love she held for you.

You met her gaze, your expression resolute, offering reassurance. "I'm the right person for this," you affirmed, echoing the confidence Kio placed in you. In a gesture steeped in your village's traditions, you pressed your forehead against hers, a moment of silent solidarity and affection that transcended words.

Pulling back with a smile, you reached into your satchel and gently placed a lotus fruit in her hand. She returned your smile, a gesture of mutual understanding and love, before consuming the fruit. Her eyes soon glazed over, a serene calm washing over her as the fruit's effects took hold, guiding her back to a blissful repose next to your father.

With a final, affectionate kiss on her forehead, you ensured she was comfortably resting before turning your attention back to the task at hand.

Your face now marked for the hunt, your gear secured, and your heart steeled for what lay ahead, you stepped out of the tent with a determined stride, ready to confront whatever challenges awaited with Odysseus and Polites.

As you traversed the winding path with Odysseus and Polites, the latter seemed increasingly eager to engage with you, his intrigue clearly sparked by more than just your striking appearance.

Polites's attempts at conversation were persistent, as he ventured to break through your focused demeanor with a series of stuttered, simple questions.

"So, um, do you… do you always assist with… such tasks?" Polites inquired, his voice wavering slightly as he sought to learn more about you.

You didn't immediately respond, your attention fixed on the journey ahead, but his persistent curiosity eventually drew your gaze.

When your eyes finally met his, he was met with a flush of embarrassment, his cheeks turning a noticeable shade of red. He offered a shy, somewhat awkward smile, his hands fumbling with his shield in a nervous gesture, betraying his unease under your scrutinizing look.

"And, ah, the… the paint," he stumbled on his words again, gesturing vaguely towards your face, "Is it… for camouflage, or…?" His question trailed off, leaving the sentence hanging in the air, incomplete.

You observed his flustered state for a moment, the warrior seemingly at odds with his usual battlefield composure, now unsettled by the simple act of conversing with you. His earnestness, juxtaposed with his bashfulness, painted a starkly different picture from the soldierly demeanor you'd expected.

Odysseus, observing his friend's futile efforts, couldn't help but interject with a scoff. "I'm not sure why you're bothering," he remarked to Polites, his voice tinged with a mix of amusement and disdain. "She's probably lost in the haze of lotus fruit, like the rest of them here."

This assumption ignited a spark of anger within you. Up until now, you had maintained a composed silence, but Odysseus's words struck a nerve. Turning to face him, your eyes flashed with indignation.

"How dare you," you began, your voice slicing through the tension like a blade, "judge us so arrogantly?" The words tumbled out, sharp and unrelenting. "Men like you—soldiers—are the very reason why so many seek refuge on this island. Some of us are survivors of village plunders, forced to witness the atrocities committed by armies, the horrors inflicted upon innocent lives."

Your gaze intensified, boring into his as you took in the full measure of the man before you. "You inflict unspeakable horrors and drape them in the guise of glory, yet you stand here, with blood still staining your hands, daring to pass judgment on us? On how we choose to heal our wounds?"

Odysseus's eyes shifted away under the weight of your accusation, a flicker of discomfort, perhaps even guilt, crossing his features as he was confronted with the stark mirror of his actions.

You paused, ensuring your next words hit home. "You know nothing of our resilience," you continued, your tone edged with a cold clarity, "And for your information, offspring of lotus eaters, like myself, aren't as affected by the fruit's power. We retain our minds, our memories, and, most importantly, our judgments."

The air hung heavy between you, charged with your spoken truths. Odysseus, now looking away, seemed momentarily lost for words, the usual confidence of the seasoned warrior faltering under the weight of your piercing glare and the bitter truths it conveyed.

In this moment of silence, Polites saw an opportunity to shift the atmosphere, perhaps lighten the heavy load of the conversation that had just transpired. He ventured to draw your attention away from the discomfort, eager to see a different side of you beyond the anger and the pain.

"So, uh…" Polites began, a cautious optimism in his voice, "Do the… lotus fruits taste like… regular fruits, or are they… different?" His question, awkward yet sincere, seemed to pierce through the lingering tension.

Your initial reaction was to maintain your guarded demeanor, but something about his genuine curiosity and the awkward earnestness in his attempt sparked a different response within you.

A soft laugh escaped your lips, not mocking but genuine, a sound that seemed to momentarily lift the heavy cloak of your responsibilities and the grim realities of your world.

Polites's reaction was immediate; his smile widened, his cheeks flushed with a renewed sense of hope as he heard the lightness in your laughter.

It was a sound, he realized, that he wanted to understand more, to hear again, not just as a distraction from the weight of the journey ahead but as a glimpse into the person you truly were beneath the warrior's exterior.

Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't so bad after all—a thought that, for a fleeting moment, allowed you to see him not just as a soldier from a foreign land but as a person capable of recognizing and respecting your humanity.

Over the two days spent guiding Odysseus, Polites, and the other Trojan guards to the cave, you noticed a shift in your own defenses.

While Odysseus and his men maintained a distance, treating you with a detached wariness or outright indifference, Polites pursued a different path. His presence was a constant by your side, his demeanor gentle, marked by a curiosity that felt genuine and devoid of judgment.

His questions, simple yet insightful, sparked conversations you hadn't anticipated. "What's life like on the island for you?" he'd ask, or "Have you ever tried Pastelis?" His inquiries, far from the prying or strategic, seemed to stem from a place of genuine interest, a desire to understand your world and perhaps to find common ground.

Even when the group settled down for the night, Polites's attentiveness didn't wane.

As the others succumbed to sleep or took up their watchful posts, he remained by your side, sharing stories under the blanket of stars. His tales of battles fought alongside Odysseus, of distant lands and fierce confrontations, offered a glimpse into his life beyond the armor and sword.

On one particularly windy night, as the campfire flickered and cast its glow on the weary faces of the slumbering soldiers, Polites drew closer to you.

With a thoughtful gesture, he unfurled the cape attached to his armor and draped it around the both of you, creating a shared warmth against the chill of the night.

There, beside the dwindling bonfire, with the sounds of the night around you and the rest of the troops lost in their dreams or watchful silence, a different kind of connection began to form.

The stories he told, imbued with his personal experiences, fears, and triumphs, resonated with you, bridging the gap between your worlds. His willingness to open up, to share the realities of his life beyond the battlefield, painted him in a more humane light, contrasting sharply with the silent, stoic figures of Odysseus and the other guards.

By the third day, with the cave's looming presence just a few hours away, your initial resolve began to waver. Polites' consistent kindness and attention gradually chipped away at the wall you had built around yourself; you found yourself engaging more with him, answering his questions, sharing glimpses of your life and views, which you hadn't expected to divulge.

His attentive nature, so starkly different from the others', made you see him in a new light—not just as a soldier but as someone who might truly be seeking understanding and connection.

The thought of guiding them into potential danger, particularly the danger represented by the giants' cave, made you question not only your mission but also the potential consequences of your actions for him and his companions.

As the ominous entrance of the cave loomed in the distance, you halted atop a hill, the wind carrying your firm words to the group of soldiers. "This is where I leave you," you declared, your voice echoing a mix of duty and unease. "I must return to my village."

The soldiers, heeding your announcement, resumed their march toward the cave, but Polites faltered, his steps slowing as he turned to cast a lingering glance in your direction. Odysseus, noticing his friend's hesitation, paused, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

Polites's internal struggle was evident, torn between his obligations and the connection he felt with you.

After a moment's contemplation, he jogged back to where you stood, his hand extended, revealing a small, shimmering coin. "This is an Ithaca gold coin," he explained as you examined the coin with a mix of curiosity and surprise. "Consider it a memento," he added, a gentle sincerity in his voice.

His next words were softer, imbued with a shy yet profound promise. "After we complete our journey, after I ensure Odysseus's safe return to his kingdom, I will come back for you," he vowed, his eyes searching yours for a reaction, revealing a budding warmth and longing.

In a fleeting moment, Polites leaned forward, his forehead gently pressing against yours, an intimate gesture that held significant meaning within your culture.

You felt a surge of emotion, your heart fluttering with a blend of surprise and warmth, as you realized he not only remembered this detail from your conversations over the past three days but also understood its deep significance.

This forehead touch, a symbol of profound trust and affection, was reserved for those you hold dear, those you would trust with your life.

