#trials of apollo fanfiction

[tsarisfanfiction]

The Best Teacher

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: Kayla, Yan, Jerry, Will All new Apollo kids have to have their archery skills vetted. TOApril 2024 has begun and this time I plan on actually taking part, so here is day 1 - Missed Target

“Have either of you shot before?” Kayla asked, turning to face her two newest siblings.  Perhaps she should have asked that earlier, before leading them to the archery range and putting bows in their hands, but who said she was the best person to be doing this?

Well, she was the best archer in camp, so of course she was.

Kayla steadfastly ignored her spectating brother from where he was pretending not to watch behind the waiting line.  Will might be head counsellor, but he was not the best archer in camp.

Yan shrugged.  He – they, she corrected herself – held the bow she’d given them up, inspecting it.  She hadn’t given them anything complicated; camp default was the longbow, which was very much a point and shoot type of bow.  Powerful, but easy enough for most demigods to get the hang of.  “Once or twice,” they said in a dismissive voice that meant either they were lying, or didn’t think it was important.

Next to him, Jerry was plucking at the string of his bow – composite recurve, because he was a bit younger and smaller and longbows were tall – absently.  “Nope!” he said cheerfully.

Well, Kayla had had worse students – ones that had shot before and thought they were good at it, until she caught sight of their form and realised it was a miracle they hadn’t hurt themselves trying to draw their bows.  Not used to shooting meant blank slates.

“Okay,” she said.  “In that case, part one – safety rules at the range, before our big brother yells at me because I forgot to say something and someone gets hurt.”  She intentionally didn’t look towards where Will was sitting with Nico.  “This is the waiting line.  Don’t step past that unless you’re about to shoot.”  She pointed at the line closer to the targets.  “That is the shooting line.  While doing range shooting, you stand on that line and do not cross it under any circumstances while anyone has a bow in their hand.”

“What about non range shooting?” Yan asked, and Kayla shrugged back at them.

“That comes once you can range shoot well enough to not kill anyone,” she said.  “So, who’s first?”

“Me!” Jerry shrieked, throwing his hand in the air at the same time Yan said “age order,” and stepped up to the waiting line.

Kayla should have expected that, really.

“Experience first,” she decided.  “Jerry, stay there and watch.”  The British boy pouted but Kayla ignored him as she led Yan up to the shooting line.

For demonstration reasons, she’d passed over her own bow in favour of a longbow.  The smooth European yew felt different in her hand to her usual carbon fibre, but it was still instinct to raise it and draw back under the close watch of her new siblings.

“Let it settle,” she cautioned.  “Then one… two… release.”  Her arrow thudded into the centre of the target, burying itself halfway to the fletching.  “And finish like this.”  She held her position for a moment, letting Yan take it in before relaxing.

“I got it,” they said calmly, and before Kayla could even say anything, they had their loaned longbow at full draw, steady and with beautiful form.

Before she came to camp, Kayla would have thought Yan had lied about how little they’d shot before, but she knew better now.  Things didn’t always follow logical sense for demigods, and being able to perfectly draw back a longbow when they were a child of Apollo was hardly surprising.  Yan didn’t count out loud, but they didn’t need to.  Kayla saw the bow settle as the draw weight sat into their back muscles, and the moment it stabilised, they released.

It wasn’t a perfect shot – their technique was, but they clearly needed to work on their aim a little – but their arrow buried itself in the inner red ring of the target.

Another archer sibling.  Kayla grinned and handed them another arrow.  “Again,” she encouraged, and they obliged with a grin of their own, smaller than hers but she suspected no less maniac.  It was a thrill, feeling the bowstring sing and knowing that the arrow was going to land exactly where it had aimed.

Yan’s second shot was closer, breaking the line between inner red and outer gold, and Kayla knew it wouldn’t take much more practice before they were hitting gold every time – and once they could do that at greater distances, it would be time to move on to combat archery rather than target archery.

Kayla was delighted, but before she could give Yan another arrow, Jerry made his presence known behind her.

“When’s it my turn?” he demanded, and Kayla realised she couldn’t expect him to keep waiting.  Maybe he would be another archer sibling; she’d like that.  Most of their cabin were healers and musicians before they were archers (she carefully didn’t think about why) – and if she was honest, she’d like more siblings that could help her support their dad, if he ever came back and brought more enemies with him.

“Now,” she said, handing a few more arrows to Yan.  “Keep shooting,” she told them, confident that they wouldn’t hurt themselves if she looked away (anyway, Will was there if something did go wrong).

Jerry bounded over the shooting line, looking eager – more eager now than he had before Yan had shot, and Kayla couldn’t quite forget that the two of them had arrived together, had reportedly known each other for some time before discovering they shared a father.  He made impatient grabby hands for an arrow, and Kayla gave him one.

Instantly, she could tell that Jerry was not an archer first and foremost.  He fumbled the nock against the string a couple of times before it finally caught, and when she had him mirror her at full draw…  There were things to work on.

Before she could step closer to him to correct his stance, he let the arrow fly, jerking back awkwardly at the bow’s recoil, because he hadn’t been stable at all, and the arrow predictably responded in kind.

Kayla didn’t see where it landed, because she was too busy looking at Jerry, but she noticed the distinct absence of the thunk of an arrow hitting a boss.  Instinctively, she winced.  Missing the target entirely was embarrassing, especially as she had them set so close to the shooting line for initial lessons.

Jerry looked like he was about to cry, and Kayla was not equipped to deal with crying younger brothers, so she hurriedly stepped up to him and started nudging his feet with hers.

“Let’s fix your stance before you try again,” she said, gripping his shoulders and twisting his torso until it was straight, side on to the targets.  “Feet wider… wider… wider… okay, that’s good.  Head…” she put her palms either side of his face and carefully directed it to look straight at the target without twisting the rest of his body.  She nocked the next arrow herself.  “Draw back… Elbow up.  And back more.  More… more.  Use your back muscles, not your arms, it’ll be easier.”

After some poking and prodding, she had Jerry standing at full draw in something that looked reasonably like it was supposed to – not perfect, but that was going to take some work, she accepted with some internal dejection.  Just because Da was a coach didn’t mean she was a good coach.  Teaching people to shoot was far harder than shooting.  “And release.”

There was at least a thud of contact this time, but when Kayla turned to look at where it had gone, it had still landed outside of the target sheet, barely hanging on to the edge of the boss.

Jerry burst into tears.

“It was better!” Kayla tried to reassure him.  “It’ll just take some practice!”  Behind Jerry, she could see Yan approaching, looking distressed at Jerry being upset, and this was way out of Kayla’s wheelhouse.

A hand on her shoulder pulled her back slightly and she glanced up to see Will smiling at her gently.  “I’ve got this,” he promised.  “You take Yan.”

“But-”  She was the one that was supposed to be teaching them.  Will wasn’t actually supposed to be there at all, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to be taking over teaching when he was the worst archer in cabin seven!

Well.  Second worst archer, now.

“I was that bad when I started,” Will told her, his voice raised enough that Jerry and Yan could hear him, too.  “I’ve got a few tips and tricks that I was given back then that helped me, so they might help Jerry, too.”

Kayla hated that she could probably guess who had given Will those tips and tricks, because she’d noticed that he had a habit of not naming their dead siblings ever if he could help it.  He’d mention names she didn’t recognise, ones that had left before she’d arrived, but the ones that had died?

Introducing others to the archery range always made her think of Michael and the first time he’d introduced her.

“Go on,” Will nudged her.  “Go have fun with Yan.  I’ve got Jerry.”

It seemed wrong, leaving the two worst archers together, but maybe Will had a point, and Kayla really wasn’t equipped to deal with Jerry’s tears – or the frustration she was going to feel when Jerry kept struggling, because she could admit she wasn’t the most patient demigod in the world.  Not even close.

“Okay,” she caved, passing the spare quiver to Will and persuading herself that she wasn’t giving up, she was just being smart, and Yan still needed some tips on aiming, if nothing else.  “Come on, Yan, let’s get your aim perfect.”

“But-” they protested.  Kayla ignored it and grabbed their arm, pulling them back to their place on the shooting line.

“Will’s got Jerry,” she assured them, and Yan hadn’t been in camp long enough to know exactly what that meant, but they knew that Will was head counsellor – and sure enough, already, Kayla couldn’t hear any more crying, just a low murmur of reassurance from their big brother.

She tried not to let it get to her when, despite still not managing anything better than the outer black all session, Jerry still looked far happier with Will’s tuition than her own.

Will was just like that.

[toasecretsanta]

(2 of 2 fics)

MERRY CHRISTMAS PART 2! :D

Another fic [by @firealder2005] based off of the prompt list by @literallyjusttoa :3 This one is Apollo/Admetus, be it in older times or the modern day!

I will have this posted on Ao3 once the submission is up! :D

Warnings: I have this rated Teen & Up. Only warning is Apollo being rather depressed.

Also fluff alert! :3 This is Admetus/Apollo we’re talking about haha

ENJOY!

Nothing Else To Give But Love…

A soft nose grazed his hand. He shifted and absently began stroking the poofy wool on top of the sheep’s head.

Apollo hummed as the sheep’s baa echoed through the sleepy, spring-green field. Despite the mild warmth, he shivered, one hand nearly strangling the cords wrapped around his hand, the rest of the twine cinched about his waist.

The field was quiet. Simple. Nothing like Olympus had been during, or even before…before…

Before it had happened…

His son’s young face, blue eyes wide and startled as a clap of thunder rolled through the sky and electricity shattered the world around them leaving —

Apollo took in a shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the tears welling in them.

Oh, Asclepius… He inwardly whispered. I’m so, so sorry, my sweet, sweet son.

He hadn’t deserved such a wonderful child — frankly, all of his children were marvelous and he couldn’t fathom what he’d done to deserve such bright kids. Apollo didn’t deserve them. He didn’t deserve Asclepius — hadn’t deserved him…

Apollo’s grasp on the cord loosened, letting the rough cords fall from his fingers. He raked a hand through his hair, the locks empty without the laurel wreath usually nestled in them. He hadn’t been casted down to Earth with it the first time, and it was no different now.

He shamefully missed the weight of the crown in his hair. The guilt he made himself carry day in and out. Never letting himself forget her.

Her. Another person he hadn’t deserved…

Did he deserve anything? He, the most glorious of gods…but now nothing more than a mere servant. A shepherd. 

(Not that there was anything wrong with shepherds, mind you. He was the god of them, and had dated a few. Branchus had been a beloved lover, and the person who made Miletus one of Apollo’s favorite cities.)

And what made it worse…he was here because of his own actions. His father’s enraged expression was still fresh in his mind, though the memories were tinted red by his own fiery, destructive fury.

Actions have consequences, my son, Zeus’s voice winded its way through his head. Even you are not above the law.

So here Apollo was. Laying in a field, dressed like a servant. Deprived of even more divinity than he’d had the first time he’d been casted down to Earth to work for Laomedon (the name made him shudder). He thought he felt mortal during his time in Ilion — or Troy, as it was now called. For the first time, his hands had ached. He experienced fatigue and thirst.

Last time was nothing compared to now. By the end of the day, he was exhausted. It was harder to access his divine power to keep himself awake at night, even if dear Admetus attempted to get him to go to sleep, insisting it was natural to need rest after a long day.

But he couldn’t — Apollo didn’t need to rest. He was a god, he could go centuries without rest.

It was only temporary, after all.

(He ignored the yawn that tugged at his lips. The heaviness of his eyes.)

(Temporary. All temporary.)

Footsteps made his head turn. Apollo subconsciously brought a hand up to his hair and played with a strand as he caught sight of Admetus coming closer. Handsome face, dark, soulful eyes and equally dark hair. Stubble grew on his perfect jaw.

Apollo felt his heart flutter when the king softly smiled at him.

He straightened when Admetus slid down beside him, patting the sheep lazing on his other side on the head as he looped an arm around Apollo. The god leaned against him and rested his head on his shoulder, humming happily when Admetus placed a kiss on his hair.

“Slow day?” the king murmured against his hair.

Apollo shrugged, fighting back a yawn. “Pretty much. I think the wolves and bears have decided to go elsewhere.”

“They bow before their lord,” Admetus grinned. Apollo giggled into his shoulder. “As they should.”

The god chuckled again, though a slight sigh shivered through his body. “Not now, though,” he murmured. “I’m not their lord now.”

Admetus stroked his hair. Apollo could almost imagine the concerned tilt of his head, the slightly raised right eyebrow as he looked at him.

The king hummed, resting his head on Apollo’s. “They seem to think so,” he softly observed. “They still listen and obey you.”

Apollo shuffled his legs and buried his face further into Admetus’s robes. A hand ran through his hair again, gently working at small knots, before it was removed and Admetus shuffled around himself.

Peering up, Apollo blinked as the king slid off his light cloak, shook it out, then swung it around Apollo’s shoulders and gently fastened the clasp. Apollo raised his hands to Admetus’s, protesting; “You don’t have too—”

“I insist.”

“Really, I’m fine.”

Admetus kissed his forehead and pulled Apollo into a warm, firm hug. The god gratefully sank into it, eyelids fluttering as sleep tugged on his consciousness. He squeezed his eyes shut and mentally shook himself awake. No sleeping, he ordered himself. Especially not when a handsome king is hugging you!

