#chariot and wolf

[phoenixtakaramono]

Chariot and Wolf - Chapter 1 Preview (Part 1/ ?)

(Note: this comes from an earlier draft, so there might or might not be some small changes in the final version that’ll be uploaded to AO3 once the prologue is done.)

CONTEXT

Sneak-Peek:

Fate had always been in the realm of the gods, though even the gods were subject to it.

For as much as mankind, immortals, and gods believed they were the masters of their destiny and could control the little things in life, with those small decisions adding up to the everyday, the overall shape of their lives were not theirs to decide. They were at the mercy of the Moirai—the three Fates who weaved their futures from their spindles on their craftsman’s loom and snipped life threads short. From the beginning, the Fates determined which souls would be born, the course of events, what kind of lives they would live, and for how many days. It was always ever thus.

It was during the month of Hekatombaion, during the important Panathenaic Games held every four years to honor the goddess Athena, when Queen Anticlea fell into labor, sending all into an uproar. On a warm midsummer night, dark and moonless, the midwives, along with the queen’s female relatives and friends tending to her through the moving image of eternity, finally heard the wails of a healthy baby boy.

They had delivered the firstborn son of an Argonaut, King Laertes and his wife, Queen Anticlea.

Their kingdom, at last, had a legitimate heir.

Whilst the exhausted queen slept, the wet-nurse, a dark-haired woman who wore a kekryphalos—a wide-woven woven caul secured around the front of the head, with a pouch in the back where the majority of her hair was tucked inside the elastic cap—presented the sleeping newborn prince before the queen’s honored parents.

The honored servant was named Eurycleia; she had been sold to King Laertes as a young girl, having been treated as an honored servant in his household for many years, that she was almost regarded as the king’s second wife. However Laertes never had Eurycleia attend to him in the bed, out of respect for his principal wife whom he loved. As his trusted servant, Eurycleia had been tasked to attend to the baby’s needs during the queen’s postpartum recovery.

When the servant Eurycleia took this soft delicate creature into her arms, holding him with the utmost care and delicacy, she found herself seized with emotion. Eurycleia fell into a daze looking at the tiny sleeping face peeking from the blue swaddling cloth. Her heart swelled. Although he had been born from another woman’s womb, at this very moment, she felt a mother’s unconditional love wash over her.

Stepping forward, very gently Eurycleia laid the tender sleeping prince upon the aged Autolycus’ knees and addressed respectfully, “The Wolf Itself, Autolykos, you who have dared to battle wits against the craftiest of men, King Sisyphus, may you find a name to give to your child's own child; for he has much been prayed for.” She didn’t dare suggest a name to him, for it was neither her place nor did they share any blood ties, but she could provide a gentle hint.

Wearing a handsome wolf pelt draped over one shoulder, Autolycus, fleet-footed and fleet of fingers, cradled his grandson who had surprised everyone and whose sudden birth sent all into a flurry of panic. He scrutinized him. Looking at the wisps of soft dark down on the infant’s head, it was still much too early to tell whom this child would take after in appearance, whether it was his birth mother or his royal father—or perhaps someone else in their ancestry. But the prince’s penchant for trickery proved innate—perhaps an influence of the child’s great-grandfather. Peering at the infant’s ruddy cheeks, the old Autolycus was once again confronted with the disappointing reality that his family could not have the fortune of ichor running golden through their veins. Only red mortal blood.

Grazing his thumb over the child’s eyelid, he suddenly recalled the servants’ secret whisperings. The prince had been born with marigold eyes. Just like their daughter’s. Just like his. The sort that picked up whatever hue was near. Like a creek dappled in morning light, a dirty stain of gold, darkening into a warm brown around the two innermost black eclipses.

In the past, Autolycus had the dubious honor of being visited, and rewarded for his faithful sacrifices to him, by his swift-footed father with his gold wand, who’d been absent most of his life; glimpsed a glimmer of marigold beneath his shadowed features. There'd been a hint of twisted playfulness which had softened some of the immortal’s merciless edges, lending his youthful beauty a trace of humanness. There was something there, in the defined angles and deep shadows cast over the Messenger God’s marble-like face, the sharp line of his smooth clean shaven jaw, the two wicked slashes of his lips, the hollows of his cheeks, and a pair of eyes the color of pure unsullied ichor which glowed bright gold beneath the wide brim of his winged hat.

But just like strong wine which had been diluted with water, the more and more bloodlines would mix into theirs, the more watered down their bloodline would be. Autolycus’ own sons, as well as his two daughters, Anticlea and Polymede, and now this grandchild, proved evidence of that. None of his children could do something he found as simple as changing horned cattle into hornless ones and brown cows into white ones. Perhaps this was the fate of all borned demigods, who weren’t immortal, destined to live out a life more mortal than divine. There’d come a time in the distant future when the strength of their gifts faded, when a descendant from their bloodline would be no different from that of any other Achaean.

“Since I have angered many, both men and women,” Autolycus announced, in a moment of pure sardonic pique, "as I am a legendary untouchable thief hated by all, let the name of the child be ‘Odysseus.’” Lifting the infant higher with both hands, Autolykos told the future king, “I have high hopes for you, little Odysseus.”

Eurycleia bowed her head. To be wroth against, to be angry or cause hate—a fierce name, strong in meaning, bestowed as an honor to himself. The name betrayed the weight of Autolycus’ expectations and the value he placed on his grandson.

It was said that the Three Sisters of Fate spun a person’s destiny within three nights of their birth. The first sister, Clotho, a young maiden on the left, spun the fibres of a child’s life while in the womb into a single thread, from her distaff onto her spindle. The older and more matronly sister in the center, Lachesis, held the rod used to measure their golden thread of life, for the length of a child’s life, experiences, and the number of tribulations they were predestined to face were determined from her fingers. Then came Atropos—cronely, haggardly, old. Inevitable. The sister whom most were frightened by, for in her gnarled hand held the terrible shears used to cut the thread of life, choosing the manner and time of his or her death. Once cut, the soul would be sent into the Underworld to receive judgement and discharged to one of three destinations: Elysium, for the righteous souls who were to be rewarded; Tartarus, for the vicious souls who were to be punished; and the Fields of Asphodel, for the mediocre and ordinary. Feared by mortals and gods alike, the sisters pressed together to preside over a person’s fate—a prophecy foretold, their past, present, and future set in stone.

Odysseus was King Laertes’ firstborn son, born by the legitimate wife. So long as the king of Ithaca Laertes did not give sire to another son, and the prince suffered neither misfortune nor committed any unforgivable crimes, the course of this child’s destiny had already been charted out for him.

Three nights later, dark storm clouds rolled into Ithaca, heralded by dazzling claps of thunder and lightning that boasted an ocean of tears. The old Autolycus awoke with a start.

“Dear…?” his wife murmured drowsily.

Whatever Autolycus had been about to say to reassure her was interrupted when a flash of blistering color lifted the veil of darkness. His ears rang with the deafening unearthly screech of an eagle. There was a dangerous edge to the cry, like a thunderstorm about to erupt.

Like a bolt of lightning, the fine embroidered bedcover was flung off and Autolycus prostrated himself on the floor. He bellowed, “Zeus, O’ Wise King of the Gods, I heed your prophetic warnings! I give eternal thanks for your consideration and the everlasting grace you have shown to me and my family!”

Deep in Autolycus’ ambrosial sleep, he had dreamt Zeus had flown into his bedchambers in the guise of a large golden eagle, landing on the bedrest above the old swindler’s head. Sharp talons curled, majestic wings folded, a strong yellow beak preened his flight feathers. In the dream from heaven, disguised as a bird of prey, the god proclaimed in a deep, authoritative thunder clap: “Master of Thieves, Autolycus, do you dare sleep now when I come to you bearing a message? Listen closely now, for you are my messenger son’s son and, as far-off as I can be, I care about you and feel compassion.”

Like peering through a fog, Autolycus witnessed a war, and a fatal anger that would bring countless sorrows on the Achaeans, sending the souls of many valiant warriors to Hades, their bodies left behind as spoils for dogs and carrion birds on the broad-paved roads. He then witnessed the mightiest of all, aegis-bearing Zeus, he of the far-thundering voice, seated upon his throne composed of clouds at the gleaming Olympus, looking troubled; inclining his shadowed brow upon ambrosial locks, the Cloud-Lord thunderously forbade the company of gods from interfering in the quarrel of mortals.

Autolycus saw a massive wooden horse being wheeled into a city’s thick fortified gates, and forty soldiers pouring out of the large, hollowed underbelly in the dead of night to push the gates open. He beheld Odysseus—handsome, long-haired, and proud—commanding six hundred men to glory. He saw his grandson, looking fresh and bright after the war, setting sail homeward bound—and the innumerous sufferings he endured. The incidents, and the faces of many, flashed before Autolycus’ eyes like a series of quick lightning bolts.

A cave and the one-eyed monster that lived inside it—a horrid creature, not like a human being at all, but resembling a rugged mountain crag piercing the sky—dashed six of Odysseus’ men to the ground with his club until their brains splattered, tearing their corpse from limb from limb, gorging on their flesh, bones, and entrails; of Odysseus later thrusting a club of olive-wood in the ashes, and then having his men aim it straight and true, sharpened at the tip, into the cyclops’ eye—throwing his weight upon the beam from above, whirling the fiery-sharpened point in the socket like how a man would bore a ship’s timber with a drill, while those below kept it spinning with the thong, as the eyeball burned and boiling blood bubbled around the red hot beam; Autolycus’ ears deafened hearing the pained, earth-shattering roar whilst the surrounding flock of rams, well-fed and thick of fleece, brayed in fright; the monster’s crying had attracted the other savage cyclops who lived in the headlands near him.

In another flash, Autolycus was on a cliffside, and he saw what he assumed to be the silhouette of his grandson from a distance, joined by his crewmates who hastily set sail from the beaches. Dwarfing Autolycus in height, the blinded ogre had stretched both hands out to the starry heaven; his voice rumbled like two boulders grating together, praying to the lord Poseidon—that if he were the god’s true begotten son—to grant a curse upon “the valiant warrior, Odysseus, the sacker of cities and son of Laertes, who lives in Ithaca,” to never reach his home alive. Or that if it were Odysseus’ fate to see his friends, to derail the man’s voyage for as long as he could, for the captain to suffer greatly after losing all of his men, and to let him reach his home only in another man’s ship, and to find trouble in his own house. Curse after curse after curse spilled forth. And Poseidon heard his prayer.

Zeus hurled his bolt—and this time Autolycus opened his eyes to see the earth-encircling Poseidon commanding a giant whirlpool. Autolycus’ breath drew tight in his chest. Who could stand the weight of a god’s wrath? A titan towering over the twelve ships, Poseidon calmly declared to them their death sentence. With a majestic sweep of his divine trident, the black ocean swelled up into monstrous giant horses, surging over eleven ships—before crashing down, swallowing the screams of more than five-hundred crewmen. Autolycus watched as Odysseus’ face crumbled in despair. Over the sleet-like spray of salt water and sound of waves rocking the only ship spared, they could hear the god’s vindictive hiss: “Forty-three left under your command….”

“Cousin, Father Zeus; and you other everlasting and blessed gods,” a clear voice suddenly rang out. Loud, energetic, eager. The violent seas had vanished, replaced by sunlight, shining and radiant. Autolycus would recognize that voice anywhere, having pilfered a dagger from the god: Helios the Sun, the one who saw everything. The god threatened, “I ask you to punish the companions of Odysseus, son of Laertes; for they outrageously killed my cattle, in whom I always delighted on my way up into the starry heaven, or when I turned back again from heaven toward earth. I demand just recompensation for my cattle, or you will see me go down to Hades’ and give my light to dead men!”

A bolt of lightning hurled blinded his vision—and this time Autolycus was overlooking his grandson from high above, up in the black clouds. From Zeus’ perspective, as judge, jury, and executioner. Odysseus looked wretched and disheveled, the bloodstain on his tunic blooming like a carnelian flower. “Choose.” Addressing Odysseus, Zeus’s voice was deep, like a storm coming, but gentle, like the rain ending. The god’s sonorous voice echoed through the hollow place of sorrow, reverberating in everyone’s eardrums. “Someone’s gotta die today and you have got the final say….” The last syllable was stretched long, a cruelty masked behind gaiety.

Another flash—and this time Autolycus was astonished to see the familiar tall figure of Athena, beloved daughter of Zeus, marching up to the imposing throne constructed of wispy cumulus clouds. Her voice boomed with authority in the sacred place, coming to Odysseus’ aid, pleading her case before Zeus to release him and to allow the pitiful king of Ithaca to return home. Her voice melded with five other opposing voices who engaged her, turn by turn, in fierce debate. That was all Autolycus was allowed to hear before his vision darkened, and he almost leapt with fright suddenly seeing the helmeted Athena brazenly point her bronze-tipped spear up at a furious Zeus.

The image of Zeus’ daughter raising her weapon against her heavenly father, this great primordial being whose form eclipsed the entire sky, in defense of Autolycus’ grandson, was seared into Autolycus’ eyes. Beholding the god’s true terrible form, Autolycus remembered the stories of the mad Titan, Kronos—he who mated his older sister Rhea—whose blood flowed in Zeus’ veins, as well as his ancestry with the Titans Ouranos, the sky, and Gaia, the earth. The goddess’ noble figure was the last thing he saw before his vision burned bright and a shroud of absolute darkness soon came falling down.

After the last vision, Zeus fell uncannily silent. In the absence of light, the darkness held a presence that was all the more felt because it was not seen. Autolycus heard the distant sound of waves striking the shore, forceful and strong and as constant as the deepest ocean currents; and it was as though the pounding of his heart was keeping in time with the sea’s great tides—the sound a familiar comfort, and every seafarer’s nightmare. A looming danger unable to mitigate.