The fact that Polites, a man from a world so different from your own, had not only remembered this but chose to express his farewell in such a manner, spoke volumes of his respect and growing affection for you.

Leaning back, Polites adds a tender kiss on your forehead; his hand then gently caressed the side of your face, a silent affirmation of the bond that had formed between you.

With a final, meaningful glance, Polites turned and hurried to rejoin his companions, leaving you with the weight of his promise and the gold coin in your hand.

After Polites's departure, you stood there, the Ithacan coin clutched tightly against your chest, a tangible reminder of the connection you'd just acknowledged. Odysseus's gaze lingered on you, his expression one of contemplation and perhaps, newfound respect.

Defensively, feeling the intensity of his stare, you challenged him with a sharp "What?" Odysseus exhaled deeply, his sigh carrying the weight of realization and regret.

"May the gods bless you," he finally said, offering a small nod of acknowledgment, a gesture that seemed to convey his admission of having misjudged you and your people. It was an apology, unspoken but clear in his demeanor.

As he turned to leave, your name on his lips as a farewell, you found yourself compelled to act. "Odysseus," you called out, causing him to pause and look back.

Approaching him with averted eyes, you reached into your satchel, the rustle of leaves underfoot marking your hesitant steps.

From your bag, you retrieved a lotus fruit, its familiar weight a contrast to the swirling emotions within you. Extending your hand, you offered the fruit to him, your voice a soft murmur, "Just in case you need it…" Your words trailed off, laden with an unspoken wish for his well-being, your gaze drifting past him, lingering on Polites.

There he was, amidst his fellow soldiers, his laughter a bright sound in the dense forest, his smile a vivid image that tugged at your heartstrings.

With that silent offering, you turned away, leaving Odysseus to contemplate the fruit in his hand, his expression a mix of gratitude and confusion.

As you walked back to your village, the gold coin Polites had given you felt heavy in your hand, a symbol of promise and longing.

Your steps were slow, each one a reluctant move away from the hilltop and the cave, away from the man who had unexpectedly captured your heart.

The promise of his return was a fragile thread of hope, and as the distance grew, you clung to it, letting the silent plea echo in your mind, a mantra to guide you through the days ahead…

Please come back to me, Polites...I'll be waiting.

A/N: my babbyyyyyy pollie 🥹❤️❤️❤️ also, testing out my hand at extravagant/poetic like descriptive writing for a college class, so forgive me if I went overboard with the imagery/visuals 🙈🙈

#xani-writes: polities fics #epic the musical #epic the ocean saga #epic the musical fanfic #jorge rivera herrans #the ocean saga #polites x reader #epic the musical x reader #greek mythology #greek gods #the odyssey #the odyssey x reader #polites x you #polites x y/n #etl #the troy saga #the cyclops saga

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lilacfiresoul · 6 months

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spring, april 1 -- @jegulus-microfic -- 619 words

They’d slept with the window open last night.

It was partially Regulus’ fault; the clocks had turned forward an hour, and he’d been up late, perched on the sloping roof watching the stars pass by, without realising twelve o’clock had turned into two, bypassing one am completely and hurtling Regulus into the next day without a moment’s breath.

One of the best things about living in a small village, in the middle of rural England, is that the light pollution staining the sky from distant cities doesn’t touch here, and Regulus can stare up at the sky and see stars twinkling back.

He’d climbed back inside shortly after, drowsy, completely forgetting to close the windows and curtains as he’d fallen back into bed with James.

Now, as Regulus is pulled from sleep by the sounds of birds chirping, the full onslaught of the sun hits him square in the face as he opens his eyes. Squinting, blinking away bright impressions on his irises, he lifts a hand up to block the light as he leans over to check the time.

Nine o’clock.

Spring is definitely here, and it’s not holding back.

James is still sleeping, on his stomach, his face turned towards Regulus, one arm curled up underneath the pillow to bunch it closer to his cheek. The bedsheets are gathered around his waist—clearly, he got too hot in the night and kicked them off—and the sunlight plays across the surface of his back, ducking between the divots of his spine, smoothing over the slope of his shoulders.

Regulus stares at him, James’ lips slowly parted as he breathes, eyelashes dark against his cheeks. Rays of sunlight dance between the strands of his hair, and he is a Greek god sleeping after a weary battle, Achilles or Apollo, racing with his chariot to pull up the sunrise, every muscle and bone sculptured from pure gold.

“I can feel you staring,” James murmurs. He doesn’t open his eyes, nor move, but he inhales deeply, his back rising and falling with his breath.

Regulus presses his lips together and doesn’t even try to stop his blush of embarrassment. “Can I not stare at my husband whilst he sleeps?”

James cracks open his eyes then, just one, to grin at Regulus before closing it again, snuggling further into the pillow. His voice comes out soft, tired. “Bit creepy, don’t you think? Stalker-ish.”

“We’ve been married for two years,” Regulus reminds him.

With a noise of contentment, one of James’ arms comes out from under the covers to drag Regulus over to him, pulling him into his body. Regulus is all too happy to settle there, tucking his face under James’ chin, breathing in the smell that is just purely James that he can’t describe to anyone else. James, in turn, presses his cheek into Regulus’ hair, his fingers moving to slightly trace lines down his back. It makes Regulus shiver.

“Oh, the window’s open,” James comments, voice still laced with sleep. “Did you leave it like that?”

“Yeah, I forgot to close it.”

One of their neighbours outside starts mowing their lawn, the repeated growl of the motor infiltrating into their bedroom for a few seconds before it purrs to life.

“It’s nine o’clock, you know,” Regulus tells James gently.

James hums, still running fingers along Regulus’ back. “So?”

“So,” Regulus continues. “Don’t you want to get up? It’s sunny out today.”

Neither of them move. James just sighs, pulling Regulus closer. “Five more minutes.”

It’s around one in the afternoon when they both finally get out of bed.

#frost's microfics #frost writing fluff for once?#who is she???#james potter is a greek god confirmed #james x regulus #jegulus fic #jegulus microfic #james potter x regulus black #marauders #jegulus

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catofadifferentcolor · 6 days

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Terrible Fic Idea #92: Percy/Apollo, but make it The Trojan War

Into every fandom, a time travel fic must fall - or in this case a second one, because I somehow got to thinking about the delightful PJO trope of Percy being thrown back in time to The Trojan War and realized that doing so misses out on a fantastic opportunity.

Or: What if post-TOA Percy Jackson and Apollo time travel to shortly before The Trojan War?

Just imagine it:

Everything follows canon through TOA, with one exception: rather than struggle to catch up in the mortal world following the Second Gigantomachy, Percy elects to stay at Camp Half-Blood. There he can homeschool at his own place with programs tailored towards ADHD children and still visit his family on the weekends - and not get into any more ridiculous situations in the mortal world when one of the gods kidnaps him or sends him on a quest to find their sneakers.

This, naturally, stresses his relationship with Annabeth - who, now that she's no longer living at camp full time, calls it the easy way out. But Percy is tired and struggling in mortal high school where everyone thinks he's a delinquent idiot when another option exists seems foolish. Percy and Annabeth break up and drift apart.

Enter Apollo, fresh from his latest stint as a mortal. He's trying to do his best by his children, which includes popping by camp as often as he can get away with - which in turn means spending a lot of time with Percy, who at this point is unofficially running CHB because it's not like Dionysus or even Chiron have done a brilliant job of it in recent times.

(First aid, strategy, and mythology classes are made mandatory. Percy personally ensures every demigod knows enough about self-defense to be able to survive long enough to run away or for help to arrive. Bullying is cracked down on so hard that it's this, not Percy's generally parental nature, that has people calling him Camp Mom.)

Percy and Apollo become friendly. Enough so that some of Apollo's kids assume they're dating and keeping it on the down-low so as not to draw Zeus' ire. Or Poseidon's. Or anyone else's. It's on one of their not-dates that they're yeeted into the past, without warning or explanation.

And so 19-year-old Percy Jackson and post-TOA Apollo find themselves in Ancient Greece c. 1220 BCE, roughly thirty-five years before the destruction of Troy.

The time travel is immediately obvious, as Apollo becomes the closest thing a god might experience to being high the moment they land in the past - being a powerful god in modern times is nothing like being a powerful god at the height of his power in ancient times. It's overwhelming (and somewhat alarming from Percy's POV, but kind of funny in retrospect.)