“You have a lot on your mind,” Admetus murmured. “Don’t you?”

Apollo sighed. “Yes,” he admitted. “I do.”

Admetus stroked the back of his neck, which felt really nice. “Anything I can do to help lighten your load?”

The god softly laughed and rubbed at his heavy eyes. “I don’t know,” he said, pulling away slightly and looping his arms around the king’s neck. Their noses brushed against each other. “Not now, anyway.”

The king cupped his cheek and rested his forehead against Apollo’s. Apollo hummed with contentment at the gesture.

“I have something for you,” Admetus bashfully whispered. Apollo stroked the stubble on the king’s chin and blinked slowly at him, a small smile pulling on his lips at Admetus’s flustered expression.

Admetus reached into his exposed robes and withdrew a circlet.

The first thing that caught Apollo’s attention was the color. A thick, lush green. Shining in the soft, sleepy sunlight.

Bay laurels.

A laurel wreath.

Hesitantly, Apollo allowed his fingers to brush over the delicate leaves before withdrawing. “I…I can’t. I’m not —”

“A prince?” Admetus quietly supplied. He used his free hand to gently pull Apollo to his feet, adjusting the cloak around him, before placing the wreath in his long, unfurled hair, fingers tracing the skin of his cheek.

“Admetus —”

“Keep them on, my prince,” Admetus whispered, placing a light, loving kiss to Apollo’s forehead. “You’re just as royal as I am.”

Apollo gazed up at him, blinking rapidly as his blue eyes got suspiciously wet. He didn’t deserve this gift, especially from Admetus. He wasn’t worthy of it, of a crown made from the leaves of a woman as great as she had been.

But…Admetus seemed to think he did. A corner of his lips curved into a shy smile. Oh, Admetus… he wistfully thought. You somehow see something good in me.

Before he could stop himself, Apollo surged up and kissed Admetus on the lips. His hands trailed up into the king’s dark hair as Admetus drew him close. Apollo felt his heavy eyes flutter shut, relying on his other senses to navigate the wonderful kiss —

Before he blinked back into awareness, staring bewilderedly into Admetus’s perplexed eyes.

“Um. Hi,” he squeaked. Admetus had caught him in a dip, holding him over the ground below them. Apollo had to admit, it felt quite nice. Though how did he end up in this lovely position?

“Hi,” Admetus chuckled. “You…passed out there, for a moment.”

Apollo felt his face burn. Oh dear, sweet Ouranos…how embarrassing. Did he really just pass out while kissing? His breath stuttered as he avoided meeting the king’s mirthful eyes.

“Did I steal too much air?” Admetus grinned. “Or did you just fall for me?”

Apollo slapped his chest and burst into laughter. “That was so bad,” he snorted, smiling brightly from ear to ear.

“I know,” Admetus’s grin was still beaming. “But it’s worth it to see you smile.”

Apollo bashfully ducked his head, laughing once more when Admetus scooped him into his arms and grin brightly.

“Now, however,” Admetus began. “You should rest. You’ve barely been sleeping.”

Apollo looped his hands around his neck and laid his head on Admetus’s shoulder. “I’m fine,” he murmured, eyes fluttering. He snapped himself awake. “I’m a god, Admetus. I don’t need sleep.”

Admetus hummed in disagreement, beginning to walk back to Pherae’s palace with Apollo still nestled comfortably in his arms. “But you’re deprived of much more divinity this time,” he wisely pointed out. “And that means, you do need sleep.” The king paused and rested his forehead against Apollo’s, adding quietly; “I would never make you do something you don’t want to, but please,” he implored. “Go to sleep. You need it.”

The god huffed before sheepishly smiling. “What about the flocks?”

“I have a feeling they’ll be fine,” Admetus assured him with a grin. “The message that the god of flocks is protecting this place should have gotten around by now.”

They both shared a light chuckle before Admetus softly kissed Apollo. He leaned into the feeling, feeling a soft thrill of contentment ripple through his being, before murmuring; “Alright. But only if you join me.”

Admetus softly laughed. “If that is what you wish, my prince.”

----------

Admetus glanced at where Apollo laid sprawled beside him beneath the covers. The blanket had slipped off him, and Admetus carefully pulled it back up, brushing Apollo’s golden hair out of his face as he did.

Finally, he was getting some rest.

Apollo was a stubborn god, and seemed convinced he didn’t need the necessities mortals did — food, water, sleep — and Admetus had used every trick in the book to get him to pay attention to the very human needs he now had.

Well. Almost every trick.

He absolutely refused to use the control Zeus gave him over Apollo. Absolutely not. It horrified him that the wise and just king of the gods he’d spent his life honoring would just give a complete stranger the ability to manipulate his own son any way they liked.

Admetus had always carefully crafted his words to leave Apollo the opportunity to refuse an order if he so chose — a loophole, if you will. Ironically, he never did except for when Admetus wanted him to listen, like actually sleeping instead of making cheese in the dead of the night.

Sighing fondly, he gently ran his fingers through Apollo’s hair, mindful of the laurels now nestled in them. It felt like the soft silk that came from the East.

It scared him, sometimes. This temporary bond between them. Admetus found himself second-guessing his words before speaking, fretting over the possibility of accidentally using it against Apollo…

He had no desire to force this beautiful being into anything — especially since they became lovers.

Admetus wasn’t a fool. He was very well-aware of the power dynamic between them, and did his damndest to even the field as much as possible. He had never used the control he had against Apollo, and he never would.

And for that matter, why should he? Yes, Apollo was technically in his service and therefore legally and divinely bound to obey him, but he was his own person too. He had his own personality and quirks.

Like making cheese in the dead of the night, Admetus bit back a chuff at the memory, a smile stretching across his face as he tucked his chin over Apollo’s hair. He remembered that moment well. Apollo with jugs of fresh sheep milk, carefully taking the curdled bits and brining them, letting the cheese soak in the liquid.

His face had been pinched, a slight frown on his lips, but his movements had been precise and smooth, as if he’d been making cheese his whole life.

And well. Considering Apollo was the father of Aristaeus, Admetus could believe that.

Apollo had sheepishly admitted to not being able to sleep that night, smile strained as thunder rolled outside, lightning and a simple beeswax candle their only source of light in the darkness. Instead of urging his beloved back to bed, Admetus had dropped down beside him and gently unpinned his hair, letting the frayed, golden locks free and began to braid them.

They had sat there the rest of the night, in quiet, comfortable silence, though it was occasionally interrupted by a thunderclap or flash of lightning. Apollo flinched a few times at these, prompting Admetus to twine their hands together once he finished the Athenian hairstyle.

In response, the divine herdsman glanced at him, a soft smile lighting up his beautiful features, before it curved into a mischievous look.

“What are you—?”

Apollo looped his arms around his neck and slid onto his lap, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Care for a bite?” He impishly asked, freeing one hand to scoop up a platter of freshly-made cheese.

Admetus raised a brow, lips twitching, as he asked; “Did you slip something in it?”

Apollo scoffed. “Of course not,” he placed his unoccupied hand to his chest, as if offended. “Only the finest of cheese for my favorite king.”

“And only the finest of the gods could ever make it,” Admetus teased, accepting the offered cheese platter, only to pause when Apollo clucked his tongue and nimbly plucked a piece up himself.

“Allow me,” his smile softened from teasing to genuine. “Least I can do for your kindness.”

Admetus chuckled awkwardly. “It’s nothing,” he shook his head. “I do think this world could use a little more kindness.”

Apollo hummed. “I suppose you’re right,” he softly said, offering his hand with the cheese out. “Taste?”

Admetus didn’t break eye contact as he ate the cheese from Apollo’s fingers, cupping the god’s hand as he did. The tangy, rich flavor bathed his tongue and he licked his lips.

“Delicious,” the king proclaimed, snagging another off the platter. “You truly make the best cheese I’ve ever tasted.”

Apollo laughed as he ate a bite of cheese himself. “Ah, then you truly have yet to live,” his eyes danced in the darkness. “Remind me to get you some of Aristaeus’s — he is the true master of cheese-making.”

Admetus smiled and kissed Apollo’s cheek, comfortably wrapping his arms around his waist. “I shall await this marvelous cheese,” he whispered against his beloved’s ear. “But for now, I’m very much content with yours.”

Apollo’s bashful duck of the head sent flutters of warmth through him.

Sighing fondly at the memory, Admetus nosed into Apollo’s warm body beside him, breathing in the scent of laurels, glancing momentarily at the wreath still laying in Apollo’s hair. It sat crookedly, the leaves unused to being crushed under the head of a human.

Delicately, Admetus adjusted the wreath until it sat mostly straight, though there wasn’t much he could do about the crumpled leaves. Some golden strands had fallen back into Apollo’s closed eyes.

Even without a crown, he silently thought to himself as he brushed those strands away. He’ll always be royal to me.

 —

My ramblings on ancient greek CHEESE can be found on Ao3 :3

[just-gingerkat]

I like to think this is how everyone immediately believes Lester is Apollo

Apollo? I scoffed. This kid was telling me he was THE Apollo? One of the 12 Olympians? He must have been delusional to believe that. This beat up, average looking teenager who looked like he was ready to run away screaming at a moments notice was Apollo. Yeah right. Even the mere concept was enough to make me laugh....

but.... the more i looked at him... there was something in the kids eyes.... something inhuman... something ancient. Something that had seen great civilizations rise and fall, something that had seen thousands of human lives pass by without a mere glance... something like...My heart dropped like a stone.

Yep. This was Apollo no doubt about it. And now I'm pretty sure we're all doomed

[trials-of-apollo-my-beloved]

Door Three-Thirty-Six

These are the first three chapters of my Apollo gets therapy fic

Apollo finds his way into a therapy session. And despite telling himself not to, keeps showing up.

Chapter 1

There hadn't been a specific moment that led me to seek out therapy. I hadn't had some revelation, I didn't realize my need for help in a moment of desperation. Honestly calling it a need is a bit of stretch. I knew plenty of people that needed therapy. Nico D'angelo for example, or really just about every demigod I’ve ever met.

Honestly , I tapped my foot at a nervous six eight tempo on the waiting room floor, I probably shouldn't have come at all. Healthcare professionals are already so bogged down with work nowadays. All I'm probably going to accomplish by doing this is take up the space of someone more deserving of the help. I narrowed my eyes at the door number. I swore the email had said I was supposed to go to  room three-thirty-six by 9:30 AM! It was at least 9:45 now, shouldn't the door have opened at some point?

Maybe I had gotten mixed up and it was actually 9:30 PM instead. Maybe I should have chosen a therapist in Europe instead. Their measurements of time are so much more manageable. I speak enough European languages that I could have pulled that off.

A creak emitted from door three-thirty-six and for some unknown reason, my breath caught in my throat. Whoever was on the other side seemed to have stopped in their tracks right before they opened the door. I could see the bottoms of the shoes. They looked fancy, but worn. The owner was probably middle class if the generic store brand tag sticking up from the back of their shoes was anything to go by.

The door opened and I yelped. A middle aged woman looked at me questioningly. Mayhaps wondering what I was doing hovering outside her door. A sentiment that the longer I forced myself to see this through, the more I sympathized with.

"Uhm, hello!" I attempted a polite wave.

The woman blinked at me. "Hi there. Are you Apollo?" She had a wonderful voice, deep for a woman and undeniably pleasant. I could see how she had become a healthcare professional. A soothing voice has always helped me with bedside manner.

"Yes, that's me! Apollo..." I stuttered trying to remember the alias I had created for this. Yes, I had to create an alias entirely for going to therapy. Apparently mortals need to exist before they're allowed to sign up, and I couldn't just get this service on Olympus. The closest thing Olympus had to mental health services was some Dionysus enchanted ambrosia. Also called alcohol in some circles.

"Apollo John Smith." I don't know what you're talking about, I very much did not google the most common last name in *insert place here* to come up with my alias! That'd be stupid and incredibly transparent.

"Right, Apollo." The woman, who I assumed was Delilah Burch, my therapist to be, smiled inexplicably at me. She couldn't have possibly already realized I was lying about my name could she?

"Sorry for the wait. I had a client online that needed some extra time. Please come in." Burch's office wasn't decorated like most medical facilities I have been in. In fact, with the couch in the center of the room laden with handmade quilts, it reminded most of the infirmary at camp half blood. The room looked designed to have a homely feel. Even the dents in the wall next to the couch,  told a story of perseverance. I don't know why, it was completely ridiculous, but I felt like the hole was taunting me.  

Like it was saying, "I've withstood too much to be felled by you." Wow, I was in a weird mood today.

“May I?” I gestured to the couch. Delilah smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a way that reminded me fondly of my son Austin.

“Of course. Please.” I practically sunk into the couch. Even if I got nothing out of this visit, like I suspected would be the case, the journey would be worth it for this wonderful couch.

“What is this made of?”

Delilah chuckled, “I don’t know, but I’ve been told it’s something that starts with a p.”

“Well I’m going to have to look this couch up.” I didn’t say it outloud, but this couch had to be better than even Hephaestus’s laboratory couch. While my half brother was quite the inventor he was very facetious with comfort.

“If you find it, let me know. There’s quite a few people who have been asking me for it.” Delilah sat in a swivel chair across from, her long dark hair disappearing into black chair.