“…That clever grandson of yours will run afoul of many great gods. These are a mere trifle I have deemed significant and allowed you to see.” The eagle lifted his beak from his feathers. Gazed at Autolycus with eyes blazing with golden ichor. “Odysseus of Ithaca is a man born to trouble. However his fate is to become a fine king of counsel, charged with an army, on whom responsibility so rests. He will go to engineer a clever trick so heinous, the war cannot be won without his strategy, contributions that thereby make him essential for it is fated that Troy will fall. As I will have decreed that us immortal gods cannot interfere in the war, I have effectively tied my own hands—for once I give my nod, my word can never be recalled; to prove true and fulfilled. Heed my only warning, Autolycus, as my wish is to preserve the sanctity of the natural divine order. Hold fast to this, remember all, when honey-tongued sleep frees you.”

With this, the eagle departed in a shower of golden sparks. When Autolycus woke, the divine voice was still ringing in his ears.

At present, he could feel his body ache; the cold floor was unforgiving on his old bones and stiff joints. Dread donned Autolycus’ troubled brow now that he was no longer constrained by sleep’s inability to doubt. Why give him, a thief who’d boasted he could steal undetected from the gods themselves, the grace of a divine vision? Why him—and not somebody else? Autolycus’ cunning mind raced, pondering Zeus’ intentions.

Could it be…? For Zeus to personally descend instead of sending down a messenger, did this not indicate that the god somewhat recognized their unacknowledged familial ties? Although Autolycus’ blood ran crimson, his relationship to the immortal gods of Olympus could be considered the strongest amongst his wives and children, for the blood of Hermes directly flowed through his veins. Disguising his warning as an omen, was their divine ancestor showing consideration for his children’s mortal descendants—however distant and negligible their relation might be, as neither Autolycus nor his children nor children’s children sprung from Zeus’ loins directly?

He heard his wife slip out from the comfort of the warm covers; her warm hands slipped underneath to support her kneeling husband from underneath his elbows. He snapped out of his thoughts. His pulse still thundering from the prophetic dream, gripping his wife by her arms, Autolycus announced feverously, “Beloved Amphithea, come with me to seek an audience with our daughter. We must make haste! For I have seen her son’s future!”

The old woman, seized with fear, obeyed her husband.

That night, Autolycus and Amphithea held an assembly with their daughter and their son-in-law. Listening to Autolycus recount his prophetic vision of an incoming war, Queen Anticlea—a woman of exemplary virtue and chastity—and King Laertes who was a man of honor, wisdom, courage, and a straightforward personality, were, understandably, afraid. Afraid for the state of their kingdom—and for their son. These secret discussions which rolled into the early hours of the next day, behind closed doors, would later come to define Odysseus’ life and rewrite history.

Yet, for all their preparation and well-laid plans, not once did it occur to them, if a person’s fate was something that could be so easily redirected. For, on Odysseus’ glimmering thread, the tribulations which Lachesis had woven for him remained untouched. The innumerous fibres twisted together to form one long golden strand coiled even tighter, strengthening some more.

XXXXXXXXXX

For young children, the passage of time was always particularly noticeable. They went from being tiny, unable to see the world clearly, to sitting, crawling, and then evolving to exploring the world on their short little legs.

In the blink of an eye, Odysseus transformed from a baby who smelled like milk, to a cheerful, rambunctious rascal at just three years old. Like all boys his age, he liked to climb trees, explore, jump, run around, and disappear. The prince was an exceptionally curious troublemaker who gave the servants in the palace many headaches; they were nearly driven to their wit’s end working tirelessly around the clock to find the young prince in every new hiding spot he’d managed to procure for himself in the palace grounds, or having to wait until Odysseus exhausted himself from playing before they could finally put the escape artist to bed.

Several Achaean elders who’d been called into assembly one day had remarked to the king, just like their own offspring, nephews, or grandsons, that perhaps the mind of the legitimate crown prince wasn’t being stimulated enough, which was causing the prince to act out in mischief. The young Odysseus was already showing signs that he was brighter than a majority of boys his age. The solution was to exhaust the reserves of all that untapped energy and funnel it into alternative outlets. With some effort, there was still a chance to correct his ways. Confronted with his son’s penchant for stirring up trouble, Laertes decided to move the matter of the prince’s formal education up much earlier.

It was a principle that bullying others was always better than being bullied.

But should Odysseus be taught well, he would be more likely to grow into a ruler who could distinguish right from wrong. Doting on a child too much could be detrimental to their own growth. Princes who had some talent but didn’t like to study, and were pampered by the household, should he continue this way, would either end up a waste—or a playboy who only knew a life of debauchery. Empires often declined because of a muddle-headed ruler who prioritized pleasures instead of overseeing their kingdom and government affairs.

It ought to be observed that children who were not well-educated struggled to make a name for themselves outside their parents. Looking at Odysseus’ robustness, both parents thought having the prince learn military skills early would also help him get a head start on training his discipline, with the added benefit of shaping his mind—and his physique. For that, they turned to the precedent set by the Spartans. Whilst most Spartan sons waited till they were seven-years old to leave their home and begin their military education at the Agoge, Odysseus reported to the training grounds at the tender age of five—when his grasp over his motor control skills was sufficient enough to hold a wooden practice sword for a long duration without accidentally hurting himself. The Achaean hired as Odysseus’ instructor was a strict retired general; he told the impressionable Odysseus that although Achaean boys were only expected to receive military training for two years in their adolescence, he wouldn’t take it easy on Odysseus just because of his age or status.

Thus, so began Odysseus’ new hellish life.

Not only was he tested on soldier formations and military tactics, he was expected to be well-versed over an assortment of weapons. Spears. Javelins. Sword and shield. Bows. Slings. Horseback riding. Practical skills that any commander needed to know, for the battlefield was a cruel place that eviscerated little boys like him. Every day was a new kind of military drill; Odysseus’ enthusiasm waned when the general started their first lesson off by having him swing his wooden sword in the air repetitively.

It was only when he could swing a sword five hundred times, without break, that they would move onto the next lesson: archery—a lesson that Odysseus had been looking forward to, for he had heard the story of how Laertes and the other hunters who had come from kingdoms worldwide joined hands in the expedition to hunt down the monstrous Calydonian Boar which’d been sent by the angered goddess Artemis. Every year, to celebrate the accomplishment, Laertes had made it the Ithacan tradition to host a hunting expedition for all able men and young men alike to hunt down the wild boars of the region. Whatever expectations Odysseus initially had burned down to cinders when he was handed a bow by his dogmatic teacher and told he wouldn’t be allowed to touch a single arrow until the young prince learned how to string all manners of bow.

Although Laertes was no longer young, he was still vigorous. In addition to the military instructor, Laertes hired private tutors—among them a notable philosopher—to educate the young prince in a wide range of subjects, including philosophy, mathematics, and the sciences. As Odysseus was the crown prince, he required a more specialized curriculum tailored to his specific interests and to prime him for his future.

Learning required patience. The small kingdom of Ithaca had a history of maritime trade and travel, farming and animal husbandry—as well as the gods they were to worship. When the subject matter was interesting and the time was short, Odyessus was the model bright student. When the instructor droned on, he would fall into a drowsy state while listening and needed to force himself to stay awake. It was manageable in short bursts but gradually, over time, Odyessus couldn’t sit still, as if there were countless invisible nails under his bottom.

The pressures of having gone from having the freedom to play whenever he wanted, to a heavy workload and schedule that even adult men would balk at was not an easy adjustment period for any child. So, Odysseus rebelled; he played truant. His young and tender face had carried unswerving determination. One night, Odysseus snuck out of the palace with a plan to pick pretty seashells down at the white-shore sands; for he craftily knew his mom would treat him better once Laertes and Anticlea inevitably discovered that he’d been caught slacking off from his studies again. It was an ingenious plan!

This time, he did not go diving to pick up shells. The blood of a seafarer must run strong in Odysseus for he adored the water. He didn’t understand why his parents and grandparents looked a little nervous each time he said he would be careful playing down at the beaches. In daylight, the embrace of the sea felt warm and comforting after the initial cold shock plunging into the water. He loved how it flowed against his hair like it was being brushed and seeing the more curious fishes swimming up to him, their tails and fins kissing his nose, startling him into laughter, which released tiny bubbles of air. But, seeing as he’d snuck out with the guards and servants remaining unaware of the prince’s late-night escapade, he was pressed for time. Swimming at this late hour would just be asking for trouble.

Sifting his fingers through the sand, picking up seashells and turning them left and right for close inspection, Odysseus had put a handful away in his pouch when he thought he heard a nicker. Surprised, he peeked from his hiding spot behind a rock—and gasped aloud! For, out on the shoreline, he saw the mesmerizing sight of a stampede of majestic stallions galloping across the currents on their blue hooves; even more astonishing, their bodies were composed entirely out of water!

Seeing them, Odysseus’ eyes burned bright. He was treated to a sight of seeing these water horses race wildly across the surface of water, stirring up a spray of saltwater with each powerful kick, before the stampede suddenly launched themselves into the air at a turn, diving right back into the ocean with a loud splash.

…Poseidon?

Odysseus’ gaze was thoughtful. When he later returned that night with his precious cargo, the entire palace had been in an uproar—for the prince was not in his bed and had snuck out! His father had pulled him aside that night and bent him over his knees, spanking him until his bottom glowed red and Odysseus cried out. After that, Odysseus became less rowdy and much more well-behaved, obediently attending his lessons.

Unknowingly, his mood brightened along with the weather, as if something weighing on his heart had vanished. His heart felt a bit lighter—because now he had a purpose to work towards.

[x-enocyon]

domestic dog that belongs to no one; wild wolf that chooses to belong to someone

[renaultphile]

Freudian slips?

The Masks of Mary Renault, Caroline Zilboorg

This is just a couple of snapshots of criticism Mary received at the time - many reviewers seemed to take her psychological 'explanations' at face value instead of appreciating that in TC especially she seems to have taken the opportunity to riff off every psychological, religious and moral debate going.

[brown-little-robin]

POLNAREFF ACHIEVED

[wotb-blog-2024]

Idea: WoTB tarot cards

[whovian223]

Friday Night Shots - Tiebreakers

Friday Night Shots - Tiebreakers @gmtgames @PlayRenegade @garphillgames @direwolf

Hey there! It’s another Friday, and it’s time to belly up to the bar, have a drink (whatever you like), and chat a little bit about board games. Don’t mind the music. I’ll turn it down. Steely Dan is so good that it can make it hard to talk. Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah, how about chatting about tie breakers! Nobody likes ties (except soccer…sorry, football fans). Most games that have…

[taschaka-blog]

This is a story in the form of a tarot card layout that I have been drawing for some time.

The story of an animal groom and his brave beloved.This story is archetypal. But this version is based on my favorite novel of all the games.

Viewing order: tower, magician, lovers, chariot.

Some time ago, around September, I decided to redraw an old picture about a wolf who ate the moon (I threw the picture in the comments). I accidentally remembered it and realized that I didn’t like the wolf and that he needed to be given many, many eyes. After all, it is completely clear that this wolf is of a demonic nature. Therefore, he should have many more eyes than two. And that it should be a tarot card - the moon, although later I realized that it was actually a tower. And the moon became the sun.

But one card is not enough, I decided, because a story in the form of a tarot card layout is much better than just one picture. It is always better when there is some kind of story. I had an idea to make a drawn story in the form of tarot cards.

Having decided to make a story, I immediately came up with an ending. A girl on a wolf. And in front of her is the "Lovers" card.

A female character and an animal. Oh, this is, of course, a super-common fairy-tale image. The image of an animal groom (husband) became the theme of this story. There are many such stories and fairy tales among different peoples. My favorite fairy tale is the Romanian version, where there was a huge pig who came to woo the princess, initially threatening the city and its inhabitants, but then turned out to be a beautiful young man, of course.

But the second card was still not invented. Or rather, based on the story, its plot was clear, but somehow the picture did not come together. I wanted to give the girl a more active role as a protector, and not to have her buy off the demon. And then in November I suddenly decided to play the fourth "Dragon Age", I got so carried away that I played to the first part. And under the impression of the game, I realized that the card should be "Mage". After all, the mage is the protector that I was trying to fit into this story. And if there is a demonic or divine wolf in this story (depending on how you look at it), why not have a mage? I made the elf specifically, inspired by the game, so it's a reference. And the story turned out to be based on it. Almost a fanfic.

Although the story in the game is somewhat different. There, the terrible wolf is a cultural hero of the elven people, an eternal revolutionary and trickster, and sometimes a demiurge who does everything so that the elves are free and happy, but the result is not very good every time. And literally everyone dissuades him from the last rescue of the elves, because it threatens the end of the whole world, and the elves also do not want to be saved anymore. The penultimate rescue put the elves on the brink of extinction and gave people the opportunity to freely exterminate them. (In the game, by the way, there is a wonderful allusion to the blood libel that the human church spreads there). This is such a short and very rough retelling of the plot of the last two parts of the games, although hints were made in the first two. That's why I decided to draw an elf. The plot made a very strong impression. And in general, now the girl with the wolf will long evoke associations between Lavellan and Fen'Harel.

[dannygonz08]

Incorrect Quote #24: Runaway Bride

Note: Inspired by @anotheroceanid 's Athenide AU and loosely based on the "You're Too Good For Me" Tiktok. https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSryb5F7b/

[Scene: In a garden in Olympus, decorated for an over-the-top wedding. Perseleia is running in full bridal regalia, kicking off her heels. Apollo, radiant and panicked, is chasing after her, laurel crown crooked.]