The specific date is harder to determine, but made clear when Hermes shows up and starts going on about you'll never believe what father's done now: he seduced the Spartan queen as a swan and she's laid an egg. Hera is furious - especially as they're saying the girl that hatched from it is the most beautiful in the world, even though she's only a few days old. It's nuts. By the way, where have you been? You missed the last two council meetings. Do you want Dad to punish you?

Apollo at this stage is very high. He's also been USTing over Percy for quite some time and is worried what the gods of this era might do to Percy without divine protection (smiting or seduction, it's all on the table). But mostly he's very high, and so to keep Percy close and safe he declares he's been off having the dirtiest of dirty weekends with his latest lover and that Hermes' presence is ruining the mood. So if he would kindly leave, please and thank you, he'd really rather get back to it without an audience.

This, naturally, is a surprise to Percy, but he rolls with it because 1) he doesn't have any better ideas on how to get rid of Ancient Greek Hermes so they can figure out what the hades is going on and 2) he's been USTing over Apollo ever since he recovered enough from Tartarus to start feeling attraction again.

Fueled by mutual UST, they put together a cover story that should hold the next time a god with too much prurient interest shows: Percy is now Prince Persē of Gadir - a Phoenician colony that will grow into the future Cadiz - well past the edge of the Greek world at this stage but not beyond belief for Poseidon to have visited, as it's obvious who his father is. They claim his mother is the King of Gadir's youngest sister and as such Persē had a royal upbringing, but was far enough down the line of succession that he was free to chose to sail east and explore his father's homeland. Apollo caught sight of him on his journey, one thing led to another, and here they are.

(Are there easier, more sensible cover stories? Possibly. But the UST refuses to let them consider any of them now that a fake relationship is on the table.)

Deciding what to do about The Trojan War is much harder. On the one hand, it's a lot of senseless death and destruction. On the other, without it we don't get The Iliad and The Odyssey - two of the most influential works of literature in western civilization - and Aeneas doesn't go off to Italy (leading to the founding of Rome, which would change the history of western civilization a lot). In the end, they decide to let the war happen but do their best to mitigate the worst parts of it.

And so Percy goes off and becomes a hero of Ancient Greece while pretending to be in a relationship with Apollo.

This stage of things is filed with angst from both parties, as both Percy and Apollo want a real relationship with each other but think they're abusing the other's trust by eagerly faking their relationship. There's a lot of PDA, a lot of feelings, and limited communication. It goes on for quite a while and would probably exasperate quite a few people if everyone in the know didn't think they were already in a relationship.

It's also filled with modern day Percy being confronted by realties of life in Ancient Greece. It's not just mortals knowing about - and interacting with - the gods: it's everything. It's food and clothes and language and culture and housing and travel. He can play a lot off it as being a traveler from the edge of the known world, but some of it has him asking Apollo if he's being rick rolled.

Apollo, meanwhile, is having troubles of his own. He is not the god he used to be and it's hard pretending otherwise. He tries to walk the line of doing enough to be believable and holding back enough not to despise himself, but it's a fine line, he fails often, and he spends a not insignificant amount of time worried he's backsliding.

And so it goes until 7-year-old Helen of Troy is kidnapped by Theseus to be his wife.

This, naturally, does not fly with Percy, who by this time has built up something of a reputation as a hero. He teams up with the Dioscuri to rescue Helen.

One would think this would earn him Zeus' favor. It doesn't. Instead, Zeus sends monsters to harry him for refusing to let Castor and Pollux take Helen's captors' loved ones captive and raze Aphidna for Theseus' crime. Percy manages to hold his own for quite a while but eventually, exhausted from the near-constant fighting, is gored and left for dead by the reformed Minotaur.

...and when Apollo arrives, frantic, to heal him, Percy ascends instead, becoming the greek version of Saint Sebastian - a minor god of heroes, strength in the face of adversity, and athleticism; sort of halfway between Hercules and Chiron.

Then and only then do Percy and Apollo finally get their act together, confessing to each other how much they care for the other and how much they don't want this to be fake any longer.

History proceeds apace - albeit with Persē being a second immortal trainer of heroes.

24 years after their arrival in the past, 16 years after Percy's ascension, The Trojan War begins. Despite their best efforts, there's only so much they can do - war is war and gods are gods. They are able to stop some of the worst excesses on both sides, but in the end Apollo still sends the plague that causes Agamemnon to take Briseis for his own, which caused Achilles' departure from the field, Patroclus' death, &c - not because Apollo was trying to maintain the timeline, but because in the instant he sent it he was angry and reverted to his old ways.

Troy falls...

...but when Zeus tries to use this as an excuse to ban gods from interacting with their demigod children, Apollo is able to say that's a bit extreme isn't it? with enough backing from the rest of the council that Zeus is forced to amend his ruling so that the gods are only allowed to freely visit their children on the "cross quarter days" that fall between each solstice and equinox (1 February, 1 May, 1 August, and 1 November).

This changes everything and nothing.

Time continues its inevitable march. Greece has its golden age before being conquered by Rome, which splits apart under its own weight and forms several smaller countries, which eventually spread their cultures around the world...

Apollo and Percy are there for it all. Persē is a minor figure in mythology, but never forgotten. He is ever-present in Apollo's temples - though the Church will later try to rewrite their myth so that they were merely sworn fighting partners, rather than lovers who eventually had a quite lovely wedding on Olympus (and then, at Poseidon's insistence, an even bigger ceremony on Atlantis). Percy takes over day-to-day operations of CHB from practically the moment the Trojan War ends.

...and so Persē is there the day Sally Jackson tries to get her son to camp, and is able to intervene when the Minotaur attacks on their border. He's able to meet her and her young son, Perseus ("Mom named me after you and the guy that killed Medusa since you're the only two heroes to have happy endings!"), and guide him through the trials that come with being a child of prophecy.

One day that Percy will hand Luke - who was never happy with the limited attention the gods were allowed to give their children - a cursed dagger so that Kronos can be defeated. That child will be offered godhood, turn it down, and go on to have a happy life with his eventual wife, Annabeth. He will never have his memories erased and be sent to Camp Jupiter. Gaia will not rise until long after that Percy's grandchildren are dead, and Zeus will not be quite so bullheaded when the proof of it is brought before him. That Second Gigantomachy is swift, well-coordinated, and fought without another Greek/Roman war brewing in the background.

And when they finally arrive at the day Apollo and Percy were originally sent back in time, Percy admits that while he is happy some version of him was better prepared for the war he was asked to fight in and allowed his peace afterward, he would change nothing about his own life, for it brought him to Apollo. The sunrise the next morning - on the first morning of the rest of their lives - is particularly spectacular.

Bonuses include:

Gaslighting Poseidon into believing that he's met Percy before the first time they're introduced. ("What do you mean you don't remember me, Father? You were present when I came of age! You gifted me this trident! Have I displeased you in some way?") It's an absolute masterclass that eventually manages to convince Poseidon that, yes, of course he knows Percy - and, maybe, he should check in on all his other demigod children to make sure he's not missed someone. (Two. He lost track of two of the others. Maybe he should be more careful about siring children in the future.) Apollo practically has to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing.

As much historical accuracy as can be crammed into the Percy trying to make sense of Ancient Greece chapters as possible. Think Of a Linear Circle - Part III by flamethrower levels of historical research. As much as can be shoehorned in without bogging down the plot.

Percy and Dionysus bonding over their mutual dislike of Theseus, though Percy generally gets along with his other half-siblings, especially the ones who come to camp young enough to keep from getting big heads over being the children of Poseidon.

Though Percy adores all the children in Cabin 7 (most of whom are born via blessing this time around), he and Apollo have at least one child of their own - maybe a demigod born before Percy's ascension to sell their fake relationship? Maybe a minor god who's later attributed a different parentage by mortals? Dealer's choice on details.

It never being made clear who, or what, or how, Percy and Apollo were sent into the past. All of Percy's oddities are attributed to him being foreign or formerly mortal, all of Apollo's to the fact that he's in love with someone who didn't die before their first anniversary, and no one ever guesses time travel is responsible for their eccentricities. Or that time travel was ever an option.

And that's all I have. As always, feel free to adopt, just link back if you ever decide to do anything with it.