“Now,” she trailed a digit down her clipboard, “Since this is our first session, Apollo, it’s always good to start with an introduction.”

I nodded. Being a medical professional myself I was familiar with the more routine aspects of psychological treatment. Beyond the rubric though, I will admit I am rather clueless.

Delilah set the clipboard down on her lap, and I had to constrain myself from peering down at it. “I’ll go first. My name’s Delilah Burch, as you know. I am thirty-six years old. I have two siblings and I live with my dog bailey.” She pointed her pen at me, probably indicating it was my turn.

“Hello…” I trailed off, suddenly realizing I had no clue how to introduce myself. Usually I just say, “Hi I’m Apollo,” and people fill in the rest. I couldn’t do that now, obviously.

It wasn’t the best idea to start therapy based on a lie, but Olympus already had enough blackmail on me without finding my therapist.

I’ll just follow the template Delilah had laid out for me, “My name’s Apollo. I have…” My plan to follow her template fell apart as I realized I had no clue how many siblings I had.

“Well depending on how you define siblings I have a sister. I am…” Oh goodness. Another roadblock. How old was my identity again. I think I went with forty. Purely on the fact that I couldn’t gush about my teenage kids without getting weird questions.

I am not very familiar with the topics that come up in therapy, but if I had chosen my age simply off of how I appeared to mortals, I feel that being a teenage father would surely come up.

“Forty, I am forty-years-old. And I live alone. With my horses if we’re counting pets.” Delilah’s eyebrows lifted at my age, but hopefully that wasn’t because she had caught onto my lies. She was hopefully just contemplating how amazing I looked for my age. I get that a lot. Even in Olympus, which is always slightly less flattering because the people complimenting my looks there are mostly just trying to call me old without getting vaporized. (Ahem, Hermes and Dionysus.)

Delilah looked at me contemplatively. “If you don’t mind me asking, how do you define your siblings Apollo?”

Well that wasn’t what I was expecting. She had deviated from the first day rubric. I was lost. I opened my mouth, but I had no idea how to answer that question. I could go with full, biological siblings. That generally is the definition for siblings in my family, though even then that familial bond was sometimes ignored when my father, well…

My father’s… everything, probably wasn’t the topic to bring up on my first session with a new therapist. I didn’t know much about Delilah, but she didn’t seem like the type who was seeking a challenge. I guess I’d just stick with Artemis, even if I did consider a certain McCaffrey a little sister as well.

“I was counting full siblings. Of which I only have one.” Delilah leaned in like she was genuinely interested in what I had to say. I admired her for that. I for one was never able to pull off, “genuinely interested” when my patients told me about their personal lives. I’m sorry, but I do not care about your new shrine on Crete! I just don’t.

“That’s nice. Could you tell me her name?” She flashed her clipboard at me, “I like to make a diagram of relationships patients have so I have something to look at incase I forget.”

I blinked. A diagram. Well that was fancy. I knew that mental health practice had improved quite a bit over time, but a diagram was a stroke of ingenious. Back in medieval Europe Dionysus used to tell me stories about forgetting the names of people seeking his aid and how he would just cut a hole in their skull to get out of admitting he had forgotten. Which yes, was standard mental health treatment at the time.

“Well, that is handy.”

Delilah smirked, “Definitely. So what’s your sister’s name?”

“Oh, right.” I paled, realizing I hadn’t come up with aliases for any of my siblings. That was maybe something I should have considered before coming here.

“Artemis.”

“Oh I see.” Delilah scribbled on her diagram. “Apollo and Artemis, like the Greek gods! Are you two twins?”

I laughed nervously, “Very much like that. Yes we are twins. By the way, your last name, Burch. Are you perhaps related to Caroline Burch?” Confused Delilah looked at me. “The poet. And an excellent one at that.” I hinted at her, but Delilah’s face remained foggy.

“Well that’s disappointing.” I’d been a fan of Caroline Burch’s work for a long while and her stellar portfolio of poetry. Honestly her works deserved to be put in schools. I curse the person who somewhere along the line decided that Bill and Dante were the only poets doomed to be taught in American highschools.

“Sorry to disappoint. I’d say I’m about as related to her as you are to the real Apollo, but you know, you never know.” She said. I contained a laugh, you never did know.

“So do you have any other people in your life that I should know of? A parent? Friends? Kids?” Oh dear, I would have to come up with some aliases on the spot, wouldn’t I?

Start with the easy one, “I have a friend named Meg. She’s a little like my younger sister.” There, no harm in that. There’s plenty of Megs walking around. Her name wouldn’t incriminate me as one of the twelve olympians.

Now, onto my other relations. My mind raced through all my father’s titles. I would rather not discuss him ever, but considering this was therapy, and he was my abuser, if I did continue on with this charade he would no doubt come up.

“My father’s name is Bob and my mother’s name is Leto. I also have a lot of half siblings since my father’s a doner.” I winced as my poetic sense came up with a more truthful rhyme to that cover. Sometimes my talent is a curse.

Delilah’s smile had slipped at some point and she was writing so intently that I wondered how all those words could fit onto the diagram.

I felt awkward just sitting there and watching her so I continued. “I also do have other friends, but I don’t think you could fit them on your diagram.”

Delilah looked up at me, a challenge in her eyes, “Give me enough time, I could do it.”

“Okay. I also have four daughters, Kayla, Gracie, Emma, and Urania. Four sons, Austin, Will, Jerry, Raphael, and Yan who prefers no labels.” Delilah’s face remained mostly impartial, but her brow did furrow slightly.

“So your kids don’t live with you?”

“Eh heh, no, not typically. I mostly come to stay with them than the other way around.”

Delilah hummed, “Are they from one partner, no partner, multiple?” I leaned back in my chair. This was the trouble with choosing a mortal physiatrist. While the anonymity it allowed was convenient, it also had the downside of coming with mortal judgments on morality and this country's strangely christian prejudices. I hoped Delilah wasn’t the type to slut shame, but well, that’s never something you can tell from looking at a person.

For example; you would think Janus, the god of doorways would be totally down and cool with people having multiple partners over their lifetime, but no, he was a total stickler for ‘one true loves’.

“Multiple partners.” I meant to say it as a statement, but it came out more like a question.

“Alright.” She said, I let out a sigh of relief. This session had already been so awkward without the added tension of conflicting views on monogamy.

“Are you uncomfortable right now Apollo?” Delilah asked me. I froze up, which must’ve answered her question better than even I, with all my poetic wisdom could have done verbally.

“You really don’t have to be. I know all therapists say this, but trust me this is a safe space. Unless you are planning to harm yourself or others everything said in this room is entirely confidential. There is no judgment. Promise.” Her words were kind, and settled my nerves slightly. Though I knew she could not uphold that promise.

In my experience nothing I did was beyond scrutiny. Perhaps the only time in my life where my actions hadn’t been observable by Olympus was when I was hanging off the edge of chaos.

“No judgment? Well that does sound nice.” I smiled weakly. Delilah locked eyes with me, looking almost concerned for my well being. An idea that was completely absurd considering we’d only met around forty minutes ago.

“Yes. I find it quite nice. Once we look at things objectively it tends to shine a light on things we didn’t even try to look at before.” I nodded. Remembering when I sacrificed to my sister Diana at her temple at Camp Jupiter. Looking at mortals making sacrifices to me from above I had always thought they’d see it as an honor. Doing it myself had revealed the menial reality.

I was going to respond -with some mortal friendly revisions of course- my anecdote, but a piercing beeping erupted from Delilah’s pants.

She patted her lap like a dad recovering from a particularly funny joke. She pulled out her phone. “I’m sorry Apollo. It seems like our time together has come to an end.” She adjusted on her chair and pulled out her business card. “When would you be free for another session?”

I tapped my fingers considering. For all my worries today hadn’t been a total disaster. I looked at Delilah, she didn’t appear to be in a hurry to throw me out. Maybe the troubles of Noca county weren’t so terrible that I was taking up the spot of someone who needed more desperately than I?

“Any time is good for me. Most days after the sun sets I’m free.”

“So around eight?”

“Yeah, that, that works.” Delilah scribbled that down on her business card.

“Is next Thursday good for you?”

I mentally sorted through my to-do list for this month. It was depressingly short. One of the downsides of avoiding my godly family is the loss of, “Never a dull moment”.

“Yeah.” I stood up. Mourning the feel of comfortable couch on my tuchus.

Delilah held out her hand. “See you soon Apollo.” I took and we shook.

I found myself smiling, “You too.”

Well, I thought, that went surprisingly alright.

Chapter 2

I grabbed Dr. Burch’s knocker and swung it against her door. I winced. These doors were solid wood alright.

I looked around me subconsciously, hoping I hadn’t accidentally summoned Janus with my doorway abuse. In my defense, I would tell him, Dr. Burch is the one who hung the metal thing on the door in the first place! It’s basically asking me to hit the door!

I considered the simple wall hanging, the black seemed to clash with the yellow-esk wood, which shouldn’t have been possible because every fashion magazine I’ve read has told me that nothing clashes with black. I might have to go back and reconcile some of my style choices from the 1980’s…

The knocker was quite wide as well. Aren’t therapist’s offices not supposed to have things you could hang yourself from? Or are those psych wards? I realize I’m showing my ass on my knowledge of mental health treatment facilities.

I stepped back from my doorknob ogling when I heard voices on the other side of the door. I quickly retreated.

A teenager emerged from the room, looking like they were holding back tears. I tried to look away -I know teenagers can get touchy about getting stared at- but this particular teen reminded me eerily of my Lester Popadopalous form if he'd gotten, well, more sun.

Dr. Burch followed behind them, giving me a side eye that didn’t seem to fit well with her dogma of, “no judgment”. Maybe I shouldn’t have knocked, but then why have the knocker to begin with? Did it just come with the door?

Dr. Burch turned the teen towards them and patted their shoulder. “I can’t promise you everything will be alright Clifton, but remember that while you can’t change the situation you can change-”

“How I react to it? Yeah I heard you and mom the first ten-thousand times thanks.” Clifton shrugged Dr. Burch’s hand off, she dropped her hand and gave them a Chiron quality smile. The type of smile that seemed to be both comforting and condescending in equal measure.

“Have a nice day Clifton.” Clifton did a weak wave and walked off. Glaring at everything that came into their view, including me.

If the passive aggressiveness kept up I might decide that this therapy thing wasn’t worth risking my reputation.

Once Clifton was beyond the corridor Dr. Burch turned to me, suddenly all smiles. “Hello Apollo. It’s good to see you.”

I fought the urge to nervously twirl my hair, “Yes, good to see you too.”

“I must admit after our last meeting I was worried you wouldn’t be coming back.” I was suprised. I thought our last meeting had gone relatively well! At least amongst first impressions with mortals. Was it the last name Smith? I knew that was going to be a give away!

“Really,” I chuckled in a very, totally casual way, “What made you think that?”

Dr. Burch tilted her head, “You just had a very nervous energy. You seemed very uncomfortable here to me. I’m glad you came back.” She held open the door.

Curse this woman and her Sally Jackson perceptiveness! I was nervous. Gods, maybe I should just give up the charade and tell her I’m a god. I feel like that could help me avoid a lot of problems. But, I spotted a photo on the window sill of Delilah, another woman that looked like her, and a small child, it would likely cause more problems than it’d be worth.

I sat down on Delilah’s ungodly comfy couch (as a god I’m aloud to say that) and tried not to give it a Chrissy Amphlet feel up.

“You get the name?”

“What?” I looked up at Dr. Burch sitting across from me. “What name?”

She picked up her clipboard and clicked her pen, “The name of the couch. You said you would look it up?”

I didn’t remember that. Had I said that? To be frank I didn’t remember much of our last encounter. I hadn’t felt like I’d needed to, with how wonderfully mundane things had turned out.

“I’m sorry, I forgot.”

Delilah waved off my apology, “That’s fine. You didn’t have to.” She adjusted in her swivel chair and took a long sip of a large water bottle on her right. “So Apollo, now that it’s your second session I think we can get into the more fun part of this relationship hmm?”

I blinked, not knowing what, “the more fun part” meant in this context. In my experience the more fun part of relationships wasn’t exactly safe for work. I doubted Delilah, with her professional wardrobe and this being her work place meant that .

“What do you mean?”

She smiled warmly, perhaps sensing my discomfort again. “Could you tell me Apollo, why you decided to come here?”

I looked around her office and raised an eyebrow, “Well you let me in so…”

Dr. Burch chuckled like I’d made a particularly funny joke. “No, I meant why did you decide to seek help, Apollo?”

My cheeks went gold. (A wonderful side effect of having ichor instead of blood is that people can’t tell when you’re blushing.) I didn’t know what to say. As I told you at the beginning of this tale dear reader there was no specific reason I decided to seek help. Nope, no reason at all. In fact one could say I had the opposite of a reason, an anti-reason? Yeah, I like how that sounds. I could totally sell that to my buddies at Websters. Good word for poetry, anti-reason.

“Uhm, I guess I just felt like it.” I meant to say it like a statement, but the ‘uhm’ and the way my voice increased in pitch at the end of my sentence pretty thoroughly sabotaged the attempt.

Dr.Burch, bless her heart, -no not literally godly power, you’ve messed up blessings too much for me to use you right now- made no comment on my voice crack but to scribble on her notepad.