PERSELEIA (shouting over her shoulder): I can’t marry you! You’re too good for me! You’re too nice!

APOLLO: I—I’ll be less nice! I’ll be smug again! I’ll make more sun puns!

PERSELEIA: Your gifts are too specific! You gave me a wolf when I was sad!

APOLLO: I’ll just get you a gift card! For ambrosia! Or blue milk! Whatever mortals drink!

PERSELEIA: You’re emotionally supportive!

APOLLO: We can work on that! In divine couples therapy! Hera has a side gig!

PERSELEIA: It’s the domains! You have too many domains!

APOLLO: I’ll quit! I’ll give up sun-chariot duty!

PERSELEIA (spinning, wild-eyed): I can’t do it, Apollo. I can’t!

APOLLO: My mom likes you too much! She called you her favorite!

PERSELEIA: No—you’re—you’re too in love with me!

APOLLO (gasping): So are you!

PERSELEIA: You’re too committed!

APOLLO (desperate): We could be poly!

PERSELEIA (dead stop): What?!

APOLLO: I mean—you could be Polly! Polly is a great name! For a bird! Or a plan!

PERSELEIA (running, glaring, breathing hard): Godsdammit, are you not running after me right now?

APOLLO (jogging after her): I am! This is me! Running! For love!

[Pan to Artemis, facepalming in the background while Hermes and Arsinoe place bets.]

[differentsoulsweets]

Apollo

Απολλων [Apollo] God of prophecy and oracles, music, song and poetry, archery, healing, plague and disease

Epithets: ⟡ Proopsios [Foreseeing] ⟡ Phoibos [Bright] ⟡ Akestor [Healer] ⟡ Alexikakos [Averter of Evil] ⟡ Theoxenios [ God of Foreigners ] ⟡ Pythios [Slayers of Python] ⟡ Chrusaor [Of Golden Sword] ⟡ Daphnephorios [Bearer of Laurels] ⟡ Loimios [ Deliverer from Pague] ⟡ Moiragetes [Leader of Fate] ⟡ Pagasios [Pagasaean] ⟡ Hekaergos [Far-shooting]

Domains: ⟡ Prophecy & Oracles ⟡ Light ⟡ Music & Arts ⟡ Song & poetry ⟡ Archery ⟡ Healing & medicine ⟡ Plague & Disease ⟡ Protection of the young ⟡ Boys ⟡ Sudden Death ⟡ Knowledge ⟡ Herds & Flocks ⟡ Protector of Fugitives

Devotional acts: ⟡ Donate to medical charities ⟡ Draw or Paint ⟡ Read poetry or listen to music ⟡ Sing or play an instrument ⟡ Go to the library

Associations

Symbol: ⟡ The Lyre ⟡ Silver bow & Arrows ⟡ Dolphins ⟡ Swans ⟡ Crows ⟡ Ravens ⟡ Lions ⟡ Wolves ⟡ Mice ⟡ Griffins ⟡ Hawks ⟡ Snakes ⟡ Laurel wreath ⟡ Fire / flame ⟡ The sun / Light ⟡ Tripod ⟡ Apples

Element: ⟡ Light

Color: ⟡ Orange ; yellow ; Gold ⟡ Red ⟡ Pure white ⟡ Pink ⟡ Purple ⟡ Green ⟡ Blue

Crystals & stones: ⟡ Sunstone ⟡ Amber ⟡ Honey ; Yellow Calcite ⟡ Rutilated ; Clear ; Rose quartz

Fruits,Vegetables,Flowers,Herbs: ⟡ Cypress ⟡ Laurel ⟡ Larkspur ⟡ The-apple-tree ⟡ The palm tree ⟡ Hyacinth

Animal: ✧Swan ⟡ Raven ⟡ Tortoise ⟡ Serpent ⟡ Wolf ⟡ Dolphin ⟡ Mouse

Incense: ✧ Bay ⟡ Frankincense ⟡ Cypress

Food & Drinks: ⟡ Red wine ⟡ Olive oil ⟡ Water ⟡ Fruit ⟡ Honey ⟡ Almonds ⟡ Citruses ⟡ Cinnamon ⟡ Coffee ⟡ Herbal tea with Honey cakes ⟡ Bay leaves ⟡ Anise

Day, Season, Time of Day: ✧ Sunday ⟡ Middsummer ⟡ Midday ⟡ May

Tarot: ✧ The Sun ⟡ The chariot ⟡ Strength ⟡ Temperance

[phoenixtakaramono]

Sneak Peek of an Upcoming WIP (Potentially)

Context

Below is the beginnings of a concept prologue. Don’t mind the incomplete sentences or acronyms below; this is just how I prefer to write my notes fasthand—before I forget to jot down an idea. I haven’t transcribed them yet into legible flowing paragraphs and dialogue.

Keep in mind things will change as I add or remove things from the plot outline. This is just the concept plot, and drafted before I have fully dived into reading The Odyessy and possibly the Iliad.

(You can read the sneak peek of an earlier draft of the fic’s prologue (ch1) here.) <— A small example of how I polish my notes, seen in my plot outline, into actual story content.

[the-nerdy-libra]

Ἀπόλλων Φοῖβος, Θεὸς τοῦ Ἡλίου

Apollon, Bright One, God of the Sun

He is associated with Sunlight and the Sun, Music and Poetry, Prophecy and Oracles, Healing and Medicine, Plague and Disease, Archery, Knowledge and Wisdom, Purification and Cleansing, Order and Civilization, Protection of Herds and Flocks, Seafarers, Masculine Beauty, Music Theory and Harmony, Time and Seasons.

His symbols are the Lyre, Bows and Arrows, the Laurel Wreath, Ravens, Serpents, the Sun/Chariot of the Sun, Palm Trees, Bay/Laurel Trees, Wolves, Cypress Trees, Tripod, Lyric Poetry Scrolls, Golden Hair and Swans.

Major Sanctuaries and Temples

Delphi was the most famous sanctuary of Apollon, home to the Oracle of Delphi and the Pythian Games.

Delos was Apollon’s birthplace and celebrated Him with grand festivals like the Delia.

Didyma was known for its oracle and the Temple of Apollon, featuring massive columns.

Claros was another major oracle site, with its temple and priesthood.

Thermopylae was sacred to Apollon during the Amphictyonic League meetings.

Bassae was home to the Temple of Apollon Epikourios, renowned for its architectural innovation.

Aegina featured a Doric temple dedicated to Apollon.

Patara was an ancient Lycian city with ties to Apollon and prophecy.

Miletus’ citizens worshipped Apollon as their protector.

Rhodes revered Apollon as part of the island’s patron deities.

Athens worshipped Apollon in several roles, including Apollo Patroos (Protector of Families).

Sparta honoured Apollon as a god of order and harmony.

In Rome, Imperātor Gāius Iūlius Caesar Augustus constructed the Temple of Apollo Palatinus, aligning Apollo with imperial propaganda.

Mt. Parnassus, near Delphi, was regarded as sacred to Apollon and the Muses.

The island of Crete celebrated Apollon in various cities, such as Gortyna and Dreros.

General Epithets

Apollon (Bright, Radiant), associated with His solar and light-bearing qualities.

Delphinios (Of Delphi), linked to His sanctuary and oracle at Delphi.

Mousagetēs (Leader of Muses), celebrating His patronage of the arts and inspiration.

Loxias (Oblique, Mysterious), reflecting His cryptic oracular messages.

Pythios (Of Pythia), commemorating His victory over Python at Delphi.

Alexikakos (Averter of Evil), worshipped as a protector from harm and calamity.

Medicus (Healer), honouring His medical and healing powers, especially in Roman worship.

Catharsius (Purifier), invoked in cleansing rituals.

Smintheus (Mouse God), protector from plague and agricultural pests.

Lykeios (Wolf God), linked to His protective and wild nature.

Nomios (Pastoral), celebrating His guardianship over herds and flocks.

Karneios (Of Flocks), worshipped in rural Spartan traditions as a regional variation of Nomios.

Helios (Sun God), representing His solar connections in later traditions.

Agyieus (Of the Streets), protector of pathways and travelers.

Delios (Of Delos), celebrating His birthplace.

Didymaeus (Of Didyma), connected to His oracle in Ionia.

Festivals

The Pythian Games were held every four years at Delphi, including musical and athletic competitions in Apollon's honour.

Thargelia was an Athenian festival honoring Apollon and Artemis, featuring purification rituals and offerings of first fruits.

Delia, on Delos, was a festival that included musical contests, dances, and sacrifices sacred to Apollon.

Worship Practices

Sacrifices were often of animals such as bulls and goats, symbolic of his divine strength.

Prophecy played a central role in his worship, with priestesses and the Oracle at Delphi channeling his divine wisdom.

Apollon was invoked in rituals of cleansing and renewal, often symbolized by water.

Roman Veneration

Apollo Medicus was venerated as a god of healing during plagues.

Imperātor Gāius Iūlius Caesar Augustus claimed Apollo as his divine patron, constructing the Temple of Apollo on the Palatine Hill of Rome.

Altars and Sacred Spaces

Altars dedicated to Apollon are typically adorned with symbols like the lyre, laurel leaves, sun motifs and representations of His sacred animals (e.g., swans, wolves, or ravens), often altars placed in sunlit areas to honor His solar aspects.

Altars are frequently decorated with golden or yellow fabrics, sun-shaped decorations, and natural materials like wood or stone are common.

Offerings

Traditional Offerings are laurel leaves, honey, olives, figs, and wine.

Music, poetry, and other creative expressions are also considered as offerings due to Apollon's role as a patron of the arts.

Frankincense and bay laurel oil are burned, while crystals like sunstone and pyrite are used to symbolize His solar and abundant aspects.

Rituals and Practices

Devotees skilled in the arts often recite prayers or compose hymns in His honor, often inspired by ancient texts, while others prefer to stay with the ancient texts themselves. Both choices are equally valid.

Practices like meditating on Apollon's attributes or using divination tools to seek His guidance are common.

The creation of or recitation of music and poetry are also acts of worship. From humming a tune to singing along to your favourite songs, it counts as an offering and is just as valid.

Apollon's teachings on balance and enlightenment inspire personal growth and artistic pursuits, often being blended with the pursuit of philosophical and sometimes even spiritual enlightenment.

Rituals for spiritual or physical healing often invoke Apollon's aid, emphasizing His role as a healer.

Devotees seek His guidance in intellectual and intuitive endeavors, reflecting His association with wisdom and oracles.

Seasonal Celebrations:

Some practitioners observe festivals inspired by ancient traditions, such as the Thargelia or Delia, adapting them to modern contexts. I have yet to find a universally agreed upon date, but April 6th or the Spring Equinox are common due to Apollon's purifying and cleansing epithets, as well as His light and solar epithets.

Personal Notes

Apollon is a deity who only very recently called to me, which is amusing to me since I would have been under His protection. It speaks to me of His integrity that rather than reach out to me then, He has waited nearly seventeen years to do so. I think that perhaps is to do with two things which actually blend hand in hand; the first being that I have a strong suspicion that when He reached out to me, it was not as His Greek self nor even His Roman self; rather, it was as Paean (𐀞𐀊𐀺𐀚, Pajawone) that He reached out.

While I try to keep the history out of the religion in these posts, I feel it is best to explain fully in the case of Hellenic deities whose Mycenaean forms call to me most (of which there is a surprising number). Apollon, as Paean, is chiefly a god of medicine and healing. However, in Troy he was a god of hunting and protection, defending the early Trojans from the beasts of the forest. It is this Trojan Apollon, whom they called Paeiōn (𐀞𐀊𐀩𐀍, Pajerone) that called to me and is still known to this day as Apollon Lykeios. For those wondering why the names changed so much, the evolution from Pajerone to Apollon is due to the language changing and evolving during the Greek Dark Ages; the earliest known midway point is Apeljōn, so the linguistic evolution would be Pajerone -> Apeljōn -> Apollon.

With the mini history lesson out of the way, apologies for boring any of you, now to explain the significance of Pajerone/Apollon Lykeios as main epithet I worship. The Wolf God, Apollon Lykeios, is very different from the other representations of Apollon and is quite, shall we say, wild by comparison. He is still a healer, still knowledgeable in philosophy and music, but He is much more akin to His Sister Artemis and Her preference of the forest and the hunt. He is the Wolf, the hunter who struck down the Python and gained prophetic insight, the friend of Hyperborea whose bow can bring any prey low. To me, as Lykeios, he is still a God of Light, but his light is not simply the gold of the sun. It is the green of the field, the red and pink of blood on his skin. It is the purple of his robe and the blue of his eyes, dancing in the sky as the Aurora Borealis. He is the light that dances with the moon and stars, the Hunter who no prey escapes, the Wanderer who heals all with his herbs.

While far from the first Hellenic deity to call to me, He is perhaps the most important one for bridging the gap between the two main pantheons I worship, an ancient link between the northern hunters and the cradle of the West. It is through this link, through His wandering path from Hellas and Hyperborea all the way to Middungeard and beyond, that I can best reconcile worshipping two pantheons without Syncretism. He is a bridge between worlds, a fierce protector and a noble friend to all.

Orphic Hymn to Apollon

Blest Pæan, come, propitious to my pray'r,

illustrious pow'r, whom Memphian tribes revere,

Slayer of Tityus, and the God of health,

Lycorian Phœbus, fruitful source of wealth.

Spermatic, golden-lyr'd, the field from thee

receives it's constant, rich fertility.