More PJO Ideas | More Terrible Fic Ideas

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fumifooms · 3 days

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Thinking about them…

#Dungeon meshi #laios touden #touden family #Toudad and momden #The laifam. The touuu… tou… toudamily? Help idk #Laios holding onto his dad like that after a near death experience after he ran away from his warnings gets to me so bad.#Dad does care dad was so worried and he WOULD stick with u thick and thin he just thinks about ur sake #w momden i also almost put the exorcising Falin thing instead but that wasn’t Laios centric enough #I’ve been writing a laios pov family angst fic lately i’ll be posting it real soon #Gonna be called Push the deciduous out of my gums you’ll know it when u see it #Sigh. Isn’t it neat how the Toudens are scandinavians but Toudad has an interest in myths so he gave his dogs and Laios greek names #That “he never told me anything” panel is prob my fave touden family moment like god what good framing what good hollowness in the delivery #Momden having debilitating anxiety but caring so so much and being overprotective and overdoing it my beloved. Peeking in on them eating #Dad too busy and mom too bedridden to share meals :(#Is the mama reading book pic very tiny and blurry? Yes. Do I have a better resolution of it? No #Could that be a servant peeking in and not their mom? Yes. Do I believe so? No

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ameagrice · 3 months

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Percy Jackson x fem reader

chapter thirty-two I see trouble on the way.

There wasn’t an exact word to describe the way Chiron looked at you, that summer. Months and years down the line, you still couldn’t place it. That weary look, like watching something play out that you can’t really put a stop to. Of course, then you couldn’t have known. Not amongst friends, at your cabin table.

“Barbecue chicken wings!”

The food sprouted on the plate, a magic you’d never grown used to seeing. Newcomer Clarissa, a girl with extravagant blue hair, blinked, jaw-dropped.

“Twenty barbecue chicken wings!”

“Greedy-guts,” Annabeth chided beside you, munching on a side of lettuce.

You shoved three wings in your mouth at once, side-eying her. “You’re eating rabbit food.”

Your eyes lifted to the head table, where Chiron talked with an expressionless face to the new guy beside him, in an orange colour of the fruit itself. “I don’t like him.”

“You haven’t even talked to him,” Annabeth stabbed her fries with a fork.

“I don’t have to. Something’s off.”

Your sister groaned at your side, reaching for one of your chicken wings. Your mouth gaped, a sound of protest that she ignored. “Don’t start with ‘the vibes are off’ again.”

“Vibes are very important!” You rebutted.

He happened to be a man in at least his early to mid-fifties, short as anything and skinny, too, with a mess of dark-grey stubble around his jaw and a thin layer of hair on his head. Talking to Chiron, he might have looked like any random convict. But you weren’t convinced he was harmless.

“Seriously, though. The vibes are off. Don’t you think? You’ve been here all summer with him haven’t you?”

Annabeth’s bright eyes raised to the man in question for a fraction of a second, before lowering to her food, pushing fries around with the fork in her grip. “Quintus is…difficult. You should be careful with what you say around him. Especially you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“It means,” she lowered her tone, as if it was a super-secret secret. “I don’t trust him…particularly, and I know you always have a lot to say. Besides, something’s happening, can’t you feel it? Nobody trusts Quintus the way we should, since he came out of nowhere. Somebody mentioned the Oracle and he went crazy, he shut ‘em down. You have to keep your mouth shut this year, okay? Don’t disrespect the Gods, and don’t talk back to him.”

Being serious wasn’t in your nature, but you tried, for your sister’s sake. “Sure.”

“I’m serious.”

“No, you’re Annabeth.” Clarissa choked on her food, while Annabeth rolled her eyes.

It was a total pain that, not long after arriving, you had cabin inspection. A bore, grinding your nerves that you had to clean a cabin full of mess that wasn’t even yours—but Annabeth told you to quit whining, so you did, figuring you’d annoyed her enough already. Every afternoon for the first week, a senior counsellor came around with a checklist for every cabin. Thanks to your team efforts, you got the hot, clean showers first every time. Unfortunately for Percy, he fell somewhere around the middle-bottom league. You asked for snacks in return for your cleaning efforts, putting your home skills to use. Your best friend carried through on his promise—goods from the cabin store delivered promptly to your cabin every week.

Somewhere between the end of the first week and the weekend, you dipped your fingers in the lake water, watching the dark trailing swirls as you moved. Your ankle gently tapped Percy’s in the water, sitting at the end of the walkway. You can’t help noticing how much more grown up he looks this year. Older than you—you can’t seem to shed your baby face and freckles. Eyebrow waxing and tinting can only do so much.

“You know,” you say quietly, into the evening stars. “I think the Oracle wants to see me.”

Percy remains quiet at your confession. In the water’s reflection, you watch him nod. Maybe he thought this was a continuation of your want to see the future, carried through from last season. This time is very different, you want to tell him. Because this time, you feel it in your body that your time is here.

Dark curls gently sway with the movement of his nod. Even at fifteen years old, Percy respects your wishes, even if he doesn’t agree with them. “Want me to come with you?” Just being there is enough for him. There are no questions, with Percy. He understands you, and the way you talk. There is a mutual understanding that he’s there if you want, and there anyway. There is an underlying message in his words: I’m here if you need me to be.

“Yeah,” you dip your head, to your fingers laying just beside each others, not touching. “I’d like that.”

Intuition as a demigod means a lot. It can help the demigod avoid dangerous situations, or get them to act appropriately in time. In a few years from now, walking, lonely, along a shoreline yearning for someone who isn’t there, you’ll remember this moment, and question your own sanity. On the other side of the water will be a boy, sitting and praying on his knees in the sand, for your return. You’ll feel a million miles away yet so close, just the way you do now. This moment, in the present, feels so prominent and so odd that you commit it to memory, for later. Later always comes too soon. You shouldn’t get so caught up in the past, you hear a woman’s voice telling you. You want to scream until your throat feels raw; so why is the past always catching up to me? We live in memories; they shape you, they guide you—maybe that’s why you eventually feel so lost.

The next day, you kick yourself into action. You set about making a sword from scratch in the armoury (and bribing some Hecate kids to charm it for you, to a bracelet, or something. You haven’t quite decided yet). Something in the style of Percy’s sword would be beneficial.

“Do you think there’s a reason why my sword works so well with you?” The boy mutters, hanging upside down on the dock at night, cicadas singing all around. “Back at the school, I mean. You just…used it like it weighed nothing. It came to you.”

There probably is a reason. Chiron would know. But for now, you’re young, and you don’t care.

You go down to the training arena the next evening and watch newcomer Quintus fight against Percy—practicing. The older man might try to come across as harmless, and friendly, but there’s something you really can’t place your finger on.

“Good try,” the man nods. “But your guard is too low, Percy.”

Said boy parries back, undeterred. “Have you always been a swordsman?”

“I’ve been many things.”

And if that wasn’t strange enough, the purple insignia on his neck was. In the shape of a bird, the symbol sat against his stark skin like a terrible bruise. A reminder, he called it, when Percy asked. You decide you don’t want to know much more. You’ve made your mind up about the man.

The evening that you’ve made up your mind on going to the Oracle, something strange is in the air. It feels different, like it had when Ares met you in the diner your first quest, and the way it had when you ran away from home. Something was changing—had changed. When you raise your eyes to Chiron, talking with an animated Connor Stoll at his table, he raises his gaze like he’d been expecting you. He knows that you feel something is wrong, and you know that he understands what you mean. It’s a sure sign that this isn’t you being paranoid—this is real. Something is coming, and you wish you could avoid it with all your heart. Chiron shakes his head, curls jostling at his shoulders, a silent warning for you to be quiet—to let it be. He’s handling it.

In the middle of the dining place, striking across the floor, sits the crack where Nico di Angelo brought forth the dead. Since then, he’s been missing. And nobody will let you look for him. His grief showed his true colours, a hidden talent buried deep down. If Bianca hadn’t have passed, poor Nico would be here, and happy. He’d be safe.

Annabeth jokingly digs her hand into your side. Ticklish, you almost elbow her. “Shift it! I’m starving!” You draw your eyes away from the past, though it’s staring you right in the face.

You fall asleep that night with your fingers still against the edge of the curtain that stops right above your pillow, playing with it to watch the stars above camp. When you manage to drift off, feeling heavy and tired, you only hear words in the darkness.