“Therapy is all about feelings, so, you’ve got the right idea there. Is there anything else? Anything you’d like to work on?”

I grimaced. There were many things I’d like to work on. My hair, my parenting skills, the sun chariot stereo, but the worry I had held signing up for therapy in the first place held me at bay from saying any of that.

“I… I think that everyone has things they can work on. Ways to be better.” I thought of Reyna’s words after our meeting with Harpocrates. To be a better person I had to change, to work on things and be better .

Delilah gave me an evaluating look and- wow, I was really uncomfortable. More uncomfortable than that time when I’d gone to that modern rap convention and over half the free styles had included the word, “bitch” five times plus. Some of the freestylers had even gone on to rhyme the word with itself. Which, as the expert on rhyming I was fairly certain didn’t count as actually rhyming. The rappers and their possies hadn’t too seemed inclined to take my advice though.

Honestly that’s my issue with modern rap, too many yes men. Sure it feels good to have people patting you on the back for everything you do, but it stifles creativity, and creativity is especially what modern MCs need- what was I talking about again?

“I think that’s a wonderful philosophy.” Dr. Burch cut into my musings, “And, I know I’m supposed to be impartial here, but one I quite agree with. I wish all my patients had that mindset going into therapy. It would be very beneficial for them and me.”

I nodded, the wisdom of Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano was something to behold. “The thing with therapy is that it’s a partnership. It doesn’t work unless both parties are cooperating and willing to work together.”

I nodded again, mentally sliding that information into my lexicon. I would have to speak with Dionysus about that particular piece of information because if he was helping Nico D’angelo with his mental health, and knowing my brother he would need a bit of push to really contribute to a partnership. Or anything really, with all he stalled doing anything you would think he was the god of dragging his heels not wine.

"So is there anything specific you would like to work on Apollo?” Oh goodness, we were back to this question. You know I've never related so much to Meg’s refusal to form coherent sentences before.

I gripped the couch cushion, trying my best to figure out how to proceed without giving the game away, so to speak. What part of my life could I talk about that wouldn’t get me immediately labeled an immortal being?

My kids? I suppose that could work. I did want to become a better person for them as well as myself, so it was even true! Though based on my appearance the fact that I have teenaged children might actually give me away. I suppose I’ll have to look into those ridiculous, mortal, “anti-aging creams” (which, as a doctor I must tell you mortals to stop buying. Truly most of them do more harm than good.) to use as an excuse in case someone Dr. Burch starts asking any questions.

“I would like to learn how to be a better father. I know that’s very broad but,” I trailed off, unsure what to say.

Dr. Burch nodded sympathetically, “It’s fine Apollo. That’s a wonderful goal to have and we have a lot of time to work on it. Though as you said that kind of goal can sound incredibly daunting, so how do you feel-” She clicked her pen and brandished it at me, “about breaking it down with me?”

How I feel, well in general slightly terrified that one of my siblings or shudder my father would burst through the window behind you and start streaming my embarrassment to all of Olympus. How I felt about breaking down a goal, “That sounds fine to me.”

I brought up how I felt that I didn’t spend enough time with my kids. (Leaping and bounding over the topic of the ancient laws) We then discussed my profession and creating slots of time for my kids and by the end of the session Delilah had me sending an email to camp half blood stating I’d be over to take cabin seven to the latest performance at the Sydney opera house.

By the end of the session I felt quite content. I’ve been told that therapy is supposed to make you uncomfortable, but I was starting to feel quite at home in Dr. Burch’s office. Returning to the Sun Palace I quite happily marked down our next meeting in my calendar.

I found I was actually looking forward to my next hour at door three-thirty-six.

Chapter 3

This might be strange to say, but I was having a magnificent day. I’d hung out with Meg at Aeithales and there wasn’t a single monster attack, I spent the previous night on a joyous outing with my kids, and I do believe I finally managed to shed that awkward, “you’re our dad, but we never used to see you so we’re always very mindful of how we act next to you” mindset from Kayla and Austin.

Not to mention the performance itself was outstanding. That drummer, why she was something else. Both in stamina and style. The two S’s of how to be a good performer, and the way she complimented the singer’s sporadic tempo, her technical chops were nothing to scoff at either. I digress, all I’m trying to say is I walked out of the concert with an amazing sense of fulfillment and an amazing musician's number in my back pocket.

And before you get all, “Oh Apollo, but wasn’t this trip about your kids? Why were you flirting?” First off, I can flirt and shower my kids with affection at the same time! That’s not weird! Also my plans with Anastasia aren’t going to be anything like a date. They are going to purely be two musicians with mutual admiration for each other having hour long rockin jam sessions. Nothing romantic about that.

Currently I was flying through the sky in the form of a peregrine falcon, the fastest bird in the world, wind rushing through my fathers, brushing against my skin, the world passing down in sweeping arcs and blurred river roads.  No matter how many times I did this, flying free was alway exhilarating.

I regretted many things about accepting my godhood back from my father, regaining the ability to fly was never one of them.

I swung into a dive plunging down at the speed of one of my arrows. My wings were tucked close to my body and my feathers deflected dust particles like a windshield, air moving out of the way of my descent.

It was glorious. Approaching the ground I pushed out my wings and crashed into a wall of air like a spaceship hitting Earth’s atmosphere. Then I was soaring, flapping my wings to pull me above the ground so I could glide to a stop at my destination.

I drifted to a wire and landed, gently descending onto the ground. I started to waddle through the streets to an alley where I could transform into a more suitable form for counseling. If the residents of Saint Paul Minnesota were at all confused to see a peregrine falcon wadling through their streets like a lost pigeon, none of them took up their grievances with me.

Last second before exiting the alley way I realized that I forgot to put on clothes, and quickly equipped the first thing that came to mind. Which was a chiton, then to be replaced by my usual Lester Papadopoulous mom jeans and T-shirt for modesty reasons.

While my chiton was down right modest back in ancient times nowadays it would be quite a scandalous thing to show up to a mental health facility in. Or at least when you weren’t in LA. Depending on what part of that city you were in, my chiton could still, probably, be considered modest.

It occurred to me as I progressed through Dr. Burch’s building that I looked like father. Of course I always look like a dad in the fact that I am, by a broad definition of the word, a father. But with my worn and aged Lester jeans, the pockets sagging from use- and for some reason I couldn’t fathom my form appeared older than I usually went with- I truly did look like someone’s pops.

I had faint smile lines around my eyes, my posture was laid back, and casual. I looked like a man who was just a day away from going out with his teenage kids to a concert. I felt a weird kind of content, like I had everything in the world right in front of me but was in no hurry to do anything with it.

It was a feeling that was almost entirely foreign. Though I suppose there was no mystery in what spurred on the mood. I’d simply had a good week. Hmm, another foreign thing.

I melted out of my reverie when I met Dr. Burch’s door. Closed again. I suppose I should have expected that. Us physicians were never quite punctual either.

Huh, maybe that’s why there are  chairs in this hallway?

I took a seat when I didn’t hear the conversation going on in room three thirty six winding down. I was mentally playing my favorite songs off of Madonna's album, Madonna when I heard a thump.

I looked around me and saw something had fallen out of my pocket. There was a makeshift doll lying on the floor, its head twisted at an odd angle and droplets of red coating it. That was- that was the doll my maybe-daughter Georgina had made for me. I was sure I lost that ages ago, yet it had just fallen out of my jeans pocket.

My jeans pocket that wasn’t even on the trousers I was really wearing when I first got it. While these jeans appeared like the variety of ones I wore on my trials they were simply a replica. I never would have been able to fit in Lesters' actual trousers. At least not remotely comfortably for me or anyone in my line of sight.

I picked the broken thing up from the synthetic wood floors and turned it in my hand. Now how did you get here my friend? I felt bad for the little doll. I’d completely forgotten about it and now it was all covered in Lester fluids.

A fate I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy- mostly for my own sake.

I looked at the clock, it was getting pretty late. I wondered if I would get punched if I tried knocking again… Whether by Janus or Dr. Bruch I did not know.

As if hearing my slander, the door next to me slammed open, I jumped in my seat, the chair scraping a piercing note into the synthetic wood. Another teenager stormed out of it, not even giving me a second glance.

I smoothed out my t-shirt trying to reassemble my composure. There sure were a lot of angry teenagers here. This is the second one in a row. The youth of today seems to be struggling quite a bit. I should probably do something about that, being the god of youth and all, but I didn’t suppose tracking down teens already getting help and asking what’s wrong would help much.

“Hi Apollo!” Delilah Burch’s lovely contralto met my ears and I looked up to see her smiling broadly at me.

“Oh hello there! Good morning!”

“Yes, it is. Nice and cool. Much better than the summer heat if you ask me.” Dr. Burch chuckled lightly and held open her door for me. I would have disagreed with her and perhaps offered to message her my forty slides long powerpoint on why, actually, summer was the season superior to all others, but I was in such a good mood I didn’t bother. We entered and took our seats.

I cracked a joke about the quality of the couch again, Delilah laughed and then something in the atmosphere shifted. I’m not sure how I could tell something was coming, perhaps it was simple intuition, perhaps it was my on and off buddy Delphi warning me to get out now, while I still could.

The feeling was strange, but I didn’t heed it. I was an Olympian god and Dr. Burch was about as mortal as one could be. Even if a monster were to suddenly burst through a window and destroy the whole building I had full faith in my ability to neutralize it and protect Delilah Burch along with everyone else.

I suppose that was a bit of hubris on my part. Figures what occurred next I must have committed some sort of sin against the fates just wonderful sensibilities.

“You know Apollo, we've had fun our last few meetings.” I narrowed my eyes. If that wasn’t ominous I wasn’t the god of music.

“Yes?”

“And while that’s all well and good, speaking with you has been a delight, I think we’ve come to a point in our relationship where we can start to get into more personal topics. Perhaps dig further into certain issues you think might require immediate attention?”

I blinked, immediate attention wasn’t really how I would describe any of my issues. I was an immortal, when it came to self progression “immediate” was something entirely up to me to decide. Or at least that’s how I used to think. That mentality has acquired some qualifiers recently. For example if one of my friends were in danger, or gods forbid I was the one endangering them, that would require immediate attention.

To my knowledge I wasn’t endangering anyone right now, but… In the past I certainly had. So the first place to start would be there? But how would I discuss that with a mortal? How would I admit to any of my previous behaviors without collapsing in a ball of guilt and having Delilah running out of the room and trying to break her strange knocker off her door and use it to lock me in?

Would all that be worth the chance to be better? Better than I already am trying to be, good enough to deserve those that I wished to protect? I stared at Delilah then turned to look closer at the photo of her sister and that young child on the window cill.

While I wanted desperately to expedite my process towards being a better person, it wasn’t worth the risk. Revealing my status as a god, or even dropping subtle hints in my story could lead to Delilah discovering the truth of the immortal world, which could risk destroying her mind. I couldn’t do that to her. That would make me as bad as I was before. Tossing mortal lives out like candy wrappers.

So where to start, was the question? What about me personally did I not like? Thinking about it, I leaned back on the couch and Dr. Burch graced me with a patient smile.

There was quite a lot about me that I wished I could fix. I wanted to be better in more ways than one, I wanted to be moral yes, I wanted to be strong and resilient, I wanted be clever like Athena so I could wriggle my way out of trouble, I wanted to be free like my sister, I wanted to be brave enough to do more than sit in the golden cage that was Olympus and break out and create change like Meg.

I wasn’t any of those things, especially not brave, but I didn’t know how to ask. Bravery had always been something I envied; seeing it all my life. In Meg, my sister, Don the faun, I watched them stand strong with intention while I fumbled through my decisions like a one hit wonder trying to recreate the success of their first hit.  

I looked at Dr. Burch, really looked at her. I tried to see not just her physically but the room she inhabited, the job she took, and the questions she asked.

Despite her middling age she had the enthusiasm of a young child running into every situation expecting the best. She dealt with children everyday like the young Clifton. Children marching through their existence on this rock in space unsure of how they got here, or how they remain, and she tried to help them make sense of it all.

I only knew Dr. Burch for not even a full four hours, but I could already tell she had faced more trials and come out on top than I ever have.

How to sit in front such a person and ask, answer, with my own flaws pleading for their guidance?

What would they think of me? And would it hurt more if they dismissed me, or if they held a hand?

I found myself staring at the hole in the wall I noticed on my first visit here. There was already spackle filling the cracks surrounding the fist shaped hole.

“I want to be better than who I was, and I want the courage to push through to that.”

Delilah simply marked something down on her clipboard. She looked to me, her eyes were polite, but I felt a pressure to speak nonetheless.

“I want to be brave enough to stay away from my father,” like Meg and my sister Artemis, “I want the courage to look those I have wronged in the eye and promise them that they will be the last to experience the pain I caused them. I want a way to look at my children without all their kindness being unbalanced. I want-” I trailed off.

I broke eye contact with the hole in the wall and hung my head. I didn’t continue. There wasn’t enough time to go on and spill the whole truth of my pitiful existence.

Wow, I’m starting to sound like an edgy teen. It seemed running into that teen earlier was some sort of foreshadowing.

I remained still in the couch seat, frozen, waiting for Dr. Burch to make the first move. The anticipation of seeing her reaction to my confession was killing me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look up and confirm my worst fears.

The silence hung in the air like rain clouds. Condensing dark in the sky, lightning sparking through them and my muscles instinctively tensing.