Titanic, Grunian, Smynthian, thee I sing,

Python-destroying, hallow'd,

Delphian king:

Rural, light-bearer, and the Muse's head,

noble and lovely, arm'd with arrows dread:

Far-darting, Bacchian, two-fold, and divine,

pow'r far diffused, and course oblique is thine.

O, Delian king, whose light-producing eye views all within,

and all beneath the sky:

Whose locks are gold, whose oracles are sure,

who, omens good reveal'st, and precepts pure:

Hear me entreating for the human kind, hear,

and be present with benignant mind;

For thou survey'st this boundless æther all,

and ev'ry part of this terrestrial ball

Abundant, blessed; and thy piercing sight,

extends beneath the gloomy, silent night;

Beyond the darkness, starry-ey'd, profound,

the stable roots, deep fix'd by thee are found.

The world's wide bounds, all-flourishing are thine,

thyself all the source and end divine:

'Tis thine all Nature's music to inspire, with various-sounding, harmonising lyre;

Now the last string thou tun'ft to sweet accord,

divinely warbling now the highest chord;

Th' immortal golden lyre, now touch'd by thee,

responsive yields a Dorian melody.

All Nature's tribes to thee their diff'rence owe,

and changing seasons from thy music flow

Hence, mix'd by thee in equal parts, advance

Summer and Winter in alternate dance;

This claims the highest, that the lowest string,

the Dorian measure tunes the lovely spring.

Hence by mankind, Pan-royal, two-horn'd nam'd,

emitting whistling winds thro' Syrinx fam'd;

Since to thy care, the figur'd seal's consign'd,

which stamps the world with forms of ev'ry kind.

Hear me, blest pow'r, and in these rites rejoice,

and save thy mystics with a suppliant voice.

[renaultphile]

Peter Wolfe on Mary Renault, 1969

In spite of these disclaimers, however, the final judgment of The Charioteer must be warmly positive. Although the subject matter of the book makes it a chafing experience, its probing honesty awakens our moral responsibility to an urgent social problem. Had Mary Renault designed her novel as easy-going popular fiction, she would have sacrificed its grating persistence. The nature of Laurie Odell’s commitment and the inevitable loss of his human ideal may well encourage posterity to praise The Charioteer as her finest work.

Thank you to @bigzombiephilosopher-blog for recommending this book, which is unusual in being an attempt to evaluate Mary's literary career while she was still writing, at a time when her subject matter was still controversial. Some of the historical context is helpful too, particularly his theories about social cohesion and where she fit in to the turbulent times of the 30s. Even then she seemed to be a writer who was hard to categorise. You'll have to read the book to find out what his 'disclaimers' on TC were! Well worth a look, he does not mince his words and has some 'interesting' opinions on the novels too. Made me think about what makes a good book.

[brown-little-robin]

WHOA IT'S 3:00

[ivys-garden]

Another season, a new winner, another card flipped over.

It is that time again, blessed listeners, to assign a winner a new Tarot Card.

For those joining us are previous cards in the Tarot Symbolism are:

Grian: “The Sun”

Scott: “The Star”

Pearl: “The Moon”

Martyn: “The Tower”

Scar: “Wheel Of Fortune”

Cleo: “King Of Swords” (liable to change if there's not another special one off event)

And so, what is the card of Joel? Why, it could only be...

THE CHARIOT

In tarot The Chariot represents confidence, willpower and ambition, both if which Joel has had throughout the series. But it also represents balance between forces, much like how Joel has to balance his eagerness to win and his aggression with making friends and supporting allies in order to win, as in previous seasons where he lacked balance and was aggressive all the time, he lost.

The Chariot represents moving forward and forging new paths for yourself, such as with Joel forging his path with iron strong bonds instead of the bloody vengeance he's used in previous seasons. A new path for a new man.

When used in terms of relationship readings, The Chariot reversed means to take things slow, much like how Joel had to take things slow and not mindlessly attack people to win. Reacting instead of acting.

The Chariot represents trust and acceptance that we can't do things alone, fitting with Joel being so close with his team to consider them family. As opposed to previous seasons where he was more of a wildcard or lone wolf type

When The Chariot is reversed in normal readings it means aggression, impulsiveness, lack of control, indecision and inevitable defeat, which was Joel's experience for the series up until now. But now he has revered the card, becoming the opposite of these negative traits.

Oh also if we use The Chariot then his stupid bloody car can be on the card art.

So there you have it, Joel “Toretto” Smallishbeans is The Chariot

15 cards remain.

(To be clear I didn't mess up my math, The Fool is reserved for when Jimmy wins. That's why it's 15 left and not 16)

[the-mortuary-witch]

THE MORRIGAN

WHO IS SHE?

The Morrigan is a triple goddess from Irish mythology who is associated with war, fate, and sovereignty. According to myth, she is often depicted as a crow or raven, and is said to appear in both a positive and negative guise, sometimes as a nurturing mother and other times as a destructive force. She is said to be the phantom queen of the Danaan People, the ancestral spirits of Ireland, and is sometimes depicted as a powerful seer or prophetic figure.

BASIC INFO: 

Appearance: the Morrigan is often depicted as a fierce and powerful woman wearing a long, flowing black cloak or gown, and sometimes with feathers or a crown of feathers. She is also commonly associated with a black crow, which is said to be her messenger and the vessel of her power. Her appearance is usually associated with darkness and mystery, embodying the enigma and unpredictability of war and fate.

Personality: she has a complex and multi-faceted personality, often embodying multiple aspects of femininity. She is said to encompass aspects of the traditional maiden, mother, and crone archetypes, representing youthful zeal, maternal nurturing, and wise counsel, respectively. She is also known for her vengeful and bloodthirsty streak, embodying the brutal and ruthless nature of war and the chaos of fate. Despite her fierce and sometimes fearsome reputation, she is also viewed as a powerful protector and defender of the Irish people.

Symbols: cloak, spear, chariot, sword, and shield

Goddess of: magic, war, battle, life, death, sovereignty, fresh water, destiny, prophecy, and fate

Culture: Celtic

Plants: willow, aspen, rowan, snapdragon, hawthorn, yew, belladonna, mugwort, rose, and nightshade (do not consume, handle with care!)

Crystals: ravenite, yeomanite, schorl, arsenopyrite, harlequin opal, black opal, skye marble, pyrolusite, biotite, feldspar, black agate, hematite, smoky quartz, bloodstone, onyx, charoite, black obsidian, labradorite, shungite, and black tourmaline

Animals: crow, raven, horse, eel, rook, serpent, and wolf

Incense: frankincense, myrrh, sandalwood, rose, cedar, juniper, and dragon’s blood 

Practices: death witchcraft, spirit work, divination, shadow work, ancestor worship, psychic abilities, and necromancy

Colours: red, black, white, blue, and green

Numbers: 3 and 6

Zodiac: Scorpio 

Tarot: The High Priestess, The Tower, Queen of Swords, The Devil, Justice, and Death

Planet: Moon

Days: Monday, Imbolc, Lammas, Mabon, Samhain, Halloween, and full moons

Parents: Cailitin and Ernmas

Siblings: Ériu, Banba, Fódla, Gnim, Coscar, Fiacha, and Oll

Partner: The Dagda and an unnamed shapeshifting goddess

Children: Mechi

MISC:

Crows and ravens: the Morrigan is often associated with crows or ravens due to her nature as a deity of death, fate, and transformation. In Irish mythology, crows or ravens were often seen as messengers between the worlds of the living and the dead, and could be seen as omens of impending change or transformation. For the Morrigan, these birds served as her messengers and helped her carry out her duties as a deity of war, fate, and the supernatural. Additionally, the Morrigan herself was sometimes depicted as a crow or raven in the form of a woman.

Death: she is often associated with death because she is seen as a deity of fate and transformation, which can include death and rebirth. In Irish mythology, she is often depicted as a battle goddess who wields a spear or sword, and is seen as a bringer of violence and change. She is also associated with the concept of death as a natural and inevitable part of life, and is sometimes seen as a guide for the souls of the dead as they cross over to the afterlife.

War: in Irish mythology, she was often seen as a fierce and powerful warrior, who would appear in the form of a crow or raven to guide and aid the soldiers of the Tuatha de Danann, a group of gods and mythological beings. She was often invoked by soldiers in order to bring them victory in battle and could also be seen as a symbol of the chaos and destruction that can occur during war.

Triple goddess: she is often associated with the triple goddess archetype due to her connection with the number three and her role as a goddess of transformation and female empowerment. In Celtic mythology, the number three was often seen as sacred and powerful, and the Morrigan is sometimes depicted as embodying these three aspects of femininity: maiden, mother, and crone. This association reflects her nature as a powerful and multifaceted deity who encompasses the different phases of a woman's life, from youth and fertility to wisdom and maturity.

Samhain: in Celtic mythology, Samhain is believed to be a time when the boundary between the world of the living and the world of the dead becomes thin, allowing the spirits of the deceased to return to the world of the living. The Morrigan, as a goddess of death and transformation, is seen as playing an important role during this time, guiding and assisting the souls of the dead on their journey to the afterlife.

Magic: was seen as a powerful force that could wield the energy and power of these natural forces, and the Morrigan was often invoked as a source of magical power and insight during certain rituals and spells. Additionally, the Morrigan is sometimes depicted as a sorcerous figure in some myths, casting spells or curses and using her supernatural abilities to influence events on the mortal plane.

FACTS ABOUT THE MORRIGAN:

She owns a herd of enchanted and magical cattle. 

Contrary to some interpretations, the Morrigan is not necessarily seen as an evil or destructive deity. In many myths, she is depicted as a protective and wise figure who aids and guides heroes on their journeys.

She is sometimes portrayed as a shape-shifter, able to take on the form of a crow or other animals.

The Morrigan is often associated with the number three, representing the three aspects of maiden, mother, and crone.

She is also associated with the Fae and the Banshee—a creature that generally takes on the form of an old woman who wails in mourning to announce the coming death of someone in the family.

The name "Morrigan" comes from Old Irish and means "phantom queen" or "great queen."

She is often associated with ravens or crows, which were seen as her messengers between the worlds of the living and the dead.

The Morrigan is known for appearing in the form of a woman with long, flowing hair, sometimes carrying a spear and/or a shield.

HOW TO INVOKE THE MORRIGAN:

Working with the Morrigan often involves building a relationship of mutual respect and trust with her. You can approach working with her in the following ways:

Research and study her mythology, folklore, and symbology to gain a deeper understanding of her nature and characteristics.

Set up an altar or sacred space dedicated to the Morrigan, and make regular offerings to her.

Perform rituals or spells in her honor to seek her guidance and power.

Meditate or visualize her presence in your life, and work on developing a direct channel of communication with her.

PRAYER FOR THE MORRIGAN:

Hail Morrigan, maiden, mother, and crone.  We call upon you, great and powerful deity, to guide us on our path, and protect us from harm. Teach us to be strong and fearless in the face of adversity and help us to find balance in our lives.

Bless our endeavors, and grant us success in all we do. In your name, I give thanks for your presence in our lives. Hail to you, the Morrigan.

SIGNS THAT THE MORRIGAN IS CALLING YOU:

Repeatedly seeing signs of crows or ravens, which are associated with the Morrigan.

Feeling a strong connection to the themes of war, fate, and sovereignty.

Having vivid dreams or visions of the Morrigan or her symbols (e.g. a raven, a battle flag, etc).

Feeling drawn to read or learn about the Morrigan or Celtic mythology.

Experiencing strong emotions or changes in behavior that feel linked to the energy of the Morrigan.

Feeling the urge to explore or embrace warlike or competitive activities (e.g. sports, martial arts, strategy games).

Finding yourself drawn to stories of powerful women, goddesses, or wanting to honour and empower yourself.

Having a sudden urge to explore your own shadow or unconscious and to confront and transform it.

A sudden urge to create or engage in art, poetry, or music that connects to the Morrigan’s energy and symbolism.

OFFERINGS:

Red meat.

Mead. 

Red wine poured into the ground. 

Apples. 

Milk. 

Whiskey. 

Storm water

Crow or raven feathers. 

Knives and daggers. 

Scrying. 

Artwork and poetry. 

Red foods. 

Deep green, black and red stones/crystals. 

Honey. 

Dark chocolate. 

Coins. 

Studying Celtic mythology. 

Blood (especially menstrual blood). 

Traditional Irish foods. 

DEVOTIONAL ACTS:

Creating sigils or magickal symbols associated with the Morrigan and her aspects (such as battle, war, death, etc) and charging them with your intention and energy.

Performing war dances, warrior rites, and ceremonies of protection and victory.

Paint your nails black or red while thinking of her. 

Shadow work. 

Exploring magic and divination related to the Morrigan, including the use of rune stones, scrying, and spirit communication.

Draw or paint her. 

Participating in activities where you are willing to take risks and venture into the unknown, as the Morrigan is known for pushing individuals to embrace their destiny and seize control of their life.

Respecting the dead. 

Working to protect and uphold your own personal sovereignty and destiny, and resisting outside influence or control.

Make a playlist that is dedicated to her, or listen to music that reminds you of her. 

Lighting a black candle. 

Feeding your local murder (crows). 

Celebrating the changing of the seasons and honoring the cycles of life and death.

Praying and making offerings to the Morrigan, seeking her guidance and power for your magical and spiritual practice.

Screaming your heart out when alone in the woods. 

Performing blessings and healing rituals for fresh water bodies, such as lakes, rivers, and streams, to honor the Morrigan’s association with water.

Standing up for yourself. 

Exercising (especially if it’s challenging). 

Celebrate Samhain. 