“An exchange. A soul for a soul. A soul that should have died already. Someone who has cheated death.”

You can’t help but think, that’s you.

So you pull on a jacket and shoes, and slip from your cabin, trailing across camp in the quiet of night, taking in the sheer silence. In the distance, Festus snored and the Golden Fleece glowed, but that passed as you took the steps to the Big House, creaking under your feet. The lights inside are on, as they always are—the Big House is never closed. And somebody is always awake.

Unfortunately, tonight, the someone you want is not awake. Mr. D. is. You’re about to turn around when he blinks up from his magazine at the table, and waves his hand briefly. The door flies open, whacking the wall unapologetically. You stand, in mismatched socks and a saggy jacket, unimpressed.

“Where’s the manager?” You ask, folding your arms.

“That would be me.”

You scoff, stepping inside. “Bullshit.”

Inside, the lights are on, the house like a beacon. It smells of alcohol and coffee, though Mr. D. can’t drink ethanol. The scent lingers with him, like the smell of Cola. He sits in a too-big, starry shirt with red cheeks and bright orange pants. A fashion icon, on a different planet. A warm breeze drifts in from the open doorway, brushing your bare legs. The animal on the wall, above the chair where a clock also sits, stares at you, judging.

“I really need to speak to Chiron.”

“Not Quintus?” He lazily raises his brows. You laugh through your nose, shoving your hands inside your pockets. As you begin to walk the space, you blink at the dirt on your shoes, thinking.

“No. I’d rather jump off a cliff.” You stop. Pulling out a chair at the table, you sit heavily, legs outstretched, an arm over the back of the chair. You don’t look up. “I had a dream about that kid, Nico. He isn’t lost—he’s following someone’s orders. And we need to go get him. Someone wants to exchange lives—a soul for a soul. They said, someone who has skipped out on death.”

Silence fills the space. You look up, from your shoes. Mr. D. shrugs. “Okay?”

Fury fills you. “Okay? That’s all you got? Call for a quest!” You exclaim, getting to your feet. “Help Nico! A soul for a soul clearly means me. Did you just ignore the last quest altogether? How many times did I nearly die?”

His watery eyes blink, face unbothered. Mr. D. leans back on the sofa, flicking his magazine again. He hums. “How should I know?”

“You should! You should know these things. Please just…help me out, here. Get Chiron to call for a quest. Let me talk to the Oracle. We can save Nico! We can fix this! He’s a kid…he shouldn’t be out there alone. Someone is clearly controlling him. And personally, I think it’s a god.”

Now, he looks up. Those eyes harden. He doesn’t do anything, but the air shifts, changes, and you hate it. “Do you, now?”

“Yes,” you sigh slowly, watching carefully. Men can be unpredictable, you’ve learned that. Gods? A little bit more so. “Just…let me do this. Let me fix things before they get worse. Please.”

You plead the same way with Chiron, later that morning. “I know this is meant for me. This is my quest. My chance. Chiron, I swear. I feel this in my bones. We have to do something, because something big is happening. Nico needs somebody to help him, and someone powerful has risen. I’ve dreamt it. I feel it. And I know that you do, too. If you don’t believe me, let me talk to the Oracle! Talk to Percy. He knows about this. He knows how I feel about it all—!”

“Stop.” Chiron utters quietly. He cuts your rising tone in half, and you fall silent, waiting. He looks at you the same way that he has since you arrived—like you’re headed for your grave, and he’s trying to stop it. He sits looking out across the porch, across camp. “Go back to your cabin. Inspection’s due to start, is it not? I’m sure Annabeth would like your help—”

And…you finally snap. You swipe a hand over your hair, tugging on the ends. “Why does nobody listen to me?! I know that you can feel something is wrong. I know. If you’d just let me talk to the Oracle. Just this once. And I’ll stop. If nothing happens, I’ll leave it all alone,” you step forward, so you’re leaning on the railing, breathing deeply, waiting for his reaction. “We both know, though, that something will happen. You’re just scared of it.”

Later, you’ll realise, looking at a young boy on a rooftop, just why Chiron was scared. He was scared for all you heroes, then and always. Heroes die terrible deaths; they get hurt, and they don’t recover. They live difficult but happy lives. It’s the hard parts, he doesn’t like.

“We don’t all die,” you urge. “We don’t all suffer. If you let me do this, I’ll come back from wherever I’ll go. I’ll bring Nico back. I’ll fix all of this! You have to trust me on this one. I’ve had dreams. Nightmares. I know what’s coming, and what will happen if I don’t do something. You’ve always said that intuition is right, as a demigod. Isn’t that one of the first things you told me? Told Percy? Right now, my intuition is telling me that I have to do this! Please believe me.”

Waiting for his response is more nerve-wracking than spilling your thoughts to him at a million miles an hour. He holds a thousand-yard stare, like he’s seeing past you. Who is he seeing, you wonder? Which hero do you remind him of?

Chiron inhaled heavily, exhaling slowly. He looks tired. “You remind me…so much of your mother. So persistent to do the right thing. Not always the good thing, but the right. You young heroes…I will think about it. We have more pressing matters, right now. An Aethiopian Drakon was spotted this morning walking the camp border. We know Luke has made plans to invade, and my guess is this is the start of that idea. Quintus has suggested we have a round of war games tonight. You should tell Annabeth and Sienna, they’ll want to prepare no doubt…”

At breakfast, Quintus announces the war games after dinner. Annabeth yaps about how long it’s been since the last one. Clarissa tiredly asks what the war games are like. The conversation with Chiron plays on your mind while you scrape your offerings into the fire. A bit of toasted bagel and strawberries. The brightness of the flames reflect off your plate, grateful that you’re late to breakfast and there’s nobody waiting behind you.

“Help me get what I want, mom. We both know I’m meant for this. Let me save Nico. Let me save us.”

Whether she’ll listen—whether she even heard—is one thing, and carrying out on your wishes is another. A part of you wants to think about all the times she didn’t help you. But another part thinks of all the times she did, and you have a slither of hope that Athena will hear your desperation and help you out.

You remind me so much of your mother. You have lots in common, then. Maybe she’ll realise you’re more alike than either of you thought.

You turn and cast your gaze across the pavilion. Connor and Travis are throwing food across the table, so you’re not going there. At your table, Annabeth is staring at the sky like it’s the answer to all her problems. Silena Beauregard is sobbing her heart out at her haircut, so you’ll avoid her today. Finally, Percy and Grover. Percy in typical fashion of creased blue tee and jeans, and Grover chewing on lettuce, his horns poking through his curly hair. At the head table, Chiron is standing, not in the wheelchair, tall and…already watching. Maybe he does it on purpose—he just leaves. Campers shouldn’t sit at other tables, sitting with your own cabin is a where you should be.

You approach Percy, anyway, slinking onto the bench. Grover smiles at you, and you can’t tell if you’re paranoid or if Chiron has mentioned your talk this morning. Maybe you’re losing it—because you swore, hands down, that you talked to Mr. D. last night, and according to Chiron, he isn’t even at camp.

“What are we talkin’ about?” You pick at your bagel, eyeing Percy’s much more appealing chocolate pop tarts.

“Chiron wants Percy to convince me,” Grover utters, spearing his breakfast with a fork.

“Convince you of what?”

A plate smacks down on the table, rattling the dishes already there. Annabeth climbs over the bench and plonks down, reaching over you to steal one of Percy’s pop tarts. You have half a mind to snatch it back.

“I’ll tell you what it’s about,” Annabeth said. “The Labyrinth.”

You look between the three of them. “Labyrinth? Are we talking, like, Theseus’s Labyrinth? Ariadne, and shit?”

“Exactly that.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Percy hushes. “Either of you.”

“We all need to talk!” Annabeth insists.

“But the rules…” he frowns.

You shove the rest of your bagel in your mouth. “Rules-shmules. Cut to the point—I had a dream about Nico di Angelo, and he’s working with some psycho to exchange souls. He’s being controlled by someone. Last night, the Apollo kids went out to get rid of the drakon in the woods. I’ve had a weird feeling for weeks now that something’s coming and something has changed, and all of this is happening after Luke came up with the plans to invade and take over. Coincidence? I think not. We need to do something.”