“Are you feeling good Apollo?” Dr. Burch spoke and I raised my head, her eyes crinkled at the corners with concern, and her lovely mahogany eyes were bearing into me.

I was taken aback. She didn’t hate me! Though I suspected that was probably because I spared her all the gory details of my moral failings.

Also, of course I felt good? I was the god of youth and healing, I was likely the healthiest person on the planet! I quickly checked my form for any blemishes, briefly fearing that my acne had returned; that somehow my emotional vulnerability had registered as wrong to my godly body and it decided to course correct by slowly transforming into Lester Papadopoulos.

To my luck that didn’t seem to be the case.

“I didn’t mean physically.” Dr. Burch interjected. I quickly stopped my personal pat down and did my best not to look embarrassed. Curse me and my presumptuousness. I really need to work on my self esteem, this imposter syndrome is starting to leak into my good looks. If my brain kept this up I might accidentally manifest flab onto my perfect form in my sleep.

I don’t hate Lester’s form anymore, but being shoved into it without my waking consent was not an experience I wished to repeat.

“I mean emotionally Apollo. It is truly wonderful that you’re opening up. Truly, but you don’t have to force yourself. We can take things one at a time. I wrote down what you said. Which do you want to talk about?”

She flipped over her clipboard. I rubbed my eyes and squinted to read the sheet.  When had it gotten so dark? In an instant the room lightened and illuminated the list.

The words fell from my lips as I read them, “My father…” I stopped. I had mentioned my father? That seemed like an oversight. I had already resolved to keep my godly side as far away from Dr. Burch as I could, discussing my father wouldn’t bring anything but destruction. I would have to-

“So you want to talk about your father?”

My panic must have been visible. Dr. Burch pursed her lips.

“Is everything alright at home Apollo?” She asked.

I didn’t have an answer.

Chapters will be updated individually from now on. This was just to get the back log of the fic on tumblr!

[please-help-this-little-lesbian]

“She draped him [Apollo] in a light blue fabric she called a “chiton.” It was light and flowy and hung in a way that (thank the gods) showed off his chest. It stopped just above the knee, and underneath he wore soft, silken pants of the same color, trimmed halfway up the thigh with jewels. He expected them to be heavy, but to his pleasant surprise he could barely feel them. It was finished off with golden sandals.”

“Rachel led him down to the stables and they met Meg and her stylist… His gremlin of an ally complimented him well. She wore a lavender chiton that came down to the floor with an underskirt of jewels. Her glasses had been removed (which she grumbled about very loudly), but the rhinestones on them had been replicated by small diamonds on the corner of her lids. They both wore matching jewelry, but her bob was crowned by a circlet of jewels.”

The sketch of the tribute parade costumes from my Hunger Games AU I promised! I don’t have the iPad to digitize it but I will when I do!

@ukelele-boy @xxqueenofdragonsxx since I know y’all read it

[toacollabevent]

Burning Shrouds

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Gen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Family Characters: Chiron, Apollo, Will, Hyacinthus

It’s the first time in mortal memory that Apollo’s attended a shroud burning ceremony at Camp Half-Blood.

My (@tsarinatorment​‘s) contribution for TOA Collab Event 2022!  My match was @nyaningthroughlife and I chose the second piece of art in this post as my inspiration!  It’s definitely not my usual topic, and this is my first time writing Chiron pov (or much of Chiron at all, honestly), so I hope it all worked okay.

It’s a small surprise when Apollo arrives at camp that evening.  Not because Apollo doesn’t like dropping by camp, because Chiron is well aware that the god in question adores camp and everyone in it (even Dionysus, as much as the two gods present a stilted, separated front to the world).  The surprise is that he chose to come tonight, of all nights.

As much as Apollo flits around on the edges of camp, peering down from his chariot if he can’t be there in person, he always, always, keeps his distance when it’s time to burn shrouds.  The closest he’s come in mortal memory was in the aftermath of the Battle of Manhattan, but even then he remained near the Big House and his new oracle rather than near the pyres.

Apollo respects death and the mortal inevitability but there are some wounds that are a little too open, a little too raw, and burning shrouds – regardless of whether or not they’re empty – are a wound Chiron has noticed Apollo does his best not to poke at.  Funerals, eulogies and acts of mourning are all a familiarity to the god, but the shroud in particular, he evades.

Not that he’d ever admit as such out loud.  Apollo keeps certain things close to his chest; closer, often, than even Chiron with his millennia-long relationship with him, can catch even a glimpse of, but this is one that’s spilled over just enough, over the thousands of years, for Chiron to put two and two together and be reasonably sure he’s getting four, or something near enough to count.

It doesn’t help that most shroud-burnings happen at the same time of year.  Not the same, exact date, but then the calendar has changed a few times in Camp Half-Blood’s lifetime and only the immortals recall the passage of time prior to the Gregorian within this Western dominated sphere of influence.  Even Chiron doesn’t know, precisely, the date within this span of time that particularly stings at Apollo, but he knows it’s there somewhere, and really, that’s all he needs to know.

Hyacinthus was not Apollo’s first, last or only love – far from any of them – but he was an intense one, whose passing left unusually deep marks of grief on the god.  Apollo has a reasonable handle on grief – he feels it, but he endures it and keeps going, keeps living for all those whose time came to an end – but there are a few mortals who get around his guard.

That might, Chiron suspects as he watches Apollo slip quietly into the throng of demigods around the fire, have some relevance to his unusual appearance now.  The shrouds they’re burning tonight are empty – marks of a successful quest, where the number of questers that came back alive was no less than the number that left – but one of them was sewn for one of Apollo’s own children.

This is the first time in years that a golden shroud has been burned at camp without a dead child to go with it.  It could so, so easily have gone differently.  By all rights, it should have done.  The Pit is not a place for mortals to venture, let alone survive and escape again, and the Primordial in question is no doubt furious beyond belief at yet another duo of demigods escaping his clutches, narrow though that escape had been.

Will is still a bundle of bandages and barely strong enough to get anywhere under his own power.  Nico is not quite as terribly off, physically, and he’s been scaring off anyone except the most stubborn of Apollo’s children whenever anyone else tries to assist Will even though he’s hardly in the state to act as a living walking stick either, but Chiron knows the mental wounds run deep.

Apollo has been floating around camp more often than not during their recovery, and they still have a long way to go but the shrouds need to be burned as soon as possible and they’re finally fit enough for the ceremony.  It doesn’t escape Chiron’s notice that Apollo has wormed his way into the heart of the throng of Cabin Seven Plus Nico and is sitting with his arm wrapped tightly around Will’s shoulders.  It’s a human need, Chiron thinks, to face the what-if of losing someone and cling to them all the tighter in reassurance that they’re still there.

Most gods would be incredibly offended at the word “human” being used to describe anything that they do, but Apollo’s not one of them.  Chiron still refrains from vocalising the thought, because other listening ears might have objections to it.

Other gods having issues with who and how Apollo loves has created tragedies.  Chiron is not eager to invite another.

He does not know all the details of the loss of Hyacinthus.  Likely, he never will.  Whether Apollo attended his funeral, if he was burned in a shroud and if so how it was decorated… those are details Chiron has not been made privy to.

He suspects, of course.  That Apollo was there, that the shroud was as beautiful as the man it embraced, that it stole a part of the god forever when it burned away to ashes.  It’s harder to believe that those suspicions might not be true, knowing Apollo as he does.

But Chiron doesn’t ask.

He celebrates with the campers as the golden and black shrouds go up in flames, devoid of any accompanying tragedy, and watches as Apollo tries to hand the floor to his children for the traditional songs only for Will to look at his father until he caves and sings for them.

Properly sings, which clearly surprises the campers who have heard tales of Apollo’s modern interest in less traditionally beautiful pieces and were preparing to grin and bear whatever he chose to come out with.

Another night, he might have done, but tonight, with the echoes of lost love and the reminder that more loss will come in time, as it always does, Apollo’s mind is clearly in one place, and one place only.  The song is not a sad one; on the surface, it sounds triumphant and jubilant.  There’s melancholy in the words, however, and a underlying reminder of what it means to be mortal.

It’s grief and celebration and life and death all mixed in together, and Chiron suspects he’s not the only one to hear that and more, but no-one acknowledges it out loud, not even when Apollo finishes his impromptu set and insists that it’s his children’s turn to shine, now.

Austin and Alice in particular need no more prompting, and soon Jerry is the only Apollo child left at Will’s side while the others pile onto the stage to continue leading the celebrations.

No longer the centre of attention, save for Chiron’s own musings, Apollo falls silent and unobtrusive.  More than once, his eyes drift to where the embers still cling to the ashes of the shroud, and the weight of four thousand and some years don’t quite stay hidden.

There is nothing Chiron can or should do for the god and his millennia-old scars, so he turns his attention elsewhere and lets Apollo have his privacy.

[kit-kat-bard]

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: The Trials of Apollo, Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms All Media Types

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Descriptions of Violence

Relationships: Apollo & Meg McCaffery

Characters: Apollo (Lester Papadopoulos), Meg McCaffery, Python

Additional Tags: sunflower siblings september 2022, sss 2022, Finally

Summary: The ichor of the gods doesn't need oxygen and immortals can sing without air. But now I desperately craved it as the sky tore it from my mouth and tears from my eyes as I fell and fell and fell and I Couldn't Breathe.

Or:

Apollo is mortal now. He takes it one breath at a time.

[the-dying-sun7]

I neeed some Lester agere fics. Like he's soooo cute!! I really like to few that I have found, but I want more sooooo badly!!!!

[glowsticks-soda-and-magic]

OOC

I've been making a lot of ooc posts, huh? This I would normally put on my main account except it has no activity so I'm putting it here

I made a TOA fic, it's my first Riordanverse fic and I need opinions

[archerslayz]

heys guys I wrote a trials of apollo x linked universecrossover. .I have zero shame.

Yayy!!!!!

[nightfaeses]

nico di angelo??? no way what are you doing here

[tsarisfanfiction]

Beneath the Stars

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Gen Genre: Family/Angst Characters: Will, Nico Apollo kids slept with the sun, except for when they didn't. Overnight pre-quest outings don't help. TOApril day 9 - The Hour Past Midnight. I am tired and Will is tired so if this is incoherent, that'll be why.

Will was tired but he couldn’t sleep.  Usually, he slept just fine as long as the sun was down (when the sun was up was another matter entirely), but a pre-quest, well, quest, rather enforced the need for him to stay awake.

Then again, Will suspected that this would’ve been one of those rare, irritating nights where he couldn’t sleep even without external stimuli keeping him awake.  Going out lizard-hunting with Nico to try and gather bribes for the cavern-runners drove home exactly what they were going to be doing in the morning, but at least it came with the added side effect of knowing that they were also doing everything they could to mitigate the risks.

And there were a lot of risks.

The moon was out, no clouds thick or plentiful enough to hide its light, and Will let his head tip back to stare up at it.  He’d seen a lot of the moon over the past six months, since Apollo’s stint as a mortal had begun, and there were some things that just weren’t coincidences.  Will didn’t know how much influence Artemis had over her brother’s fate, but it was comforting, in a strange, disquieting, way, to recognise that with his dad… incapacitated, for lack of a better word, his aunt (not that he often thought of Artemis as such, wasn’t sure if she viewed herself as such) was still there.

Sure, Artemis would never drop by in his dreams, or even acknowledge his existence, but any hint of normality in a world that was currently anything but normal was one that Will would clutch at with both hands and never let go.

If only getting Apollo back where he belonged was that easy.  Right now, it felt more like Will was helping to accelerate his father’s permanent demise, because going to the trogs still felt like a terrible, terrible, idea, yet here he was.

Will was trying hard not to think about how if they weren’t all eaten by the trogs, there was still Nero to contend with, and after him, Python.

Even the name of the last one had him shivering.

His head knocked against the trunk of the tree he was leaning against, torn between being awake and passing out where he stood.  He could take a nap, if he wanted to.  Nico had never expected him to do more than keep him company for this, Will knew, especially as it was long past sunset and the lizard traps showed no sign of succeeding in their purpose just yet.

He should take a nap.  They were due to head out at dawn – provided they caught a stupid lizard in time – and then the quest would begin in earnest and Will’s opportunities for sleep would drop considerably.  He wasn’t Nico, who could go entirely too long without sleep – not for any logical reasons like being a son of Hades, but because he’d messed his sleep schedule up so badly that his body just rolled with it, even though it shouldn’t.  If Will didn’t get some sleep now he was going to crash mid-quest.

The problem was, Will wasn’t going to sleep.  He could feel it in the tenseness of his body and the faintest strains of a headache at the base of his skull.  He was too stressed to sleep, too on edge for his mind to slip away.

Next to him, also leaning against the tree, Nico was fully alert despite the late hour.  They were nearing midsummer, and even Nico had shed his outer layers until he was just in a t-shirt and jeans.  His bare forearm pressed against Will’s, cool but not worryingly so, and Will’s hand was close enough to his wrist to feel the rhythm of his boyfriend’s pulse steady and even beneath the skin.

It was soothing, and Will knew Nico was doing it on purpose, using his vitakinesis against him to keep him relaxed.  It was hardly the first time, and wouldn’t be the last, either.  Nico had used the exact same trick to get him to sleep after a late night in the infirmary, and with his sword out, he was clearly prepared to stand guard while Will slept.