[darkintothedawn]

HAPPY VALENTINES || Stiles Stilinski 'Teen Wolf'

Pairing — Stiles Stilinski x female reader

Summary — It's Valentines day and you and Stiles are going to make the most of the day.

Memo — This was rushed because I kinda forgot about this and then I started something else and that took up a bunch of my time. Sorry!!! Hopefully this is enjoyable enough.

Word Count — 11K~

Warnings — Fluff. Smut. Slightly jealous Stiles. Slightly insecure Stiles. Lots of love. Soft, loving sex. Vanilla sex. Unprotected p/v. Mentions of birth control.

Masterlist | Stiles' Adventures

The soft chime of your alarm barely had time to finish before you silenced it with a sleepy hand, blinking against the pink-tinged sunlight streaming through your curtains. Valentine’s Day. The thought sent a quiet flutter through your chest.

You stretched lazily, the warm fabric of Stiles’ hoodie bunching around your arms. You had stolen it months ago, and despite his dramatic protests, he never actually tried to take it back.

Sliding out of bed, you padded over to your dresser, scanning for something to wear. Something cute, but not too obvious. Stiles would be expecting some kind of themed outfit, probably hoping you’d go full rom-com heroine. You smirked, grabbing a simple red sweater—festive but subtle.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Stiles: Wakey wakey, love of my life, light of my world, my beautiful, brilliant, better half.

You rolled your eyes, grinning.

Stiles: Roscoe and I are en route soon. Hope you’re ready to be romanced. Hope you’re also ready for my playlist, which I carefully curated for this momentous occasion.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. Knowing him, it would be an unhinged mix of 80s power ballads, dramatic movie scores, and love songs everybody knew.

With a shake of your head, you grabbed your backpack, quickly applying a little mascara in the mirror. Stiles would swear up and down that you didn’t need it, but he’d also get adorably flustered when you batted your lashes at him.

Another buzz.

Stiles: BRING A JACKET, IT’S COLD. Don’t argue. Love you.

You chuckled, grabbing your coat just as the distant rumble of a Jeep engine echoed down your street.

Valentine’s Day with Stiles Stilinski was never going to be normal. And honestly? You wouldn’t want it any other way.

You slung your backpack over one shoulder and made your way downstairs, the scent of coffee lingering in the air from where your parents had already left for work. As you reached the front door, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever chaos Stiles was about to unleash on you.

The second you twisted the doorknob—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEEEEP.

You flinched, groaning as Roscoe’s horn blared aggressively from the driveway. Through the small window in the door, you could see him, one hand dramatically smashing the horn, the other over his heart like he was about to start reciting Shakespeare.

You yanked the door open fully, stepping out onto the porch with an unimpressed look. Stiles, grinning like a maniac, waved both hands in exaggerated excitement.

"Happy Valentine's Day, my love!" he called, as if he hadn’t just assaulted your eardrums. "Did my charming arrival take your breath away?"

"Almost," you deadpanned, stepping down onto the walkway. "But mostly because you scared me half to death."

He gasped, clutching his chest. "I knew I should’ve gone with the full mariachi band. I was this close, babe. This close."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight your smile as you reached the Jeep. Before you could even open the door, he was leaning over, flinging it open from the inside with a dramatic flourish. "Your chariot awaits, fair maiden."

You raised a brow. "Are you going to do this all day?"

"Absolutely," he said, with so much certainty it made you laugh.

Shaking your head, you climbed into the passenger seat, the worn seats familiar beneath you. The second your seatbelt clicked, he turned to you with a suspiciously excited grin.

"Okay," he said, reaching for his phone. "Before we go, I need you to emotionally prepare yourself."

You narrowed your eyes. "For what?"

"For the greatest Valentine’s Day playlist ever made."

Oh god.

Before you could protest, he hit play—and sure enough, the first notes of I Will Always Love You by Whitney Houston blasted through the speakers at full volume.

You groaned, head falling back against the seat. "Stiles—"

"Shhh," he whispered, eyes on the road but hand dramatically clutching his heart again. "Just let it happen."

And as ridiculous as it was, as over-the-top as everything with Stiles always was—you really wouldn’t have it any other way.

Roscoe rattled down the familiar road toward school, the heater blasting just enough to keep the February chill from seeping into your bones. Outside, the bare trees stretched their limbs against a pale blue sky, their branches trembling in the cold morning air. Patches of frost still clung to the grass, glistening in the sunlight, but inside the Jeep, it was warm—partly from the heater, mostly from Stiles.

Between exaggerated singing and dramatically reaching over to grab your hand every time a love song hit a big note, he kept one hand loosely on the wheel, his fingers occasionally drifting to your knee, your thigh, anywhere he could reach without actually driving off the road. His playlist was as chaotic as expected—Total Eclipse of the Heart followed by Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, then suddenly Kiss Me Thru the Phone by Soulja Boy, which had you dissolving into laughter.

"Stiles, what is this mix?" you giggled, shaking your head as he bopped along.

"This, my darling valentine, is the ultimate romance experience. A perfect balance of longing, passion, and pure, unfiltered bangers."

You rolled your eyes, but when he turned toward you at a red light, his expression softened. His free hand found yours again, fingers playing lazily with your own before he brought them up to his lips, pressing a quick kiss against your knuckles. Your heart stuttered at the small, uncharacteristically quiet moment, warmth spreading through your chest despite the cold morning.

Before you could say anything, the light changed, and he turned back to the road, but not before sneaking a glance at you, a small, lopsided grin tugging at his lips.

By the time you pulled into the school parking lot, Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance with Somebody was playing, and instead of immediately getting out, Stiles leaned in, cupping your cheek. His lips brushed yours, soft and lingering, and even though you were both fully aware that half the student body was milling around outside, neither of you pulled away too quickly.

When he finally did, he sighed dramatically. "Alright, let’s go pretend we’re normal people for the next eight hours."

You laughed, squeezing his hand once more before stepping out into the crisp morning air, already looking forward to the rest of the day with him.

The school was absolutely drenched in Valentine’s Day spirit. From the second you stepped onto school grounds, it was impossible to ignore—the hallways were lined with red and pink streamers, heart-shaped cut outs taped to lockers, and the occasional glittery "Be Mine" sign hastily scribbled in marker. Some students carried around balloons and teddy bears, while others clutched little paper Valentine's cards, the kind that usually came in bulk packs with cartoon characters and cheesy one-liners.

By time lunch rolled around, the air smelled faintly of sugar, thanks to the canteen selling themed treats—heart-shaped cookies with thick pink frosting, red velvet cupcakes, and even a special "Valentine’s Milkshake" that was more whipped cream than actual milkshake. You and Stiles passed a group of students excitedly picking through boxes of chocolate someone’s mom had clearly gone overboard with, and Stiles immediately tried to swipe a piece before you smacked his hand away.

Just as you were about to sit down, a sudden wave of excited gasps and giggles spread across the cafeteria. You turned just in time to see a guy—a junior you vaguely recognized from the drama club—drop to one knee in the middle of the room, a bouquet of bright red roses in his hands. Across from him stood another guy, eyes wide, hands covering his mouth in shock.

"Will you be my valentine?" the kneeling guy asked, loud enough for half the cafeteria to hear.

The whole room held its breath for a second—until the other guy nodded furiously, tugging him up into the biggest, tightest hug imaginable. Cheers and applause erupted around you, some people whistling, others just grinning at the pure sweetness of it all.

You clutched at Stiles' arm, actually swooning. "That is so cute. I can’t handle it."

Stiles, ever dramatic, wiped away an imaginary tear. "That’s it. Love is real. I believe in romance again."

You laughed, but when you turned to him, he was already looking at you, something softer in his expression. He didn’t drop to one knee or pull out roses, but he did lean in, pressing a quick, sweet kiss to your temple before muttering, "Still think my arrival this morning was more romantic, though."

You groaned, pushing him toward your usual table, but you couldn’t stop the smile pulling at your lips.

You and Stiles had barely sat down before he clapped his hands together, standing dramatically on the bench.

"Alright, folks! Important matter at hand!" he announced, waving his arms to get people’s attention.

You groaned, already knowing where this was going. Across from you, Scott and Lydia exchanged a look, Scott sighing like he was already exhausted.

"I propose a vote," Stiles continued, undeterred by the fact that only a handful of people were actually listening. "Which was more romantic—my absolutely heartfelt, cinematic pick-up this morning, or that cute but, let’s be real, predictable public cafeteria proposal?"

Lydia didn’t even look up from her phone. "Cafeteria proposal," she said, popping a bite of salad into her mouth.

Scott nodded. "Yeah, sorry, man. He had flowers. And he got down on one knee. That’s commitment."

Stiles gasped in betrayal. "You traitors." He turned to you, placing a hand over his heart. "Baby, love of my life, you get it, right?"

You pretended to consider it, tilting your head. "Well… the proposal was really sweet."

Stiles’ face fell. "Babe."

"But," you continued, grinning as you leaned forward, "It’s still not better than you."

His mouth snapped shut, surprise flickering across his features before he smirked, leaning in a little closer. "That’s what I thought."

Scott groaned. "You’re enabling him."

"Obviously," you said, bumping Stiles’ knee under the table now that he'd actually sat down. "It’s Valentine’s Day. If I’m not a little biased toward my boyfriend, what’s even the point?"

Stiles, clearly basking in victory, threw an arm around your shoulders and turned to Scott and Lydia. "That, my friends, is what true love looks like."

Lydia just rolled her eyes, while Scott shook his head with a chuckle.

"Yeah, yeah," Scott muttered. "Just don’t expect us to let you gloat about it all day."

"Oh, I absolutely will," Stiles said, beaming. "This is my day now."

You laughed, leaning into his side. Yeah, the proposal had been cute. But honestly? Nothing could ever top Stiles Stilinski in your book.

Which led to Stiles spending the rest of the day in full gloating mode, milking his so-called romantic victory for all it was worth. Every time you passed someone from the cafeteria, he’d make a point of loudly reminding them that his Valentine’s Day gesture had been officially ranked superior in your book.

"Hey, hey, remember when my girlfriend—my incredibly intelligent, stunning girlfriend—said my pick-up this morning was the most romantic thing she’s ever witnessed?" he said to a confused freshman outside math.

"Stiles, they weren’t even there," you pointed out.

"Doesn’t matter," he whispered dramatically, pulling you along. "They need to know."

The real problem, however, came when he refused to sit anywhere but next to you in every class.

"Stilinski, that is not your assigned seat," your history teacher sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, but it’s Valentine’s Day," Stiles said simply, already setting his books down beside you.

The teacher opened his mouth, then glanced at you, at the way Stiles was already absentmindedly playing with your fingers on the desk, and just sighed. "Fine."

It happened again in English, in chemistry, even in study hall—Stiles sneaking into the seat beside you, getting told off, flashing his best innocent 'but it’s Valentine’s Day' look, and being met with varying degrees of exasperated acceptance.

"How are you getting away with this?" you whispered as he tangled his legs with yours under the desk in your last class of the day.

"Because, sweetheart," he whispered back, intertwining your fingers beneath the table, "This is the one day of the year when even the teachers understand that love conquers all."

You snorted, shaking your head, but you didn’t untangle your fingers from his. Because really, if Stiles wanted to spend the whole day glued to your side, who were you to stop him?

The final bell rang, and before you could even celebrate the end of the school day, Stiles was already tugging you toward the locker rooms, Scott trailing behind with an amused shake of his head.

"Okay, time for you to give me a heartfelt, cinematic goodbye before I heroically go off to battle," Stiles announced, stopping just outside the gym doors.

You raised an eyebrow. "Battle?"

"Have you seen how aggressive Greenberg is during scrimmages? I’m risking my life out there," he said, gripping your hands like he was about to be shipped off to war.

Scott sighed. "Stiles, we’re literally just running drills today."

"That’s what they want you to think," Stiles muttered darkly before turning back to you, his expression immediately softening. "Okay, now, kiss me. Make it good, so if I don’t make it, I’ll die with no regrets."

Scott groaned, already walking inside. "I’ll see you out there."

You rolled your eyes, but when you leaned up to press a soft kiss to Stiles’ lips, his dramatic act faltered just a little. His hands slid down to your waist, fingers curling into your sweater as he deepened the kiss—just enough to make your heart stutter, just enough for you to forget for a second that you were still standing outside the gym.

When you finally pulled away, Stiles looked dazed for a moment, blinking at you like you’d just short-circuited his entire system.

You smirked, patting his chest. "Go fight your battle, soldier."

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. "Jesus, okay—yeah, that was good. That was really good. I think I can actually run laps now."

"Wow, that’s a miracle," you teased, stepping back as he finally turned toward the locker room.

As he disappeared inside, you made your way toward the bleachers, where Lydia was already sitting, lazily scrolling through her phone. She glanced up as you sat down beside her, one perfectly arched brow raising.

"You’re grinning like an idiot," she observed.

"Am I?" you asked, but you didn’t stop smiling.

Lydia hummed knowingly, returning to her phone. "You know, I’d make fun of you, but honestly? It’s kind of cute."

You nudged her shoulder with yours, settling in beside her as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm glow over the field. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke—just comfortable silence, the distant sound of cleats against grass, the occasional shout from the team.

It was a good day. And it wasn’t over yet.

As the team jogged onto the field, you immediately sat up a little straighter, scanning for a familiar lanky figure. When you finally spotted Stiles—actually in uniform, actually on the field rather than stuck on the bench—you let out an excited cheer.

"Yeah, Stiles! Look at you, athlete of the year!"

Stiles turned toward the bleachers, flashing you a bright, slightly sheepish grin. He raised both arms in the air like he’d just won the championship, despite literally just stepping onto the grass.