Annabeth hums. “When you pair all that with the fact that Grover’s in trouble, and the Labyrinth we found this summer over in the woods? It’s all connected. It has to be. I think the only way we can figure it all out is by going into the Labyrinth. It didn’t appear for no reason, right? Clarisse found it by total accident, and we’ve been trying to investigate it all summer. We only get so far, though…”

“So,” Percy prodded. “It’s not under the king’s palace in Crete anymore. It’s actually under some random building in America?”

“It was never just under the palace, though,” you think aloud. “It was sprawling. It existed for so long before Theseus went inside that it just…adapted. Changed. If it grew there, chances are it isn’t just under some building in America. It’s probably everywhere. Just like Olympus moves with societal changes, and how an Underworld entrance is in L.A.”

“So, is the Labyrinth a part of the Underworld?”

It’s Annabeth’s turn to be confused. Grover shook his curly head. “No. There are probably passages leading down to the Underworld in the maze, but they’re not totally connected. Think of them as…alleys between streets. The Labyrinth is basically just under the surface of the mortal world, like a second skin. It’s been growing for thousands of years. It’s connected everything everywhere. You can get practically anywhere using the Labyrinth.”

It only occurs to you, then, that, “The Labyrinth that opened in camp…is Luke’s way in. It’s how he’s going to invade everywhere. He’s got it all planned to a T. Luke must have connections in camp, because the entrance to the Labyinth wasn’t here a few months ago. Someone has to be feeding him information on how it works, where it starts and ends. How to get inside. But who?”

It all clicks into place perfectly.

You’re your mother’s daughter, alright.

As it so happened, Chiron wanted Grover to explore the maze. Clarisse spent the summer inside of it, trying to get a feel for where it led to, the entrances and exits. It’s always changing, according to her, and she got lost a couple times. Chris Rodriguez went insane down there, says Annabeth. He’s still insane. But no other advancements have been made. Because nobody can find the entrances outside, or the exits inside. Grover still wants to find the god, Pan, and believes that the maze might be the only way to find him. But Grover is Grover, and he knows how he feels, so the maze isn’t a match. Annabeth urges him to go and keep looking. But…everyone knows something is wrong. Off.

When Quintus cleared his throat far too many times to be a sore throat, Annabeth got the hint and took you over with her to your own table.

“Convince him, will you?” She asks Percy, linking her arm with yours to pull your unwilling self along. “Talk to him.”

You eye Quintus and try to decide whether you’re a paranoid schizophrenic. Mr. D. would tell you straight. But he’s not here, and so says Annabeth, he never was. There’s excitement and unsettlement buzzing in your body, like you’re gearing up for something you don’t know about just yet. Sometimes, the body knows before the brain does, and it’s never wrong.

That evening, Quintus ordered the Capture The Flag armour to be handed out. Suited up and waiting for his orders, everyone crowded as the sun began to set, burning orange over the treeline. The mood among the campers was a lot more serious than when you played Capture The Flag.

“Right!” Quintus said, standing on the head table. “Gather round.” He dressed in black leather and bronze armour, like something from the past and the future mixed into one. Throwing in his greying hair into the mix was like seeing a ghost. The giant puppy (supposedly dangerous) that was Mrs O’Leary bounded and barked around Quintus, eating scraps off the floor. “You will be in teams of two—WHICH HAVE ALREADY BEEN DECIDED.” People began to grab at their friends and scream names, until he yelled over them.

“Awwwww!” Came a chorus of disappointment.

“The goal is simple: collect the gold laurels without dying.”

You lean over subtly to Percy, though you can’t just whisper in his ear anymore, he’s got so tall. “We do that every day.”

“The wreath is wrapped in the silk package tied to the backs of the monsters. There are six of these monsters, each has a silk package. Your goal is to find the wreath before the other teams. And…of course, you will have to slay the monster to get it, and not die.”

“Neat,” you mutter. It sounds straight forward enough. Around you, people agreed.

“I will now announce your partners. There’ll be no switching. No complaining. And NO trading.”

He went on to list the pairs, from a terrified Grover and spooked Tyson, to Clarisse and Joan, to Annabeth and Mason, to Connor and Travis, and you and Percy.

Percy grinned at you. “Nice.”

You shoulder-barged him so hard his armour turned ski-whif. You twirled your dagger between your fingers with what you could describe as utter skill, heading into the woods. The teams spread out, some walking, some sprinting. Percy held his sword at his side, and you were almost jealous of it. It was still light when you got into the woods properly but the height and density of the trees made it darker and colder than it really was.

“I spy with my little eye,” Percy spun in a circle. “Uhhhh…something beginning with T.”

“Trees.” You side-eyed him.

“Smarty-pants. Your turn.”

“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with P.” You hone in on the distant scuttling.

Percy gasps dramatically. “It’s a Percy!”

Your hand flies for his sword-side wrist. “No—package. Run!”

If this were a fun game, you might have run after the package strapped to the back of the creature. However…you were really quite scared. These creatures were huge, bigger than normal monsters, scorpions altered with huge pincers and poison dripping from their sides. When one came, three more followed. How on earth were you supposed to fight them all off? You nearly tripped over backward as Percy yanked on your armour. You scrambled to keep up with him, dirt flicking up off the ground. Another creature came out from that way, too, leaving you back-to-back with Percy.

“They don’t look happy,” he said.

“Absolutely not,” you agree.

You move slowly to be side-by-side instead, moving in the one direction the monsters aren’t keeping you stuck in. Your feet shift back, the ground declining. Percy, in front of you, trusts you to guide him, deflecting a hiss of poison with the flat of his sword just in time to catch it before it landed on your face. You exhale slowly, reaching your dagger hand behind you, catching on the side of a large rock, taller than the both of you, and one on the other side. The space between the two is slim, but with the creatures closing in on you, any sort of coverage is better than none.

“Bit tight there, no?” Percy suggests nervously, reaching his free hand up to his shoulder where your hand rests up on his armour, guiding.

“Cover is cover, man. Oh, that’s a bit steep—”

Before you can say another word, the ground under your feet gives way. All the breath leaves your lungs in the sudden, unexpected fall. Percy yells, shocked, falling backward into pure darkness. You land on hard ground, your armour taking most of the impact. Slightly winded, you sit up and rely on Percy to help you up, staring at the hole you fell through, the light sky and scorpions peering down to you. The boy next to you breathes frantically, panicking.

It couldn’t get any worse, right?

Wrong. You watch in total disbelief, the hole knitting together and closing up to leave you both in the pitch black. The make of Percy’s sword provides a tiny glimmer of a glow, casting between your faces—his wide-eyed, unblinking and yours terrified.

“Percy—”

“Don’t panic. It’s—it’s fine.”

Your voice rises to a high pitch. “Where are we?!”

“Well, we’re in a hole.” His voice shakes in response.

It’s freezing down here, and damp. You take a step back, dropping your dagger. It clatters and echoes in both directions. Your palms fly back as you lean and hit a wall, sliding them across dewy concrete. A breeze blows from one direction, whistling, all the way down to the other. The space doesn’t feel tight. When you reach your hand out to find Percy in the darkness, you can’t feel him.

“Are you there?” You whisper, throat tightening.

“Right here,” he gulps, and warm fingertips land in your hair. You slide your hand up to meet his wrist and don’t let go. His pulse flutters furiously under your tight fingers. “The whole woods, and four monsters come right to us. We’re like magnets.”

“Just you, man. Son of Poseidon ‘n all.”

“Glad you find this funny.”

“I’m glad you’re glad.”

As the two of you calm down ever so slightly, you push off the wall, still holding Percy, and reach for his sword, turning the material’s dim light this way and that. It doesn’t do much. “What is this? Maintenance tunnels?”

You want to laugh. But something weak and nervous has settled on your chest. “Percy…I think we’re in the Labyrinth.” The ground beneath your feet feels like brickwork, jolty, uneven. “Safe from scorpions, anyway.”

“This is new. Has to be. We would have known if there were caves here. Surely?…”

You nod, sniffing. “Definitely.” You thought of the crack made by Nico in the dining pavilion. Had the two of you made this? But how? It didn’t seem right. You lower your hand from Percy’s sword, and he slides his hand down…into your own clammy palm, off his wrist. Eyes widening, you don’t question it. He keeps his hand there. Percy shifts the sword light.

“It’s a long room,” he mutters.

“It’s not a room,” you realise. “It’s a corridor.” The darkness felt emptier in front and behind, and you had the terrible, crawling feeling that something was watching. If this was the maze, it would make sense: the maze is alive, after all.