If only Will could actually sleep.

Above him, beyond the moon chariot, the stars shone clearly.  Will could name all the constellations despite rarely being awake late enough to see them, because they were all named for Greek mythology – all came from Greek mythology.

The newest acquisition, the Huntress, was nowhere to be seen, because she was a winter constellation, and that meant Orion was also missing, because he was part of the winter sky, too.

Will’s eyes found Lyra, the lyre of Orpheus.  It wasn’t the biggest constellation in the sky, but it was one of the most Apollo-like in the sky (Will adamantly ignored Serpens; Python was slithering around in his mind unwelcomely without further incentive), and Will would take any connection to his dad at all.  Any hint that he would survive and regain his godhood.

Right now, his father would be laying in the cot in the middle of cabin seven, a bed meant for guests when Apollo belonged in the cabin more than any of the rest of them.  Will hoped he was asleep, but he didn’t think the laws of the universe that dictated that children of Apollo didn’t stay awake easily at night applied to the god himself, even if the god happened to be mortal and vulnerable.

Still, Apollo needed the rest, so Will could hope.  He could suffer a sleepless night and its consequences if it meant his father was well-rested and had the best possible chances of survival.

He sent a private, silent prayer to the moon above him.  Maybe Artemis could help that happen – at least then, Will’s sleepless night would feel like it had a purpose.  He would gladly never sleep again if it helped to keep Apollo alert and alive.

[toasecretsanta]

(1 of 2 fics)

Merry Christmas ToA fandom!!!

I [@firealder2005] was given @literallyjusttoa this year, and this fic is based off her prompt of Poseidon and Apollo bonding time!!!

I will have the fic up on my Ao3 once the submission is posted :3

Warnings: Just to be safe, I have the fic rated M for implied noncon because. well. Ancient times be ancient times, you know?

This was meant to be combined with the other fic I have but uh. I got carried away lmao

Let us begin!

Save Me, ‘Cuz I’m Fallin’

A soft curse left his lips as he adjusted his grip on the stack of bricks in his arms. Apollo blew a puff of air towards a curl of hair that had fallen into his eyes, warily scanning the people around him as he set his bricks down. He tucked that free strand back behind his ear, wiping his dusty, achy hands on his tunic as the slowly-growing wall before him casted a long shadow over him, the sunset looming from behind.

“Hey!” Apollo slightly jumped as a hand clamped down on his shoulder, roughly spinning him around. One of the guards stationed around the wall glared at him, eyes partially obscured by the helmet on his head. Apollo wondered why people wore those if they obstructed their view. It was terribly constricting.

The guard shook him again. “The king demands your presence. He’s not happy with you.”

Apollo swallowed and began surreptitiously looking for his one and only ally within these ever-growing, ever-entrapping walls — Poseidon. In the years he’d been quite literally slaving away in Ilios, he always felt a lot more comfortable dealing with its king without the older, formidable god at his side. Even if at times there wasn’t much Poseidon could do…

Apollo was thankful to catch sight of his uncle. Poseidon’s hair had grown unruly during their punishment, yet he was still able to cut an imposing figure through the polis as the slaves of Ilios were finally able to pause their back-breaking work and rest.

“Come on!” The guard grabbed his arm and yanked him forward. Apollo stumbled, the sandals on his feet slipping over the pebbles beneath them, and the guard snorted as he fell onto his knees. “Get up!” he barked, the fold of his cape snapping as the former god staggered back to his feet. “We don’t have all night!”

Apollo ducked his head and mutely nodded, wincing a bit as the scrapes on his knees stung. A quick look told Apollo they would heal within seconds, but it did little to reassure the nervousness growing in his throat. Gods, he hated it when Laomedon called for him…

He attempted to swallow the lump. No luck.

Glancing almost desperately over his shoulder, Apollo managed to catch Poseidon’s eye and gave him his best HELP! LAOMEDON WANTS TO TALK TO ME! look. It must have translated quite well, for Poseidon began shoving his way through the dwindling crowd and stormed after Apollo and the guard, who still had not removed his adamantine-grip from his arm. Rude.

“You! Guard!” His uncle’s voice boomed through the air. A slave he may be now, but nothing could ever take away the blood-freezing depths of his words. “Where are you taking my nephew?”

The guard’s head had snapped around to face Poseidon, who loomed a good foot taller than the Dardanian. Despite the angry behemoth before him, the guard clearly had a nice stash of bravery somewhere within him — or he was stupid, depending on your point of view.

Personally, if Apollo had been on the receiving end of the furious stare Poseidon was giving this Dardanian, he would have scampered out of the way faster than Arion could run.

“Your indolent nephew,” the guard sneered. “Is to come to the king. He has some words to share with him.”

“Very well,” Poseidon tersely replied, eyes storming like the Adriatic Sea on a bad day. “Lead the way.”

The guard hesitated, his grip on Apollo’s arm loosening a bit, much to his relief. He pulled it out of his grasp and hid a wince at the twinge that shot up to his shoulder. Thanks a lot, he grumbled, rubbing at the blossoming bruise. Not like that’s gonna make carrying bricks even more of a pain or anything…

Then again, he healed fast. Maybe he wouldn’t have to deal with a stinging arm in the morning.

Though…Apollo nervously folded his hands together as the Dardanian guard jerkily motioned for him and Poseidon to follow. By the attitude of the guard, he clearly didn’t think Apollo would exist when Eos decided to paint the sky pink with her fingers.

Apollo kept his eyes fixed on the dirt below, ignoring the sleepy city around him. He stifled a yawn that pulled at his throat, and jumped when Poseidon nudged his shoulder with his own.

“You good?” he murmured under his breath, eyeing the guard marching before them with an intense look of dislike.

The younger god nodded, shakily inhaling as he muttered a “yes” in response.

“Tired?”

“As always.”

A ghost of the jovial grin Apollo remembered appeared on his uncle’s face. “Just remember — once that stupid wall is done, we’re out of here.”

Apollo felt his own lips curl into a smile just as the guard quickened his pace and entered the throne room. Yeah, he couldn’t wait for this stupid punishment to be over. Apollo swatted at the sheer curtains hanging from the doorways, tensing as he spotted the king of Ilios seated on his throne, fingers tapping the armrest ominously.

“The slave you ordered, sir,” the guard bowed.

Laomedon barely gave Apollo a glance. “Why is he here?” He idly lifted a finger to point at Poseidon, who crossed his arms and glared at the king.

The guard cleared his throat, mouth opening as he clearly scrambled to explain how he was cowed into letting Poseidon in, when the king sighed and waved him away.

“Nevermind,” he inspected his nails. “Just go.” The guard quickly bowed once more before shuffling off.

Apollo clasped his hands before him and kept his gaze on the three steps leading up to the throne as Laomedon’s stare finally declared him entertaining enough for attention.

“So,” the king idly leaned forward, eyes fixed on Apollo. It made him distinctively uncomfortable. “I read the recent report on my wall’s construction.” A beat passed. “And I saw something…rather disappointing.” Laomedon rose from his throne and stood at the top of the stairs. “You do remember why your father made me your master, correct?”

Apollo silently nodded as Poseidon’s glare darkened.

“Good,” Laomedon took a step down. His voice darkened. “Then why,” Another step. “Are you failing,” His robes swished as he took the final step. “To meet your assigned quota?” The king’s scowl was harsh, burning into Apollo’s skin as he bit his lip.

“I–I,” Apollo stammered. Damn, he knew this was going to come back to bite him! “I know, I was supposed to get it done by today but I had to cover Aeacus’s quota too—”

“Quiet,” Laomedon’s eyes were still dark as Apollo’s jaw snapped shut against his will. “I don’t want excuses, Apollo. Zeus said to make sure you and Poseidon learned your places in the presence of a king, and that is exactly what I shall do.”

Apollo gulped and tried to hold back a tremor as Laomedon’s ruthless gaze pinned him down. “And this isn’t the first time you’ve been late,” Apollo dropped his gaze from Laomedon’s. “I let those be then, because I thought perhaps you still needed a little extra time to learn. Apparently I was wrong.”

Laomedon’s face split into a smirk. “Come here,” he snapped to the empty space in front of him. “Now.”

In less than a second, Apollo moved to obey. He gritted his teeth, once again attempting to fight against the compulsion, but like every single time before, it was no use.

A hand flashed out and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him to a stop. Poseidon’s gaze was as sharp as a shark’s as he stared Laomedon down. “No. He can stay right here to listen to what you have to say.”

Laomedon tutted. “Poseidon, let him go and stay put. Apollo — come here.”

Jerkily, Poseidon’s hand released Apollo and the younger god attempted to shoot his uncle with an assuring smile. He feared he only managed a grimace.

Taking a steadying breath, Apollo rolled his shoulders back and approached Laomedon, who was still smirking at his fuming uncle before snapping his dark eyes to him. The way the king steepled his fingers gave him an eerie resemblance to Zeus.

Of course, Apollo reflected as he steadily met Laomedon’s self-satisfied stare. He doesn’t quite have the intimidation factor down nearly as well. Though he had to admit, the way the king’s eyes flashed at Apollo’s nerve to meet him eye-to-eye was also very reminiscent of Zeus.

Apollo didn’t know if he meant it as a compliment or not.

Laomedon sighed, as if Apollo had caused him immense stress and disappointment. He tipped his head and clucked his tongue. “Now all that’s left is to find a proper punishment for you.”

The god recoiled at that, but Laomedon didn’t let him get far. He snatched the front of Apollo’s tunic and yanked him back toward him and grabbed his chin. “Since the wall isn’t tough enough work for you, perhaps a few months tending my lovely fields? By yourself?”

The ichor in his veins turned to ice. “That’ll take forever!” he protested.

“The winter months are almost upon us,” Poseidon added. Apollo couldn’t see his face, but he knew his uncle must be thunderous by the dark rumble of his words. “Not only would it be impossible for Apollo to accomplish alone, even with his lyre, but it would deprive your people of much-needed food the next year. Surely you’d know this.”

Laomedon’s eyes glanced behind Apollo, where Poseidon presumably was, hands still tight on Apollo’s tunic and face. He hummed. “I suppose,” he shrugged. “I would hate to have to punish my people because of you, Apollo.” The king’s brow furrowed, as if contemplating his choices. Personally, Apollo didn’t think it was a very good look on him.

Then the king got a wicked gleam in his eyes that also wasn’t a good look on him and set Apollo on edge.

“Of course…” Laomedon nearly purred and wow, his grandmother Rhea’s lions would be offended by how bad he made it sound. The king’s lips curved, a cruel tilt to his head, as he bared his teeth in a grin. “I could just sell you. Though I’d hate to be deprived of your company…”

A sharp inhale was sucked into Apollo’s lungs just as Poseidon let out a snarl.

Laomedon tilted Apollo’s head from side to side. His brows furrowed once more, though in a way that was like a lazy housecat able to play with an exhausted mouse at its paws. “You would fetch a fine price with that pretty face…”

The heart in his chest cavity thumped like a lone, rabid wolf ready to lash out to defend itself from a band of hunters. Apollo swallowed and shook his head.

“Believe me, I wouldn’t,” he nervously laughed. Under any other circumstances, he actually would have been quite offended at the idea that he wouldn’t be worth a lot of drachma, he was a gorgeous, talented god after all thank you very much, but he didn’t fancy getting tossed in the amphora and haggled over like livestock either. “Like you said, I’m awful at work — who’d want a slave who can’t work?”

“They would if they were a god,” much to Apollo’s growing horror, Laomedon seemed to actually be considering the idea, like actually thinking about it. “I’m sure Zeus would understand that you needed a harsher hand.”

“Absolutely not,” Poseidon interjected, his own scowl as harsh as the suggestion Laomedon had put forth. “First of all, my brother assigned us to you — he would not approve of you selling Apollo off. Secondly…” the older sea god drew himself to his full height and pinned the king with a raging stare. “I will not let you. You try it, and I swear I will kill you myself.”

Apollo hardly dared to breathe as slave and master — or god and mortal, he reminded himself — stared each other down. Poseidon’s face was simultaneously as stony as the walls of Ilios itself, and as wrathful as the seas he ruled. He was a true contradiction, and one not to cross.

Laomedon seemed to have realized that himself. His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing with a hint of…unease, perhaps? Wariness?

A cruel master Laomedon may be, but at least he wasn’t a stupid one. Poseidon would have killed him long ago if he had been.

“Then tell me, Poseidon,” Laomedon sounded equally irritated and irate. “What should Apollo’s punishment be?” The unease in his dark eyes was replaced with a brief flash that instinctively made Apollo wary. “Perhaps serving me more…directly in my palace?”

Apollo scowled. “I’d rather fight Python again.”

“Not to mention,” Poseidon called. “We’ll be down a worker for the walls — you said you want them built within a year, yes? Taking Apollo away from it would slow production.”

Laomedon gave a long sigh, absently brushing his thumb over Apollo’s cheek as he gave Poseidon a look.

“Well, since you’re so interested…” Laomedon released Apollo’s jaw — much to the god’s relief — but kept his grip on his tunic. The younger god attempted to subtly rub at his chin as Poseidon drew forth, the salty scent he carried with him drifting around Apollo. He inwardly breathed a sigh of relief at his uncle’s closeness.