"Try not to trip over your own feet this time!" you added, hands cupped around your mouth.

Lydia snorted. "You're only encouraging him, you know."

"Obviously," you said, grinning.

Down on the field, Scott clapped a hand on Stiles' shoulder, clearly trying to hype him up before practice started. Stiles nodded, rolling his shoulders, attempting to look serious and focused—until he stole another glance at you and wiggled his eyebrows. You just shook your head, fighting a laugh.

"Honestly, I think your unwavering support is the only reason he’s still trying," Lydia mused, lazily crossing her legs.

"Hey, he’s got heart."

"He’s also got zero hand-eye coordination."

"Details," you said with a wave of your hand.

As the coach blew the whistle, Stiles actually sprinted into position, and you clapped again, beaming. "Look at him go! My little athlete!"

Lydia sighed, flipping her hair over one shoulder. "You two make me sick."

But there was no real bite in her tone, and when you glanced at her, you swore you caught the tiniest hint of a smile.

You were still watching the field, fully invested in the way Stiles was actually participating when it happened. He was panting, his hands on his knees after what barely counted as a sprint down the field, his uniform clinging to him with sweat. He looked up, running a hand through his hair, his chest still rising and falling—

And before you could stop yourself, the words left your mouth.

"God, why does he look so sexy like that?"

The second it was out, you froze.

Lydia’s head snapped toward you so fast you were surprised she didn’t give herself whiplash. "Oh my god," she breathed, her lips curling into the most delighted smirk.

You groaned, dropping your face into your hands. "Shut up, Lydia."

"No, no, no, I absolutely will not be shutting up," she said, leaning forward like she’d just uncovered the best gossip of the century. "Did you really just say that? About Stiles?"

You peeked through your fingers, already regretting everything. "I mean—okay, listen, technically, I just stated a fact—"

Lydia let out a delighted laugh, shaking her head. "He’s literally stumbling around the field like a newborn deer, and you’re sitting here thirsting over him."

"He’s running!" you defended, gesturing wildly. "Well—kind of running."

"He’s running like he just learned what legs are," Lydia quipped, watching as Stiles somehow tripped over nothing and barely managed to recover.

You sighed dramatically. "I don’t know, okay? He just looks good like that. All panting and sweaty and—ugh, I can’t believe I just said that out loud."

Lydia hummed, clearly enjoying your suffering. "So what you’re saying is, if he actually played sports, you’d just be a mess all the time?"

"Absolutely not," you said immediately, then hesitated. "…Okay, maybe a little bit."

Lydia grinned. "God, you’ve got it bad."

You groaned again, turning back to the field, just in time to see Stiles nearly crash into Scott, who barely managed to keep him upright.

And yet, despite the utter lack of coordination, despite the fact that you knew he could move better than this—you’d seen him run at full speed through the woods when he swore a werewolf was after him—you still couldn’t help but watch him a little too closely.

Stupid, clumsy, ridiculous, handsome idiot.

Lydia sighed beside you, still smirking. "You’re so far gone, it’s honestly kind of adorable."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t argue with her.

Lydia just smirked, clearly enjoying your suffering, but thankfully, she didn’t press any further. Instead, she stretched, tossing her empty water bottle into her bag. "Well, speaking of Stiles, let’s go wait for him before he inevitably gets distracted talking Scott’s ear off about his incredible performance today."

You rolled your eyes but got up, following her down the bleachers. As you both made your way toward the exit of the locker rooms, Lydia nudged you playfully.

"So, about that Freudian slip—"

You groaned. "Lydia."

"What? I’m just saying, you might want to prepare yourself. Stiles is about to come out all sweaty and panting again." She grinned wickedly. "You sure you’ll be able to handle it?"

You turned to glare at her, but she just smirked knowingly, flipping her hair over her shoulder as you reached the entrance.

"Shut up, Lydia," you muttered, leaning against the wall as you waited for Stiles to come out.

Your stupid, clumsy, panting, sweaty boyfriend.

The second Stiles walked out of the locker room, you felt it—the immediate, involuntary reaction that you had to shut down before Lydia noticed and never let you live it down.

Because God help you, he really did look good like this.

His hair was an absolute mess, damp with sweat, sticking up in all directions from where he’d probably run his hands through it. His lacrosse jersey clung to him in places, and even though Stiles wasn’t exactly ripped, there was still something undeniably attractive about him like this—flushed, panting slightly, looking like he’d actually put in work at practice.

Jesus Christ, get it together.

You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself to focus on literally anything else as he spotted you and Lydia waiting.

"Ah, my adoring fans," he greeted, grinning as he jogged up. "How’d I do?"

Lydia gave him a look. "You didn’t die. That’s something."

"Wow. High praise from you," Stiles said, clearly taking it as a victory. Then, without hesitation, he stepped right up to you and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you in effortlessly as you started walking toward Roscoe.

And that? That was almost worse than the sight of him looking all sweaty and hot.

Because it was casual, instinctual, like he didn’t even have to think about it. Like it was just natural for him to have his arm around you, his fingers resting against your hip, his body warm against yours.

Meanwhile, you had to actively remind yourself to breathe.

Lydia, walking a few steps ahead, definitely noticed the way you stiffened for half a second before composing yourself. She threw you the smuggest, most knowing look over her shoulder, but thankfully, she didn’t say anything.

Stiles, ever oblivious, just kept talking. "I mean, did you see me out there? I was practically thriving today."

"You tripped over your own feet like, five times," you said, thankful for the distraction.

"Okay, but I didn’t fall," he pointed out proudly. "That’s improvement, babe. You should be proud of me."

You sighed dramatically. "I guess I’m proud of you."

"Good," he said, tugging you in a little closer as you reached the parking lot. "Now, let’s celebrate my athletic success by going to get some food. Because I think I might actually pass out if I don’t eat something."

You laughed, finally relaxing against his side as you reached Roscoe. Even with your momentary internal struggle, being with Stiles like this—wrapped up in his warmth, in his casual affection—was still the best part of your day.

"Well, lucky for you," you said, nudging Stiles’ side as he unlocked Roscoe, "We already have dinner plans, remember?"

Stiles blinked, his hand pausing on the handle. "Wait—oh. Ohhh, right. Our date. At the diner. Where we’re going to eat food. Together. Because it’s Valentine’s Day and I am an excellent boyfriend."

Lydia sighed. "You forgot, didn’t you?"

"No!" Stiles protested immediately. "I mean—yes. Kind of. But only because I was too busy absolutely killing it at practice."

"You tripped six times," you reminded him.

"I thought it was five?"

"Yeah, well, I changed my mind."

Stiles just groaned, knowing he wouldn't win. "Anyway, that’s beside the point," he said, opening the passenger door for you with a grand gesture. "After you, my love."

Rolling your eyes but smiling, you climbed in, and Stiles jogged around to the driver’s side. Lydia waved lazily as she started toward her own car.

"Enjoy your very romantic diner date," she teased, smirking. "Try not to swoon too hard if he starts panting again."

Your face burned as she walked away. You were going to kill her.

Stiles, oblivious as ever, just buckled his seatbelt. "Man, she’s in a weirdly good mood today."

You exhaled slowly, deciding to not explain. Instead, you just leaned back in your seat as Roscoe rumbled to life, watching as Stiles grinned and pulled out of the lot, his fingers already tapping against the wheel in time with whatever song was playing.

You had a date at the diner. A low-key, simple, perfect date with Stiles, where you could sit in a booth, eat greasy fries, and just be together.

Yeah. Tonight was going to be great.

The drive to the diner was comfortable, filled with the hum of Roscoe’s engine and the occasional off-key singing from Stiles as he dramatically drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. You let him have his moment, watching as the neon lights of the diner came into view, casting a soft glow against the evening.

Stiles pulled into the parking lot with a flourish—which, realistically, was just him jerking the wheel a little too aggressively and then pretending it was intentional. You raised an eyebrow at him.

"Smooth," you deadpanned.

He grinned. "You’re impressed, admit it."

"Sure," you said, pushing open the door. "Impressed I’m still alive after a year of you driving me places."

Stiles scoffed but hopped out after you, immediately coming around the front of Roscoe to sling an arm around your shoulder as you walked inside.

The diner was buzzing with life, groups of friends crammed into booths, couples sharing milkshakes, and the smell of burgers and fries lingering in the air. The Valentine’s Day decorations were subtle—some pink and red hearts taped to the windows, a cheap banner over the register that read LOVE IS IN THE AIR!—but it made the whole place feel warm, cosy.

Stiles strode up to the hostess stand like he was somebody, glancing down at the reservation list like it personally offended him.

"Stilinski," he said, leaning against the podium. "The Stilinski reservation. You’ve probably heard of it."

The hostess, a girl who had definitely had a long night, barely looked up as she checked the list. "Mhm. Booth or table?"

"Booth," you answered quickly before Stiles could say something ridiculous like executive seating.

The hostess led you to a booth near the window, and you slid in across from Stiles, watching as he immediately made himself at home—shrugging off his jacket, stretching his legs out until he accidentally kicked you.

"Sorry, babe," he said, not sounding sorry at all as he grinned at you.

You rolled your eyes but let your foot nudge his under the table anyway.

"So, what are we thinking?" he asked, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "Classic burgers and fries? Or do we get fancy tonight?"

You snorted. "Stiles, this is a diner. What would fancy even look like?"

"Extra cheese," he said, eyes glinting. "And bacon."

"You’re really pushing the boat out tonight, huh?"

"For you? Always."

You shook your head, smiling as you handed him a menu, listening as Stiles launched into a very dramatic debate over whether milkshakes counted as a drink or a dessert.

Yeah. This was already perfect.

The conversation between you and Stiles was easy, effortless—filled with teasing and the occasional under-the-table foot nudging—until the waiter walked over.

And Stiles immediately hated him.

Because, of course, the guy wasn’t just some waiter. No, he had to be conventionally attractive, all sharp jawlines and effortless charm, flashing you a grin like he was the star of some rom-com. And worse, he wasn’t being subtle about it.

"Hey there," the guy said, barely sparing Stiles a glance before locking his eyes on you. "Hope you two weren’t waiting too long. We’re pretty packed tonight, but I’ll make sure you’re taken care of."

Stiles clenched his jaw. We’re literally in a diner. What does that even mean?

You, ever polite, just smiled. "No worries, we just got here."

The guy’s grin widened, like he thought that was an invitation to keep talking. "Nice. First time here, or are you regulars?"

Before you could answer, Stiles leaned forward slightly, plastering on his own grin. "Oh, we’re here all the time. Me and my girlfriend. On dates. Just like tonight. Because she’s my girlfriend. Who I’m dating."

You gave him a look. The waiter barely glanced his way before turning his attention back to you, eyes glinting. "Well, you’ve got great taste. In diners and in…"—his gaze flickered over you in a way that made Stiles’ fingers twitch—"Company."

Stiles could feel the muscles in his shoulders locking up. Because what the hell? It wasn’t like the guy didn’t know. Stiles was right here, sitting directly across from you, holding the damn menu. It wasn’t even like he could be mistaken for just a friend—he had his foot nudged against yours under the table, he was wearing the most lovesick expression known to man, and it was Valentine’s Day, for God’s sake.

And yet.

Jealousy crawled into his chest like something toxic, something ugly that he hated feeling, especially tonight of all nights. Because it wasn’t like you were his in some possessive way. But you were his girlfriend, and he was your boyfriend, and that should’ve been enough to shut this guy down.

But, apparently, it wasn’t.

Because Stiles wasn’t some effortlessly cool, conventionally attractive dude who could just flash a smile and make people swoon. He wasn’t that guy—the one who people flirted with even when he was clearly taken.

He was just Stiles. The guy who tripped over his own feet and talked too much and probably didn’t deserve to be sitting across from someone like you.

"Right," he said, before you could answer the guy’s way-too-bold compliment. "So, uh—food? We’re actually starving, so maybe we should get to that, huh? What do you want, babe?"

He put extra emphasis on babe, just in case the guy hadn’t fully grasped the concept yet.

You shot him a slightly amused look, but thankfully, you just turned your attention back to the menu. "Uh, yeah. I’ll just do a cheeseburger and fries."

The waiter scribbled it down, giving you another obnoxiously charming smile before turning to Stiles. "And for you?"

Stiles met his gaze, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Same. Extra cheese. And bacon. For her too."

"Fancy, and yeah, sure," you murmured, and despite everything, Stiles’ lips twitched.

The guy jotted it down, lingering for a second longer than necessary before finally walking away.

The moment he was out of earshot, you turned back to Stiles, raising an eyebrow. "So… you good?"

"Yep. Totally fine. Not at all mildly enraged by our waiter blatantly flirting with my very clearly taken girlfriend." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Nope. Doing great."

You fought back a smirk, tilting your head. "Are you jealous?"

Stiles scoffed. "Pfft. Me? Jealous? No. I mean, do I think it’s a little insane that he was shooting his shot when we’re on a date? Yes. But am I, like, insecure about it? No."

You stared at him.

He sighed, dropping his head back against the booth. "Maybe."

Your smile softened, and before he could overthink it too much, you slid your foot against his under the table again, grounding him. "Stiles," you said, your voice quieter now. "You know you don’t have to be, right?"

He looked at you then, and for a second, the jealousy melted into something else. Something more vulnerable, something more him.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I know."

And the worst part? He did know. But sometimes, knowing wasn’t enough.

Dinner should’ve been perfect. And in a way, it was—because it was you and him, together, the way it always was, the way it always should be. But that stupid little voice in the back of his head just wouldn’t shut up.

The food arrived soon enough, and you were quick to take a fry from Stiles’ plate even though you had your own, which normally would’ve earned you some dramatic outrage, but right now? He didn’t even have it in him to care.