He took a step forward, slipping your hand away. “Don’t!” You cried, a little too loudly, partially out of worry for danger but mostly so as not to be left alone. “Don’t go down there. We need to just…find an exit. We need to get out.”

If he sensed your panic—which, being Percy, he definitely did—he tried to calm you. “It’s okay,” he tried, somewhat soft. “It’s right—there…oh.”

You tried to think rationally under the rising terror. If this really was the maze, who was the maker? You sift through hours of books and facts and history mentally in seconds, working at a thousand mental miles an hour. The original maker, would have been Daedalus—the father of Icarus. Ancient Greeks and their creations…

“There has to be some sort of exit here,” you utter, trailing your hand up the wall. You let go of Percy’s and brush both across the dewy walls. “A mark, maybe? Daedalus was a creator. All creator’s leave their trademark, I think. If we’re talking Ancient Greece then it’s probably a Greek letter or…sign…something.” You liked to assume the trademark would be something to feel, and close by. You heard Percy copying you without question. You know one another by now, and how each other works. You often lead—Percy often follows. It’s a level of trust you’ve had no choice but to build on over the years. Act first, question later.

His unsure tone came forth in the darkness. “I’m not—”

“Got it!” A eureka! moment brings relief, and a bit of weight falls from your shoulders. A dented brick in the wall, in the shape of the ancient Delta—a small L. It began to glow bright blue when you pressed into it. You’d have smiled if you weren’t so worried. The roof slid open, dirt falling in atop of you. You’d been expecting scorpions and sunlight, not…stars, and the dark sky. Elatedness turns into sheer and utter bafflement. Metal ladder rungs speared out of the wall, to the opening in the ceiling. People were screaming your names, some distantly, some close by. Percy glanced nervously to you, and nodded to the ladder.

Humid air greeted you. Up on the surface, the ground closed over again, like it had never fallen open in the first place. Percy, crouched, brushed his hand over the place there should have been a gash. Nothing.

“Where the hell have you two been?” Clarisse rounded into your space, face like fury. “We’ve been looking forever!” She demanded.

Maybe it was how you shook, leaning against the rock. It might have been the paleness of Percy’s face.

“We were only gone five minutes,” he said.

Chiron trotted up, followed by Annabeth and a new camper. “You guys okay?” She asked, breathing deep.

“We’re fine,” Percy got to his feet. “We fell into a hole.” People looked skeptically to him, but you opened your mouth.

“Honest.” Chiron looked like his worst fears were coming to life. “We were out here just fighting those scorpions and then the ground just opened. Didn’t feel that long down there, but obviously…”

“You’ve been missing for nearly three hours,” Chiron ran a hand over his face. “The game is over.”

“Yeah,” Annabeth piped up. “We nearly won. Until Tyson fell on me.”

You eyed the golden laurels Clarisse wore. Usually, she’d brag and flaunt in typical Ares-kid fashion. This time, the girl stood judging. “It just opened?” She repeated.

“Chiron, maybe we should talk about this somewhere else? At the Big House?” Said Annabeth.

Clarisse pushed further into the circle. “You found it, didn’t you? You went into the maze!”

You turned your head in a short tilt, scoffing. “Yeah. Yeah, we found it…”

Campers grew rowdy, yelling questions and firing anxiety. Chiron held his hand up and it grew quiet. “Tonight is not the right time, and this is not the right place.” He stared at the giant rock formations like they were dangerous. “All of you, back to your cabins. Get some sleep. You played well, but it’s well past curfew!”

There was a lot of complaining and mumbling, but campers dwindled and retreated to their cabins, no doubt going to talk about your missing evening with Percy.

“That explains what Luke is after,” Clarisse shrugged.

You froze. “So I was right, this morning—we found Luke’s invasion route into camp?”

If looks could kill, you’d be back in that hole. Annabeth nodded, staring at you. Clarisse popped off on a spiralling theory, and Percy pressed his hand into your shoulder. Chiron had turned grey, face stony.

You didn’t know, then.

You’d just just started digging your own grave.

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wonderb0n · 9 months

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sigh

the real culprit behind the current misinformation surrounding greek mythology is the mass consumption of altered or adapted content.

our main example being the obsessive fascination with giving to the myth of Hades and Persephone characteristics already existing in the great unfortunately forgotten myth of Eros and Psyche. in this essay I will-

#greek mythology #greek gods #greek myth retellings #hades and persephone #eros and psyche #i literally have a ppt about this #in this essay i will #yes i’m talking to you #lore olympus #oh the damage you’ve made #every time i remember i get angrier #might write a hualian retelling of this #hualian fic #xie lian #hua cheng #not sure yet maybe if i get pressured i’ll do something #i should go to bed

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phantoms-world-and-more · 11 months

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Danny gets ghost adopted by both Clockwork and Pandora. He gets to learn more about his role as Ghost Prince and the Ancient of Space. He also gets introduced to the Greek gods. Tucker hacks into and takes down a GIW satellite allowing the world and the Justice League to learn about Amity Park. Danny gets recuirted by them, well during a mission Danny gets captured and the league is shocked when multiple Greek Gods show up to help rescue him

#fic prompt #daily prompt #dc x dp #dp x dc #funny #greek gods

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idontknowwhatimdoinglol · 5 months

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Can I request a Hermes x Reader x Dionysus?

Hermes x reader x Dionysus (kisses) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

you lay on a pile of pillows, with Dionysus laying his head on your chest. both his cheetahs lying there with you, one purring in their sleep from the soft pets you gave her, and the other laying on top of Dionysus, crushing him under his weight. You laugh softly at his pouty face as Dionysus looks up at you. "do not laugh! I am being crushed!" he says dramatically, causing you to laugh harder. "you are being cuddled, there is a difference. and it is quite funny" You laugh, and then he moves up, knocking the cheetah from his back. "will you still be laughing after this?" he smirks before pinning you down and kissing your face all over. After a few minutes of his attack, you both felt a breeze blow past you and your second lover Hermes lay across your laps exhausted. you smile and run your hands through his hair gently combing out the tangles. "how was your day my love?" you ask, he opens his eyes slightly before closing them once more. "exhausting" he answers quietly, tiredness in his voice. then the cheetah who originally was lying on top of Dionysus moved to lay on Hermes' chest, curling in a ball and falling back asleep. dionysus laughs from his place lying on your shoulder. "now who's being crushed." he says continuing to laugh at the sight of his brother being sat on by his pet. "it's alright, they aren't that heavy" Hermes answers with a smirk, causing Dionysus to pout and glare. you laugh and lean down to kiss Hermes. "Where's mine?" Dionysus asks playfully, before you can kiss him he pulls you into his chest trapping you there in his arms. "got you my little grape" he laughs resting his chin on your head. you laugh and lay back enjoying the time with your two lovers.

- - - - - . o 0 O 0 o . - - - - -

#bloodofzeus #bloodofzues #blood of zeus #greekmythology #hermes #dionysus #greek mythology fic #greek gods #gods #goddess #greek goddess #greek god #blood of zeus headcanons #blood of zeus x reader #blood of zues #hermes boz

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sig-nifier · 3 months

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There is a man in her garden. Dressed in a long, black cloak; his hair is equally as dark. Slicked back away from his face, a few strands have betrayed him, and fallen into his midnight eyes. Tanned skin, dark stubble atop his upper lip. He’d made no sound as he approached, as if he too had grown from the Earth. He is, Osha thinks, offensively pretty. - The one where Osha is Persephone and Qimir is the God of the Underworld.

the hades and persephone au that, actually, a lot of people on twitter asked for

#oshamir fic #oshamir #osha aniseya #osha x qimir #qimir #qimir the acolyte #star wars qimir #qimir x osha #star wars the acolyte #star wars #star wars the acolyte fic #hades and persephone au #greek god au #im really excited about this one

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winxanity-ii · 4 days

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WASHED UP

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

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

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

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

His first breath on your island was a gasp, harsh and desperate, followed by a violent cough that shook his entire frame. Water poured from his mouth, a relentless cascade as he heaved, clawing at the sand with shaking fingers. He turned onto his side, retching, purging the sea from his lungs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this one… He was different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what kind of suffering he would bring in return.

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

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

But not this one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wait!"