“You can decide,” the king triumphantly declared. The relief Apollo felt was instantly squashed, and he stared with wide eyes first at Laomedon, then at Poseidon. His uncle had tensed, jaw clenched as he glared at Laomedon with nothing but pure dislike. “But of course,” Laomedon added slyly, finally relinquishing his hold on Apollo’s tunic with a lazy shrug, flicking at a strand of golden hair. “I retain the right to deny it and proceed with my idea.”

A wail of despair welled in Apollo’s throat, though he thankfully managed to swallow it back down. Though maybe a whimper escaped in the process.

This was it. Laomedon wasn’t going to be deterred by threats of what Zeus would do to him. There was no way he was going to accept whatever idea Poseidon came up with, not if he could humiliate a god of Apollo’s caliber.

Apollo silently cursed his father for taking off with Laomedon’s uncle. Why, oh why did Laomedon have to take his anger out on the most gorgeous god on Olympus? Was it because Ganymede had been snatched for his beauty and he was trying to make himself feel better by demeaning Apollo in such a way?

If so, he was so petty. Apollo hadn’t even been involved in that whole fiasco!

Poseidon had yet to say anything, his silence brewing a dangerous hurricane of potent emotions.

Laomedon, on the other hand, seemed to almost be enjoying himself. “We don’t have all night,” he tutted. “And I have a dowry to begin preparing for Proclia’s future marriage, so please do not waste my time.”

Apollo vaguely remembered Proclia. She was about thirteen, with long red hair and kind brown eyes. She had kindly given him some water one day when he’d been exhausted from brick-laying — much nicer than her pig of a father.

He hoped she was married to someone good. Though Laomedon didn’t seem to have an eye for such suitors. Maybe he could nudge Hymenaeus into helping…hmm…

Poseidon crossed his arms, face still shadowed with his storm, before he tersely nodded. “Very well. I suggest Apollo protect your cattle in the fields of Mount Ida. It’s been attacked lately by wild dogs, wolves, and other various beasts, am I correct?”

Laomedon frowned and tipped his head. “You are,” he agreed. “I have been losing the young cattle lately…ever since my father was king, anyway,” he added with a curl of his lips. Apollo winced and inwardly thought, Ganymede. The youth had used to protect Ilios’s herd of cattle…up until he caught Zeus’s fancy.

Apollo then arched a brow. Was it possible Poseidon was trying to appease Laomedon’s resentment of his uncle’s apotheosis with Apollo’s services in the very fields Ganymede had been taken from? He supposed it would be best to temper that anger…

…though did it have to come at the cost of him?

Laomedon, however, didn’t seem convinced. “Difficult that service may be,” he mused, fingers steepled once again. “I’m afraid I’m not quite satisfied with it. Any amendments to make? If not, I’ll be all too happy to get your nephew started on his new assignment.”

Assignment! Apollo scoffed, yet his hands shook at the possibility. He clenched them tightly as a  low growl left Poseidon’s throat. “An amendment it is, then,” he clenched his own fists and sarcastically muttered; “Do you have any suggestions?”

The king thoughtfully hummed. “You know, perhaps I do.”

Poseidon blinked. Apollo tensed. Clearly, his uncle had meant the comment in jest, but Laomedon had not taken it that way.

“How about this…” Laomedon crossed his arms and studied the two of them. “Apollo works in the fields, protecting my prized cattle, while you, Poseidon, take on his work on the walls. I’m sure you can handle a double workload better than Apollo.” Apollo quietly huffed at the slight. “Aeacus is almost recovered from his bout of sickness anyway,” Laomedon continued. “So he can continue his third of the wall soon enough.” The king then raised a finger. “But the condition is that Apollo will also get the mortar and bricks you will build with…from my palace.”

Apollo glanced at Poseidon out of the corner of his eye. His uncle caught it. Despite his unease, Apollo knew this was the best deal they were going to get. He gave a slight nod — I can do this. 

Poseidon inclined his head. “We accept the terms.” He announced.

Laomedon slyly smiled. “Good. Now go,” he pointed at the curtain-covered door behind them. “Best get some rest. You have work tomorrow.”

Work they had, indeed. 

Over the months, as Eurus’s autumn winds turned away and allowed Boreas’s chilly breath to descend over Ilios, Apollo spent his mornings quickly gathering as much mortar and bricks as he could, thanking his godly strength that he was able to carry so much, dodging running into Laomedon in the process, and delivering it to Poseidon before rushing to Mount Ida and perching on an outcrop, keeping a careful eye on the cattle and the wintry woods around him. A few times he had to fend off a particularly hungry wolf before communicating to it about a much better place to hunt, with deer roaming despite these barren months. The little guy had given him a thankful nuzzle before darting away in the direction Apollo had pointed.

“Never seen a wolf do that, before,” a feminine voice made Apollo jolt and he spun around, still half-kneeling from where he’d been speaking with the wolf. A girl around his age — that is to say, his human age of eighteen — stood before him. Her pale hair was braided, like bundles of flax woven into a fine basket. Pearls sat in her braids. Her dark skin was clean. Her eyes were like pools of fresh, spring water. Her peplos a rosy pink, like Eos’s lovely dawn. “They usually growl when they see humans.”

Apollo self-consciously adjusted his straw hat, thankful the only thing marring his own visage was the occasional smudge of dirt, though that itself was minorly annoying when faced with a pretty girl.

“Well,” he modestly shrugged and rose to his feet, casually leaning against his shepherd’s staff. “I suppose that’s because most humans don’t have anything good to say.”

The girl considered him. “I suppose,” she nodded. “I wouldn’t know the first thing to say to a wolf anyway. I’d probably communicate something along the lines of ‘I want to eat your young’ instead of ‘Hello, my name is Ourea. What’s yours?’.”

Apollo cracked a grin. “Was that an indirect way of introducing yourself? And to get my name?”

The girl — Ourea, Apollo noted, a name meaning ‘mountains’, as well as the name of some of Gaea’s offspring — smiled and gave a modest shrug of her own. “Perhaps. Not everyday you meet a man who can speak wolf.”

“It’s sadly a lost art,” Apollo mock-sighed. “Very few are able to master such a skill.”

“Oh?” Ourea drifted closer and intently stared at him. Her eyes were very distracting. Apollo had never really paid attention to the beauty of water before, but wow. It definitely deserved a few odes, perhaps even a sonnet. The way the sunlight shone off her eyes…it was like marveling at a sunset over the sea.

“Care to teach me?”

Apollo smiled. “Wouldn’t hurt to try.”

Ourea was rather good company. She was in the field waiting for him when he came to watch the herd, and he would impart to her the language of wolves — their code, their way of life, and how they communicated. She had trouble with it at first, which was a given. Mortals weren’t usually interested in learning about each other, let alone an animal, but he was fascinated with Ourea’s determination to push through his lessons.

They met everyday. Winter began to wane. Poseidon would give him a sly look every morning he came to drop off the day’s delivery of mortar and bricks, and shot a shit-eating grin his way at night when he returned a bit more flushed than usual and his tunic ajar.

Some people would think it weird that Poseidon wasn’t objecting to Apollo dating his daughter — after all, fathers were supposed to want their daughters to actually be able to marry the man they were seeing.

Poseidon though wasn’t a mortal father. He rarely interacted with his children, though he lent a hand if they asked for it. When Apollo had inquired about his opinion, his uncle had merely shrugged and said; “If Ourea wants you, I see no reason why she can’t.”

Apollo had to admit. Ourea’s presence was becoming a particular bright spot in Ilios. Not only would she meet him in the meadow, but also at the walls in the mornings and watch as he passed the materials to her father, waving cheekily at him whenever he playfully wrinkled his nose at her.

One particular bright spot was a nice night between them the day the walls were finished. The formidable stones rose high into the air, fortifying the main city even better than the outer city’s walls did — because they were built by two gods, of course.

And maybe Apollo had helped speed the process up a bit by playing his lyre as the construction came close to the end. His godly power had been greatly reduced thanks to his punishment, but he’d been able to manipulate the bricks into their proper places, creating a strong barrier to protect Ilios’s people — people who included Ourea…and his own child now.

He still remembered the day she told him, breath lingering around his ear, eyes shining as she whispered; “I’m expecting!”

Poseidon had clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated both of them. And nine months later, Ourea failed to arrive in the meadow. Apollo spent the rest of the day anxiously pacing the field, his restlessness no doubt warding off would-be attackers, though few they were as Notus’s summer sighs began.

Apollo practically ran back to Ilios in his haste to find Ourea, and find her he did. Her mother was busy attending to her, while his lover sat up in bed, a bundle in her arms. Her hair was down and pearlless, but her smile was as bright as the sea’s gems.

“Ileus,” she said. “After our city.”

The god bent down and placed a gentle kiss first on Ourea, then on Ileus. “Perfect,” he murmured. “He’s perfect.”

He and Poseidon were still technically in Laomedon’s service, even with the walls complete. Thanks to their godly intervention, the walls were finished earlier than planned — which was good, for Apollo could pop in and visit Ourea and Ileus more often, but also irksome. He missed having his full godly power at his disposal. He could’ve properly helped Ourea’s birthing pains. He could’ve — would show Laomedon what happens when you treat not one, but two gods cruelly.

Though despite the disgruntlement and unease Laomedon put in him, Apollo made a silent promise to protect this city. Not all of its inhabitants were as demeaning as their king — most treated him and Poseidon with the respect gods of their caliber deserved, and very few had dared to belittle Ourea for having a child out of wedlock, not with the knowledge that Apollo had fathered him.

All in all, Apollo was in high spirits. The walls were done. He and Poseidon were about to get paid for their work once autumn came about. Ourea swore Ileus was trying to imitate a wolf’s howl the night before — bless his little soul, already taking after his parents!

The snakes put a bit of a damper on his mood, three months later.

It happened fast. The guards along the walls raised the alarm as three massive drakons rushed the walls. Apollo had been transfixed to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away as the first drakon rammed into Poseidon’s wall. It screeched when it failed to topple it.

The second attempted the same with Apollo’s wall. It too fell prey to its invulnerability.

Meanwhile the third…Apollo remained rooted to the ground as it crashed through Aeacus’s third of the wall. Stone crumbled. Mortar cracked. Ash was flung into the air as the drakon stomped through, roared triumphantly, before turning tail and charging away, its brethren on its heels, screaming like a battalion of armed warriors.

Faintly, Apollo heard Poseidon swear and sensed Ourea clutch Ileus to her chest, as if afraid the drakons would return and snatch him away. The baby’s bright blue eyes stared at the drakons in awe, his pale hair askew.

Equally as faintly, Apollo could hear the rumbles of stone falling, though the walls around him remained intact, except for Aeacus’s third. He could feel the tremors echoing through the ground, the clanging of bronze-on-bronze.

A war would be fought here. A great one.

Apollo’s smokey green eyes rolled back into his head and his breaths turned harsh;

“Unyielding walls, made of stone,

Heed my words and be known.

None shall shake your roots of steel,

But beware the tenth year.

Red-haired Pyrrus to pluck you down,

And Ilion will fall by Aeacus’s crown.”

Hands grasped his shoulders and shook. Apollo dazedly jerked his head, blinking with bewildered pale gold eyes at the creased face of Poseidon.

“Apollo,” his uncle’s dark green eyes were fixed on him with a serious, intent expression. “Apollo, was that…”

The younger god swallowed and nodded. “I believe so.” He breathed through his nose. “It was a prophecy.”

“A prophecy?” Ourea breathed, blue eyes as wide as the pools of water in Ilios’s forests. “But what…what could it mean?”

Apollo frowned, biting his lip for a moment as he considered the prophecy, absently snapping his fingers for a papyrus scroll and reed pen. He quickly scrawled the prophecy down, studying the words.

Prophecies were tricky things. They liked to make you think you figured them out, or successfully averted them, before pulling the rug out from under you. (Just ask Acrisius)

However…he squinted suspiciously at the words before him.

Unyielding walls, made of stone, heed my words and be known.

Apollo eyed the walls of Troy as citizens and slaves alike clustered around the broken wall, clamoring over each other about how to fix it.

None shall shake your roots of steel, but beware the tenth year.

Unease filled his stomach. Beware the tenth year…tenth year the walls were built? Or perhaps…

The sound of bronze weapons clashing and the ground cracking apart from an earthquake ripped through his ears once more.

No. Beware the tenth year of war.

Red-haired Pyrrus to pluck you down, and Ilion will fall by Aeacus’s crown.

The wall. The wall that fell…it was built by Aeacus, not a god. That made it the weakest point, the prime place for attack…

Or it meant —

Apollo shoved the thought away. No. No. Ilion couldn’t…

“Apollo?” Poseidon asked. “Do you know what it means?”

The younger god glanced between the intense eyes of his uncle and the anxious ones of his lover.

“I have…a suspicion,” he admitted. He met Ourea’s worried face and softly said; “I think it says the walls will fall…and so will Ilion.”

Ourea pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes widening as she held Ileus tighter, making him whine as he attempted to wiggle out of her hold, making grabby hand at Apollo. He held out his fingers and allowed Ileus to snatch them, lips curving slightly as the boy attempted to stick them in his mouth.