"You okay?" you asked after a minute, popping another fry in your mouth as you studied him.

"Yeah," he said, too quickly. "Totally. Why wouldn't I be?"

You gave him the look. The one that always made him feel like you were peering directly into his soul and uncovering all the things he was desperately trying to push down.

"Stiles," you said, soft and knowing.

And ugh, he hated that you knew him so well. Hated that he couldn’t just brush it off and pretend everything was fine, because of course you’d see right through it.

So he sighed, stabbing at his fries with his fork. "It’s just—" He hesitated, then let out a short, humorless laugh. "It’s dumb."

You tilted your head, waiting.

He exhaled, dropping the fork and rubbing the back of his neck. "It’s just—that guy earlier? I know it’s not a big deal, okay? I know that logically, and I know you didn’t care, and I know you’re here with me. But for some reason, I just—" He shook his head. "I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about it."

You were quiet for a moment, just watching him, and God, he hated feeling like this. Because it wasn’t just about tonight. It was about everything. The nagging voice in his head that told him he wasn’t enough—not for you, not for lacrosse, not for anything.

Because the waiter? He was one guy. But he wasn’t the first guy to flirt with you, and he wouldn’t be the last. And Stiles? Stiles knew what he looked like in comparison to them.

He wasn’t classically attractive. He wasn’t built, wasn’t effortlessly cool, wasn’t the kind of guy that people noticed first. He was lanky and awkward and loud, and sometimes he wondered if the only reason you had fallen for him was because he’d been around you so long you had just gotten used to him.

And if one day, when you'd woken up and realized—Oh. I could do better—he doesn't know what he'd do.

You reached across the table, grabbing his hand before he could spiral any further. "Stiles," you said, fingers squeezing his, your thumb running slow, soothing circles against his skin. "You are the only person I want. I don’t care if some random guy flirts with me. I don’t care if someone ‘better looking’ or ‘cooler’ or whatever comes along. You’re it."

He swallowed hard, staring at your hand in his. "Yeah?" he murmured, voice quieter than he wanted it to be.

You smiled, tilting your head. "Yeah."

And somehow, just like that, the nagging voice in his head faded—not completely, but enough that he could take a deep breath again, could squeeze your hand back, could smile at you like he meant it.

Dinner went smoothly after that. You teased him about how dramatic he was, he stole some of your fries as revenge, and by the time you were splitting a milkshake (which was totally a drink, by the way, he refused to believe otherwise), everything felt normal again.

Better.

Easier.

Because yeah, sometimes the insecurities crept in. Sometimes, he felt like he was one wrong move away from losing you.

But then you’d do something like reach across the table and lace your fingers through his like it was the most natural thing in the world, and he’d remember—

You were his. And he was yours.

And that was enough.

Stiles was mid-sip of the milkshake when you tugged his hand closer to you, and he barely had time to process it before you were pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. His brain short-circuited immediately.

"Oh," he said, dumbly, watching as you untangled your fingers only to take his hand in both of yours. His pulse definitely picked up when you lifted it again, brushing a kiss over the pad of his thumb.

"Smart," you murmured, your lips brushing his skin.

Stiles blinked rapidly. "I—huh?"

You smiled, moving to his index finger next, your lips pressing against it lightly. "Brave."

He swallowed hard, mouth suddenly so dry despite the literal milkshake in front of him.

"Funny," you said, kissing the tip of his middle finger next, and holy shit, was it hot in here? Was the diner on fire? Was he dying?

You moved on to the next finger. "Kind."

Stiles made an embarrassingly small noise, his ears burning as he tried so hard to hold it together. He could not look away from you, from the way you were deliberately taking your time, from the way your lips lingered, from the way you were watching him, eyes warm and teasing.

And then, finally, you kissed the tip of his pinky, grinning. "Mine."

Yeah. He was dead. Fully deceased.

Because you weren’t just being sweet—you knew exactly what you were doing. You knew how much you were affecting him. And when you looked up at him like that, all soft and affectionate and smug—

"Oh my god," he groaned, dropping his forehead onto the table for a second. "You cannot just do that to me in public, okay? I almost died."

You laughed, tugging his hand again until he looked back up at you, his face burning, his heart doing that stupid little skip thing that only ever happened because of you.

"You okay there, babe?" you teased.

"No," he deadpanned. "I am in love with you, and it is physically painful sometimes, okay?"

You grinned. "Good." And then, just to be a menace, you leaned across the table and kissed the corner of his mouth.

And Stiles? Yeah, he was so gone for you.

Dinner ended in a blur of lingering glances, the occasional foot nudging under the table, and a tip that Stiles left in a hurry, mostly because he was still recovering from the absolute assault you had launched on his poor, defenceless heart.

The drive home was quiet in that charged kind of way—Roscoe’s engine humming, the occasional streetlamp flashing through the windshield, casting shifting shadows over your face. Stiles kept sneaking glances at you, his fingers drumming against the wheel, trying so hard to act normal.

Because this—this was the part where the reality of the night started settling in.

You were coming back to his house.

And his dad was working late.

And it was Valentine’s Day.

And neither of you had said anything about it, but it was there, sitting between you, a quiet awareness that neither of you wanted to acknowledge too soon, like speaking it out loud would make it too real.

You sighed, leaning your head against the window, a small, content smile on your lips. "That was nice," you murmured.

"Yeah," Stiles said, clearing his throat. "Yeah, it was."

And maybe he was imagining it, but your voice dipped just slightly—just enough for the warmth in his stomach to spread, for his fingers to tighten just a little on the wheel.

When he finally pulled into his driveway, turning off the engine, he sat there for a second, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary, trying to breathe through it.

You, completely oblivious to the fact that his brain was currently short-circuiting, just stretched, letting out a quiet, satisfied noise before unbuckling your seatbelt. "C’mon," you murmured, smiling at him as you opened your door. "Let’s go inside."

Stiles swallowed. Nodded. And followed.

The moment the front door shut behind you, something shifted.

The air felt heavier, the silence stretching between you, no longer entirely comfortable but not awkward either. Just… thick.

You kicked off your shoes, stretching again, and God, did you have to do that? Did you know what you were doing to him?

Stiles, meanwhile, was standing there, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie like an absolute loser, trying so hard not to look like a guy who was painfully aware that his very beautiful, very wonderful girlfriend was standing in his house alone with him for the entire night on Valentine’s Day.

You turned to face him, tilting your head slightly, and it took everything in him not to combust when you let your gaze flicker just slightly over him before meeting his eyes again.

"So," you murmured.

Stiles licked his lips. "So."

You took a step closer. Just one. Just enough.

Alarms were going off in his head. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.

Because it wasn’t just that you were alone. It was that you both knew it. It was in the way you looked at him, in the way his heart was hammering, in the way everything felt like it was teetering on a knife’s edge.

And then, softly, teasingly—

"You gonna keep standing there, or are you gonna kiss me?"

Yeah. He was done for.

Stiles didn’t need to be told twice.

The second the words left your mouth, he was closing the distance, one hand reaching for your waist, the other coming up to cup your jaw, fingers sliding into your hair as he finally pressed his lips to yours.

And God.

Kissing you always felt good, always sent a rush of something warm and electric through him, but this—this was different. This wasn’t just a kiss hello, or goodbye, or an absentminded brush of lips in between classes. This was heavier, deeper, wrapped in all the unspoken things neither of you had said yet but could feel crackling between you.

You made a small, satisfied noise against his mouth, tilting your head just slightly, and it sent every single thought straight out of his brain. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you in closer, and you responded by letting your arms loop around his neck, pressing against him like you had no intention of moving away anytime soon.

Which was great. Fantastic, actually. Because Stiles? Yeah, he wasn’t sure he could let you move away at this point. Not when you were kissing him like this, soft but intentional, teasing but needy, like you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

It made something snap in him.

His hands slid down to your hips, fingers digging in just a little, and he was about to say something, something dumb or sweet or both, because it was him, when you suddenly started walking him backward.

He barely had time to process it before—

Thud.

His back hit the wall.

Oh. Oh.

His breath hitched. His hands tightened. And you? You just grinned against his lips like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

"Whoa," he breathed, voice slightly unsteady, and you just smirked, tilting your head as your fingers played with the hairs at the nape of his neck.

"Something wrong, Stiles?"

"Everything is wrong," he muttered, eyes darting between yours and your mouth. "Everything is so right and also so wrong because you’re doing things to me and I—"

You kissed him again, effectively cutting off whatever rambling mess was about to spill out of his mouth, and God, you were so unfair.

His hands moved without thinking, sliding up your sides, memorizing the warmth of you, the feel of your body pressing just right against his, and shit, he was so gone for you.

And then—

Knock knock knock.

Stiles jumped so hard he nearly hit his head against the wall, breath coming in fast and sharp as his brain screeched to a halt.

You pulled back slightly, dazed, blinking at the front door before looking back at him, eyes wide.

"You expecting someone?" you asked, voice slightly breathless.

"No!" he said, probably a little too fast and loud, still very much reeling from the whiplash of going from that to whatever the hell was happening now.

Another knock.

Stiles groaned, tilting his head back against the wall. "I swear, if this is Scott needing relationship advice again, I’m gonna—"

But you just laughed, pressing one last, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth before stepping back, smoothing your hands over his chest playfully.

"Hold that thought," you murmured, before heading for the door.

And Stiles?

Yeah, he was not surviving tonight.

The interruption didn’t last long. Just a neighbor dropping off a misdelivered package, something that, under any other circumstances, Stiles would’ve handled with his usual charm and mild exasperation.

But tonight?

Tonight, he just stood there, arms crossed, glaring at the poor, unsuspecting civilian like they had personally ruined his entire life, while you politely accepted the package and thanked them, sending them on their way with a smile.

And the second the door was shut again, Stiles groaned dramatically, running a hand down his face. "I hate people," he muttered.

You turned to face him, a knowing smirk tugging at your lips. "Yeah?" you teased, stepping closer. "What a shame. I kind of like people."

Stiles huffed, rolling his eyes, but before he could make some ridiculous comeback, you were grabbing his hoodie, tugging him toward you until there was no space left between you.

And just like that, the tension from before snapped right back into place.

His hands found your waist, yours slid up to tangle in his hair, and the moment your lips met his again, he didn’t even try to fight it—he just melted into you, letting you guide him backward until—

Oof.

The back of his knees hit the couch, and he fell, hard, pulling you right down with him.

You laughed against his lips, bracing yourself with a hand on his chest, but before you could say anything, Stiles was already flipping the two of you over, pressing you into the cushions as he hovered above you, eyes dark with something that made your breath catch.

"Okay," he murmured, a little breathless, "this is happening."

You grinned. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding, before promptly burying his face against your neck. "Finally."

You laughed again, wrapping your arms around him, fingers slipping under his hoodie to brush against the warm skin at his waist. He shivered, tilting his head just enough to kiss the underside of your jaw, and oh.

Yeah, that was—yeah.

His hands, still warm from the slight chill outside, traced slow, lazy circles at your sides, his lips finding yours again, kissing you like he had all the time in the world—like nothing else mattered but this.

And for once, neither of you felt the need to rush.

Because there was no one to interrupt. No school in the morning. No monsters to chase or run from.

Just you and Stiles.

Alone.

On Valentine's Day.

Stiles felt like he was dreaming.

Not the kind of dream where he was being chased through the woods by some unholy creature or Scott was making him take a math test in his underwear—no, this was the kind of dream where everything felt too good to be real.

Because you were underneath him, your body warm against his, your fingers tugging at the hem of his hoodie with slow, deliberate intent. And God, if that wasn’t enough to send his brain into overdrive, you were also currently missing your own sweatshirt—his doing—because somewhere between slow kisses and wandering hands, he had managed to pull it over your head, leaving you in just your tank top.

And now, as you dragged his hoodie up, he lifted his arms without hesitation, letting you pull it off and toss it somewhere behind the couch.

The moment it was gone, you took a second to look at him, eyes flickering over his t-shirt, your fingers immediately smoothing over the warm skin of his stomach, bunching his top up for more skin to touch, your touch so soft it sent a shiver down his spine.

"Hi," you murmured, a teasing little smile playing on your lips.

Stiles let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "Hi."

His hands slipped under your tank top next, fingers brushing lightly along your sides, dragging the fabric up slowly, giving you every chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

Instead, you lifted your arms, letting him pull it off completely. And that was how he found himself kneeling over you, completely and utterly wrecked, because—

Oh.

Oh.

It was that bra.

His favorite one.

The one that made his brain short-circuit every single time you wore it.

Stiles swallowed hard, eyes locked on you, his hands resting lightly on your waist as his pulse pounded. "You—" He licked his lips. "That’s not fair."

You grinned, clearly knowing exactly what you were doing to him. "What’s not fair?"

He let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head as his hands traced gentle patterns along your skin. "This. You." His thumbs brushed over your ribs, his eyes trailing over every inch of you, memorizing the way you looked under the soft glow of the living room lamp. "You had to wear this one, huh?"

Your grin softened into something sweeter as you reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair again. "Maybe I did it on purpose," you teased, voice quieter now, more intimate.

Stiles let out a slow breath, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. "Cruel," he murmured, but there was no heat behind it—just warmth, just awe.

You laughed softly, brushing your nose against his. "Hopeless," you countered.

And yeah. Maybe he was.

Hopelessly in love with you.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Stiles took his time.

Not because he was unsure, not because he was nervous—no, this was something different. This was reverence, this was adoration. This was him memorizing every single moment, every shiver under his touch, every soft sigh you let out when his hands brushed over bare skin.