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

"Who are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tilted your head slightly, studying him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Aphrodite's grace…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eperitus?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that was before.

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

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

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

Or so you had thought.

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

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

You had not wept, not then.

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

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

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

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

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

The life that you would never get back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Odysseus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you knew better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Together, yet worlds apart.

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

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unlikelypandahologram · 4 months

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me wide awake at 3am and running on fumes: MegOP AU...Hades and Persephone...OP is Persephone and Megatron is Hades perhaps...haha just kidding...UNLESS?????

(no but seriously the thought started off as like, a crack fic idea but the more I think about it the more it weirdly makes sense?? like, Orion Pax = Kore and Optimus Prime = Persephone, and there's already a whole life and death thing going on with how often OP dies and comes back to life lmao. so that kind of suits him actually

and Megatron is Hades because...come the fuck on do I even need to say why lol. man spreads death everywhere he goes. and Alpha Trion can be both Zeus and Demeter for Orion. or he's basically Zeus but not horny, either works)

#fuck i should not be thinking about this too hard i already have so many other fic ideas and a fic i need to finish AAAHH #kinda makes me want to assign other tf characters to other greek gods but i dunno about the rest lol #transformers #megop #maccadams

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catofadifferentcolor · 6 months

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Terrible Fic Idea #86: Percy Jackson, but make it Time Travel

I was minding my own business at work this morning when a terrible, awful, wonderful idea for a PJO time travel fix-it hit me out of the blue.

Or: What if a deified Percy was sent back to the start of canon?

Just imagine it:

Percy wakes screaming, which is immediately disconcerting as he's not slept in nearly 100 years. He summons a storm practically out of reflex, still caught up in the horrors of everything he just left behind, and promptly passes out, his 12 year old body not used to the strain.

-because he is twelve again - mortal again, - in his bed at Yancy Academy again, a week out from the field trip that will change his life.

Not that Percy realizes this straight off, what with the panic and the passing out, though he does pick it up fairly quickly once he wakes up again in the school infirmary. This nearly sends him into another tailspin of panic - (he is small, he is weak, he is alone in his head, one hundred years in the past, and can barely feel any of his domains) - before Percy manages to get himself under control enough to come up with the basics of a plan: get somewhere safe so he can start figuring out what the Hades is going on.

Percy manages to sneak out of the infirmary while everyone else is at dinner, hails the Chariot of Damnation even though he's way out of their normal service area ("We'll put it on your tab, dearie," the seeresses say, "we know you're good for it."), and arrives at Camp Half-Blood just after midnight.

His entrance is much less spectacular than it was originally, but no less startling for all Mr D is the only one awake to see it, for the moment Percy crosses the ward lines the magic begins to recognize him as the future Camp Director - which in turn startles Dionysus just enough that he doesn't immediately smite Percy when he practically throws himself at the god and starts going on about how pleased he is to see him.

The truth comes out in fits and starts, with Percy's exhaustion (and Dionysus' gifts) being the only thing keeping him from another panic attack. His story boils down to this:

Percy has always been a powerful demigod, perhaps the most powerful child of his father ever to be born to a mortal. His actions from his first quest onward only pushed him closer to the brink of immortality. Divinity did not come until several months after the events of ToA, when a camper had jokingly raised a glass to Perseus Jackson, Trainer of Heroes, which was all that was needed to push him over that final precipice.

As Lord Perseus, he was from the onset more powerful than most minor gods, his domains being the eclectic mix of Heroes, Natural Disasters, and Misery - the first earning him the permanent position of Director of Camp Half-Blood and Patron of Camp Jupiter, the second keeping him quite busy in an era of climate change, and the last having been unwittingly stolen years before from Akhlys in Tartarus. It is this power that causes Zeus to become even more paranoid.

-which is saying something, as his paranoia had already skyrocketed to new and greater heights after Apollo returned improved from the events of ToA.

It grows worse over the better part of the next century, with the Titan War, Giant War, Triumvirate, and all that follows eventually disabusing the majority of the gods that Zeus will never be an effective ruler. Apollo leads a rebellion against his father - and would have succeeded, had not Zeus not managed to somehow push Apollo directly into Chaos as Apollo was preparing for his final blow, which has the unfortunate effect of the universe trying to unwrite one of the most important gods from the history of Western Civilization and undoes the fabric of reality in the process. Percy was watching it unravel before his eyes (desperately, desperately trying to weave it back together but it won't hold) when he suddenly found himself screaming 100 years in the past.

It is a fantastical story, but Dionysus has no choice to believe it.

("But why did you come to me? Why not your father?" Percy looks down, running a finger along the grain of of the wooden table, "We became friends in the future. Misery and alcohol, you know? One of the oldest pairings in the book." There's more, Dionysus can tell, but the boy is already flagging, unused to the weaknesses of his childish mortal body. It can wait.)

The events of canon proceed apace - or at least as much as they can when Percy shows up at camp almost two months early knowing more about the Greek and Roman pantheon than anyone who hasn't lived through it, with the attitude of a hero who's been through Tartarus and the power levels of a minor god burning him up from the inside. All while sneaking off in his spare time to 1) plot to stop the end of the world with Dionysus and 2) hang out with Dionysus, because he is one hundred twelve, thank you very much, and needs adult company every now and then, for all he’s missed his long dead friends.

I actually have no idea how the events of the books themselves would play out - Percy has neither the patience or the ability to let everything play out exactly as before, but the major beats of PJO still take place, with Percy doing his best to undermine the arguments that drew so many to Kronos as he can while still mortal. (Advocating for cabins for minor gods and/or undetermined, or combined housing with temples. Gods being forced to claim their children when they arrive at camp, etc.)

Perhaps Kronos tries harder to sway Percy to his side once he sees how strong a demigod he is, showing his hand too soon and causing the Titan War to be an all out war from the start of TTC until the Battle of Manhattan? Percy is more than just a child solider - he is a seasoned teenage general, directing battles, saving many with is experience but still loosing too many; a one-man army who eventually ascends on his sixteenth birthday, Luke's misery as he kills himself being the last push Percy needs to reclaim his divinity and his domains.

Gaining his godhood early allows Percy to temper the events of HOO and TOA (the Giant War still happens, but a generation later with a different set of demigods, and allows Zeus to redeem himself somewhat by being an effective war leader; Apollo never becomes mortal but the Triumvirate is destroyed a generation after that), if not prevent them. Though a part of him will always long for his mortality, it was never in the cards. It was either godhood or an early death, and Percy would rather spend an eternity protecting demigods and giving them the training they need to protect themselves than the alternative.

And so that's what Percy Jackson does, because that's what he's always done: accept as much misery for himself to make the lives of those he loves as misery-free as possible.

Bonuses include:

No hint of Percy/Annabeth in the new timeline, with the pair in the original having broken up shortly before Percy's ascension, having realize their codependency was not healthy, nor was it actually romantic love. From 100 years on, Percy is critical of his first relationship, but still counts Annabeth as one of his best friends, even if they're not as close in this timeline.

Although never widely disseminated, several individuals come to learn of Percy's trip through time and the circumstances that lead to it. (Poseidon, Sally, Thalia). A few others suspect Percy has some level of prophetic gift to go along with his other powers. But for the most part no one has any idea Percy is anything other than a powerful demigod with some really bad luck; and

It eventually coming out that Percy and Dionysus had a thing in the future, with Percy over the course of 100 years coming to like, respect, and eventually love the God of Wine. Percy is absolutely convinced it was entirely one-sided, their thing only adding up to a few drunken fucks between friends (because that's what Dionysus does with his friends), but Dionysus after he learns of it not being so sure (because it's really not what he does with friends and hasn't been for millennia). Whatever the case, it is exceptionally awkward when it comes out, especially as Percy's only physically 14 at the time, and attempting to resolve this awkwardness is how Thalia ends up learning about the time travel.

Extra bonus points if Percy and Ariadne were decent friends in the original timeline, become decent friends again in the new one, and settle into a polyamorous relationship with Dionysus (after Percy is deified and comes of age) that has Hera spitting teeth for decades.

And that is far, far more than I'd ever thought I'd have, but I think this plot bun somehow merged with a thread of an idea for a Dionysus-positive fic that's been tickling at me for years now. As always, feel free to adopt, just link back if you do anything with it.

More PJO Ideas | More Terrible Fic Ideas

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