His fingers moved slowly, tracing the straps of your bra, dragging them down your shoulders inch by inch, like he had all the time in the world. And maybe he did. Maybe tonight, it was just about this. About you. About feeling everything without rushing through it.

When your bra finally slipped away, Stiles exhaled slowly, his eyes trailing over you with something so raw, so soft, it made your breath catch.

"God," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "How do you just—"look like this?"

You let out a quiet laugh, warmth spreading through your chest at the way he looked at you—like you were something sacred, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

He kissed you again, slow and lingering, before his hands moved lower, fingers finding the waistband of your sweats. He hesitated for just a second, silently asking, and when you nodded, lifting your hips, he eased them down, peeling them away with the same unhurried intent.

His hands smoothed over your legs as he settled back for a moment, just taking you in. His eyes flickered up to yours, and the way he smiled—soft, awed—made something in your stomach flutter.

"You're so beautiful," he said quietly, like it was a fact he had just realized for the first time. Like it stunned him.

And the way he said it—like he needed you to know, like he ached for you to believe him—made your heart ache in the best way.

There was no urgency in his touch, no rush to get anywhere. Just warmth, just fingertips tracing delicate paths over your skin, just Stiles, looking at you like he would spend forever loving you if you let him.

Stiles took a steady breath, his fingers still trailing along your skin, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop touching you—not yet. Maybe not ever.

But then you reached for him, your hands slipping under the hem of his t-shirt, your touch warm and deliberate, and God, he was so gone for you.

You tugged lightly, and that was all the invitation he needed. He leaned back just enough to grab the fabric and pull it over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought.

Your eyes raked over him, slow and intent, and the way your fingers ghosted down his chest—soft, appreciative—sent a shiver through him. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure, but the look on your face? The way you admired him like he was something worth admiring? Yeah, that was doing things to him.

You bit your lip, your hands resting lightly against his ribs. “You really are unfair sometimes, you know that?”

Stiles let out a quiet, breathless laugh, tilting his head slightly. “Me?” He shook his head, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to your shoulder. “I think we’ve already established who’s being unfair here.”

You just smiled, dragging your hands lower, to the waistband of his sweats. You toyed with the fabric, your fingers dipping just beneath it, teasing, waiting.

Stiles’ breath hitched, his hands tightening on your hips.

And then, with the same unhurried patience he had shown you, you pushed his sweats down, your touch slow and deliberate, as if you wanted to savor this just as much as he did.

He kicked them off the rest of the way, his body pressing back against yours, bare skin against bare skin, warmth melting into warmth.

His forehead rested against yours, his breath coming out just a little unsteady as he tried to process the fact that this was happening. That you were here, with him, looking at him like this.

“You ruin me,” he murmured softly, almost to himself, his fingers tracing gentle circles against your hip.

You smiled, brushing your nose against his. “Good,” you whispered. “Because you ruin me too.”

And then he was kissing you again, slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world. Because tonight?

Tonight, he did.

His hips pressed against yours in the slowest, laziest grind, his body moving against you with a quiet, unhurried rhythm. He wasn’t in any rush—he didn’t want to be. Not when he could feel everything like this.

The heat between you was intoxicating, every shift, every press of his body against yours making his breath stutter. His hands traced over your skin, gripping your waist just enough to keep you close, to feel you, to hold you in place as he rolled his hips into yours again—just enough friction to make both of you gasp.

You could feel him through his boxers, hard and aching, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide how much he wanted you. And the way he groaned when he felt the dampness of your underwear against him? God, it sent a shiver through you.

“Jesus,” he whispered, forehead pressing against yours, his breathing heavy as he rocked into you again, his fingers tightening on your hips. “You—fuck, you feel so good.”

You bit your lip, a soft, pleased hum slipping from you as you arched into him, pressing even closer, dragging your nails lightly down his back just to feel the way his muscles tensed.

“Stiles,” you breathed, a quiet plea, your voice laced with something needy.

That was all it took.

He let out a shaky breath, pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to your jaw before pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, dazed, his lips slightly parted as if he was trying to think, trying to focus when all he wanted to do was sink into you completely.

“Yeah?” he whispered, his voice rough, wrecked.

You nodded, your hands sliding up to cradle his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. "Yeah.”

And that was it.

A slow, unspoken agreement.

Tonight wasn’t about rushing. It wasn’t about urgency or desperation.

It was about this. About the way you felt against him. The way your bodies fit together like they were meant to.

So when his fingers slid down, tracing the last remaining barrier of fabric between you, his touch was slow, careful—reverent.

Because tonight?

Tonight was about taking his time.

His fingers slid beneath the waistband of your underwear, tracing the soft skin there, teasing—not to make you impatient, but because he just needed to feel every inch of you. Like if he didn’t take his time, he’d miss something important, something sacred.

Your breath hitched, and he watched your face carefully, his eyes searching yours for any hesitation. There was none. Just trust. Just love.

That was all he needed.

He pulled your underwear down slowly, dragging his hands down your legs as he went, pressing soft kisses to the inside of your thigh before tossing them aside. When he settled back over you, bare now, his body against yours, he swore he could feel his heart stutter.

You reached for him next, your fingers slipping into the waistband of his boxers, your hands warm, delicate, careful as you eased them down. Stiles sucked in a quiet breath, shivering as you traced your hands along his thighs before finally sliding the last of his clothing away.

Now there was nothing between you.

Just warmth. Just skin against skin.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his hands tracing slow, loving paths down your sides. He took a deep breath, pressing a lingering kiss to your collarbone before lifting his head to look at you.

You smiled at him, soft and sweet, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Hi,” you whispered again, teasing, affectionate.

Stiles laughed, breathless, shaking his head. “God, you’re unreal,” he murmured, his voice wrecked in the most tender way. He kissed you again, slow and deep, his lips lingering like he never wanted to stop.

You shifted beneath him, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, and he groaned, gripping your hip as he rolled his body against yours again, this time with nothing in between.

A shudder ran through you both at the feeling.

Everything was slow. Gentle.

Loving.

He pressed another kiss to your lips, then your cheek, then your jaw. “I love you,” he whispered, voice quiet but firm, like it was the most certain thing in the world.

Your fingers traced down his spine, grounding him, holding him there. “I love you too,” you murmured back.

And then, together, you moved as one.

No rush. No urgency.

Just love.

Stiles pressed his forehead against yours, his breath coming in slow, steady waves as he positioned himself, his hands framing your face like you were precious. Like you were something he needed to cherish.

His eyes searched yours, making sure—always making sure. And when you nodded, when you whispered his name so softly it made his chest ache, he moved.

The first push of him into you was gentle, careful, like he was afraid of rushing, of missing something. His hands trembled slightly as he held you, his thumbs brushing slow, soothing circles over your cheekbones, grounding himself in you.

He exhaled a shaky breath, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead as he filled you completely, his body melting into yours in a way that made him feel like this was where he belonged.

“God,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his lips lingering against your skin. “You—Jesus—you feel so good.”

You let out a soft sigh, your fingers tightening in his hair as you pulled him down for another kiss, slow and deep, your body adjusting around him like you were meant for this—meant for him.

Stiles didn’t move right away. He just held you, his nose brushing against yours, his eyes fluttering shut as he took in everything—the warmth of you, the way you felt wrapped around him, the way your hands traced slow, delicate patterns down his back, like you wanted him to take his time.

Like you wanted this to last.

He swallowed hard, pressing his lips to your temple as he whispered once more, “I love you.”

No rush. No urgency.

Just love, love, love.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your touch soft, grounding. You tilted your head just enough for your lips to brush against his temple, a whisper of a kiss as you murmured, "I love you too."

Stiles let out a breath—slow, shaky—as if those words unraveled something deep inside him. His grip on you tightened just slightly, like he needed to hold onto this moment, needed to feel you, to know this was real.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and soft all at once, filled with something so tender, so pure, it made your chest ache. His thumb brushed over your cheek, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing every inch of you.

And then he moved.

Not rushed, not desperate—just slow. Lazy. Like he had all the time in the world to show you just how much he loved you.

Each roll of his hips was gentle, measured, as if he wanted you to feel everything, as if he wanted to feel everything too. There was no need to chase anything, no urgency—just warmth, just connection, just the two of you wrapped up in each other.

His lips found yours again, a deep, lingering kiss, his body pressing closer, like he never wanted to be anywhere else but here.

And God, neither did you.

Your hands traced down his back, fingers mapping out his skin, holding him there, keeping him close. Every slow thrust sent shivers down your spine, your breaths mingling as you melted into each other.

He whispered your name like it was something sacred, like he needed you to know how much this meant to him.

And in the quiet, in the warmth of him above you, inside you, around you, you knew—without a doubt—that this wasn’t just about desire.

This was love.

This was everything.

Stiles kept moving, slow and deep, his forehead pressed against yours, breath mingling with yours in the soft glow of the room.

Every push, every gentle roll of his hips sent warmth pooling through you, curling in your stomach, spreading like something inevitable. But there was no rush to get there. Not tonight.

Tonight was about feeling everything.

His hands roamed your body in soft, reverent strokes, like he wanted to map you out, like he needed to remember the way your skin felt beneath his fingertips. His lips ghosted over your cheek, your jaw, your neck—kisses adoring, unhurried.

“God, you feel so—” he broke off, exhaling sharply as he pushed just a little deeper, his body shuddering against yours.

You moaned softly in response, your nails dragging lightly down his back, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. The slow, steady pleasure was building, coiling tighter with every gentle thrust, every whispered name, every shared breath.

Stiles could feel it too. You could tell by the way his movements grew just a little more fluid, a little more desperate—his hands tightening on your hips, his lips lingering longer against your skin, his breaths growing heavier.

But still, he didn’t rush.

He wouldn’t rush.

Because this wasn’t just about chasing the end.

It was about this. The way he made you feel. The way you held him just as tightly, the way you looked at him like he was something worth worshiping as much as he looked at you as if you were.

His hand slid between your bodies, finding that sensitive spot, rubbing slow, deliberate circles, coaxing you closer, watching the way your face shifted beneath him, the way your lips parted on a soft, shaky gasp.

That did something to him. God, that did everything to him.

He buried his face in your neck, voice barely above a breath. “I—I’m close, baby.”

You nodded, feeling it too, your body tightening around him, your own release approaching like a slow-burning wave, inevitable, consuming.

“Me too,” you whispered, holding him even closer, wrapping yourself around him.

Stiles was shaking above you, his thrusts still slow but growing sloppier, less controlled. His fingers dug gently into your hips, like he was holding on for dear life, like he needed to ground himself in you.

You could feel the tension in his body, the way his breath was coming out in ragged, uneven gasps, the way he was right there—teetering on the edge, just waiting for you.

But then he slowed, just slightly, and his forehead pressed against yours again. His voice was quiet, breathless, almost uncertain.

“You’re—” he swallowed hard, trying to focus when everything was pulling him under. “You’re still on birth control, right?”

His voice was so soft, so earnest, like he needed to triple-check if needed, to make sure before he let himself fall completely.

Your chest ached at the care in his voice, even now. Even like this.

You cupped his face, brushing your thumb over his cheek, nodding. “Yeah, baby,” you whispered, kissing him between words, sweet and reassuring. “I am. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Something in him broke at that.

His breath stuttered, his body pressing closer, his lips crashing into yours in something desperate, something messy—a kiss that felt like a thank you, like I love you, like I need you so bad it hurts.

And when you whispered, "Let go for me,” that was all it took.

Stiles let out a shaky moan against your lips, his body pressed so close to yours it felt like there wasn’t an inch of space left between you. His movements stayed slow but deep, each thrust sending pleasure curling through you, pushing you right there, right to the edge where everything blurred into pure sensation.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting more, needing everything.

“Stiles—” His name left your lips on a broken gasp, your whole body tensing beneath him as the wave finally crashed over you. Pleasure rushed through you, warm and overwhelming, making you tremble as you clenched around him, gripping onto him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

That was all it took for him to fall with you.

A deep groan tore from his throat as he pushed into you one last time, his body shuddering, his grip tightening as he let go. His forehead dropped against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts, his whole body melting into yours as warmth spilled inside you, his release hitting him so hard he could barely think.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just breathing together, still tangled, still connected.

And then Stiles let out a soft, breathless laugh, pressing a lingering kiss to your cheek before whispering against your skin.

"Holy shit."

Stiles didn’t move right away—he just held you, his body still pressed to yours, like he couldn’t bear to put any distance between you yet. His breath was warm against your skin, his fingers tracing lazy, adoring shapes along your sides, like he was memorizing you all over again.

He tilted his head slightly, his lips pressing a lingering, reverent kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. Soft, sweet, like he had all the time in the world to love you.

“You are…” He exhaled, shaking his head like he couldn’t even find the words, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “God, you’re everything. Do you even know that?”

A smile tugged at your lips, warmth blooming in your chest as you brushed his damp hair back from his forehead. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

Stiles let out a breathless laugh, shifting just enough to press his lips fully to yours, slow and deep, like he wanted you to feel how much he meant it. How much he loved you.

“You’re unreal,” he murmured between kisses, his voice soft, filled with nothing but awe. “Perfect. So perfect.”

You flushed under his praise, your hands sliding up his back, holding him closer. “You’re kind of amazing yourself, you know.”

His lips twitched, but there was something softer behind his usual grin—something vulnerable. “Yeah?”

You nodded, brushing your nose against his. “Yeah.”

Stiles let out another soft laugh, his arms wrapping fully around you, cradling you against him as he nuzzled into your neck. “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to the side of his head, letting your fingers trace soothing circles against his skin.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Stiles.”