Poseidon had turned and stared consideringly at the walls. Apollo stiffened as he heard him mumble “Good riddance” with a slight vindictive gleam in his storming eyes as people darted around, beginning to hastily repair the damage done to the wall.

Apollo couldn’t find it within himself to agree. He knew Poseidon only said it because of how harshly Laomedon had treated them, but personally, Apollo didn’t believe Ilion deserved to crumble to the ground because of the actions of one lousy king.

Plus…Apollo fervently looked into Ourea’s concerned eyes. Placing a kiss on her lips before ruffling Ileus’s hair, making the child babble, he knew one thing about himself.

Ilion was his city. And he would do his damndest to circumvent its fate — or at the very least, delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

They were his people, just like he was their god. And nothing would ever change that.

He eyed the palace with wariness. Steeling himself, he tapped Poseidon’s shoulder and said; “We should talk to Laomedon. He needs to know.”

Poseidon hummed and shrugged. “Very well. He’s also due to pay us back for our work.”

With that, his uncle marched towards the palace, leaving the commotion of the crumbled walls behind. Apollo took Ourea’s hand and gently squeezed it, smiling lightly as he clutched the papyrus with Ilion’s fatal fate written upon it.

“We’ll be back,” he whispered. He hesitated, then drew both her and Ileus into a hug. Ourea’s free hand rested on his arm as she laid her head on his shoulder. “And don’t worry,” he added quietly. “I’ll keep Ilion safe.”

“How?” Ourea’s words were muffled slightly. “If it’s prophesied…”

Apollo rubbed her back and kissed her hair. “I’m the god of prophecy,” he grinned. “I’ll find a way.”

I hope, he left unsaid.

----------

“No.”

Apollo blinked, mouth slightly open as he stared incredulously at Laomedon. The king sat on his throne, as relaxed as a lazy lion, the side of his face leaning on his hand as he coyly smirked at the two gods.

“No?” Poseidon spat. “That was the deal, you ungrateful, impious bdelyròs!”

Laomedon clucked his tongue, shaking his head. “No need for that kind of language, Poseidon. Especially around your nephew.”

Apollo glared at him. “I’ve heard worse, thanks.”

The king shrugged. “I suppose you have,” he agreed, raking his gaze over the younger god. “You have had some…choice words, at times. But I digress,” Apollo scowled at how relaxed Laomedon looked, like he wasn’t insulting them — oh, he knew very well how demeaning this was! It wasn’t enough that ordered them about and yanked them around for his own amusement, abusing the control he had over them, but now he denied them their deserved pay!

“You have made a very unwise decision,” Poseidon softly stated, mouth curving slightly into a snarl. “When we regain our places on Olympus, we are no longer in your service, nor under your command. We are free to do as we please…” he narrowed his eyes and gave the bored king a mocking smile. “I can promise you my wrath will be felt quite soon.”

“Ah…” Laomedon clutched his chest, as if suddenly struck with a heart-attack. Apollo secretly wished for it to happen, for the terrible man to bite the dust. “The thing is, Poseidon…neither of you are allowed to harm me, even after your punishment is finished.” He bared his crooked teeth in a grin. “I’m untouchable, while I can still very much touch you.”

Apollo clenched his fists, the papyrus in one of them crumpling, before crossing his arms. “Says who?” He demanded.

“Says your father,” Laomedon’s grin was sharp as he sat up straight in his throne. “After all, the lesson was all about not challenging a king, was it not? Taking vengeance on me would mean you haven’t learnt your lesson.”

Apollo was furious. He wasn’t allowed to give Laomedon a piece of his mind? To throttle him for everything he put him through? Completely unfair! How could father let him do this?

Angry, Apollo stalked up the stairs and slapped the papyrus onto the throne’s arm. “Maybe this will get you to rethink,” he hissed as Laomedon’s dark stare first roamed over him before idly glancing at the papyrus. “Or do you not care about Ilion’s destruction?”

Laomedon’s face twisted and he seized Apollo by the strap of his chiton, yanking him close enough for him to murmur darkly; “Careful there,” His hot breath made Apollo flinch away. “I still own you.”

He ripped himself out of Laomedon’s grip and gave him a vehement stare. “You own nothing,” he muttered contemptuously. Apollo glanced over his shoulder to Poseidon, who had his arms crossed and face twisted into a mean scowl.

Apollo turned back to Laomedon. He pointed to the papyrus. “The future of your kingdom is on that scroll,” he darkly warned. “I really think you should reconsider this choice — it may lead to Ilion’s ruin.”

Laomedon gave a disbelieving snort. “Ilion is the crown jewel of Anatolia,” his nose scrunched up as he gave the younger god a condescending look. “Our warriors are of the highest caliber. My children married to powerful allies. Very few would dare to challenge us — let alone be able to destroy us, dear Apollo.” 

He then leaned forward, finger tapping idly on the papyrus as he hummed. “Not to mention you are our patron god, duty-bound to come to our aid.” He glanced at the scroll and lightly snorted. “Barely half of this makes sense! Garbled nonsense.”

Apollo’s jaw clenched. “Smart men can decipher a mystery,” he growled. “Wise men learn from it.”

His stomach twisted as Laomedon pretended to not hear him. Apollo glanced at his uncle, whose stormy expression made him shiver.

He had warned Laomedon. He warned him of the present and future danger to Ilion. But he refused to listen.

And that arrogance will cost him. Dearly.

It is, after all, part of the duty of a god, Apollo reflected as he and Poseidon silently exited the throne room, stalking through the grand halls with glowers. Hubris is so commonly a mortal’s fatal flaw…and Laomedon will be no different.

 —

I refrained from my usual rambles so if you want my rambles see my Ao3 for the fic upload there! :3

[rayssion]

An idea that Will is a really affectionate person that everytime he treat some younger camper's wound he kisses them better.

And Nico, technically, is a younger camper. Except that he's not used to get well soon kisses, he tells Will to stop doing that and Will complies for only two visits untill he picks up his old habit.

The thing is, each kiss leaves a little burn mark on Nico's skin after some hours and he refuses to confront Will about them.

Children of the underworld are not supposed to face the sun.

[trials-of-apollo-my-beloved]

The Adventures of Lester Papadopoulos and the Scrap Master

A Trials of Apollo Fic 

Lester's life has been a on a steady decline ever since he left his abusive family to go be on his own. The days at his new job at his local coffee shop are monotonous and unrewarding until one day he gets robbed by a human traffic light that insists things around here start changing. Lester just wished the "here" she was gentrifying wasn't his life.

Or: A platonic Meg&Apollo coffee shop au 

Chapter One

Lester threw his head to the table with so much force the resounding crack could be heard all through the coffee shop.

Kids if anyone ever tells you to get a job at a coffee shop you tell them to stuff some hot coals up their nose, because that’s what spilling hot coffee on yourself then violently banging your head against clear frosted acrylic countertops feels like. An experience also known as Lester Papadopoulos’ average work day.

From behind him Lester heard about the only sound capable of making his day worse, discounting his father’s voice, -which he never did for the fear for his own life- Reyna snickering.

“Clean up not going too well Lester?”

“I thought,” Lester said in a mumble against the counter, “that the coffee would have cooled down after closing.”

Reyna lifted an eyebrow. Lester didn’t know that for a fact, he was too busy crying onto counter tops (huh, Crying onto Counter tops? That sounded like a good indie band) but over his years of being the most mocked person in any room he entered he’d picked up a seventh sense to devine when people were judging him.

“You know we just closed minutes ago, right?”

“Yeah. I was the one that flipped the sign.” Okay now both eyebrows were up. Seriously Lester was surprised that this kind of stupidity coming from him was still surprising her.

“Okay. You do know how time works right?”

“Yes.” Lester mumbled, all too aware that his nose was bent at an angle that made him sound like a person doing a bad Big Bird impression.

“Okay then. Are you alright?”

Lester snorted, No, Lester thought, but I don’t want to inconvenience you any further with my presence, woman who shot me down for a date and laughed in my face not even two weeks ago, and is also one of the most brilliant people I know.

“Yes.”

“Good because there is a little girl knocking on our door and you’re much better at turning people off than I am.” Reyna chuckled to herself like that was the funniest joke in the world. Lester sighed because if it hadn’t been targeted at him he actually would have found it funny. Currently it just felt painfully accurate to reality.

“Fine, I got it.” Lester picked himself up from the counter and brushed off his apron. There, now he looked about as presentable as anyone could after a ten hour work day. Gods he missed being on the family payroll.

Lester metaphorically hiked up his skirts and went up to the glass doors to shoo off some kid.

Truly his father was wrong, he was doing so well without him.

Lester had to blink to make sure the windows on the doors hadn’t been replaced with mirrors and he wasn’t seeing the reflection of the traffic light from the street, because there was no earthly way a parent would actively choose to dress their child like that.

Lester opened the door and addressed the fashion disaster question, “Uhm, excuse me but we’re closed. And we have a no loitering policy, so-”

“Do you guys have any leftovers?”

“Do we have any… leftovers?”

“Yeah, you know? Like food that is past its sell by date and, ya know?”

Lester blinked and observed the girl past her abysmal fashion choices. He could figure why a kid would be asking for something like that. The girl was on the shorter side with hair that might have once been a page boy cut but had long fallen out of maintenance. Her outfit, past being the last choice of anyone with common sense, was also stained and she smelled like the dumpster outside his apartment building.

This girl looked like a what if  scenario where the lost child in a grocery store was never found by their parents and grew up amongst the produce. Then going on to sustain their home in the store through wacky Home-Alone-esk shenanigans, eventually ascending over piles of outdated meats to become the grocery store scrap master.

“Might I ask why you want to know that?”

The girl peered past Lester, “Because I wanna eat it, duh.” She seeped so much sarcasm into that “duh” that even as a worker in retail he couldn’t help but be offended by the condescension.

“As a top thinker I object to the idea that that was the obvious direction of this conversation!”

“A top thinker?” The girl squinted at him, and, yeah, Lester had to admit that wasn’t his best comeback. In his defense he had just slammed his brain into a hard counter top only moments before.

“Yeah!” Even if it wasn’t his best strategy he would do what he always did, double and triple down on whatever stupid thing he said. It was a tactic that never went wrong.

“Okay. So are you going to answer my question or not?”

Lester sighed, he didn’t have the patience for this during the workday much less after, “Yes we do and you can.” He didn’t need to check, despite being relatively close to a big highway there wasn’t often much business at this little joint.

It was originally one of the reasons he picked it, Lester was painfully aware that he wasn’t much of a people person. Not that he didn’t like people, no he loved people! They just tended to not like him.

Something you and I have in common , he thought, looking at the girl, oh master of scraps . “Would you like some?”

The girl harrumphed, again acting like yes was the most dumbly obvious answer to the question “do you want to eat the leftovers of the leftovers of the coffee shop industry in America after starbucks.”

Lester shucked the door open and trudged in. He would let the girl have some food. What would be the harm? He waved to Reyna, who was currently trying to blend her eyebrows in with her irises, that or she trying to tell him “what the fuck” with her eyes over the fact that he had brought the girl in that she deliberately asked him to get rid of.

“Alright, over here-” Apollo waved the girl over to the counter where he normally emptied out the stale pastries into trash at the end of day. He was cut off when the scrap master barreled past him into the back of the shop, knocking his shoulder into his body with the force of a linebacker’s full charge. (don’t ask how lester knew what that felt like)

“Hey!”

The girl’s pageboy-post-apocalypse poked itself over the counter as she raided the shelves. She shoved some muffins and several cake slices that definitely weren’t meant to be transported by kindergartener's backpack into her bag. Then before Lester could stop her she planted a whole cupcake, paper wrapping and all into her mouth.

Perhaps realizing she had done something wrong her eyes locked with Lester’s and went as wide as her mouth.

Reyna, who had been wiping down tables, decided now was the time to intervene and the scraps master must have developed some eighth sense along the line of Lesters’, and backed off the sweet shelves.

Seemingly understanding that she had limited her own time allowed in the shop she spun around. Her eyes impassively scanned her surroundings, until they lasered in on the sweetener packets, and abandoned whatever kind of decorum she might have had before -which apparently she did because whatever she was doing now was definitely worse- and shoveled handfuls of the packets in her backpack.

Finally getting over the shock of the whole scene Lester started walking to the girl, like a soldier ant marching to their death in a battle against the neighbor kid’s boot. The girl made a mad dash to the door, snatching one last croissant on her escape. Lester, the savant under pressure that he was, stuck his foot out to try and trip her.

Look, he did intend to let her keep the food. It was a lost cause at this point even if he wasn’t going to in the first place, but the sweetener packets? Really? What kind of situation was this girl in where she needed to steal sweetener packets?  

It felt like she took them just to take them, which Lester felt was just a dick move.

Luckily, or unluckily if you were the last scraps of Lester’s pride being yoinked by the scrap master, his foot missed the girls’ by about a meter so her escape remained unimpeded all the way to the door which she burst out of in a flash of traffic light colors.

“What just happened?” Reyna’s voice snapped Lester out of his shocked reverie trying to puzzle together an answer to that very question.

“I think we just got robbed by Dora the Explorer glow in the dark edition.”

[musicofthenightphantomoftheopera]

URGENT UPDATE ON KOSA

Guys, this is getting really scary now. According to Senator Blumenthal they "rewrote the bill' (they didn't change anything actually) and the bill now has bipartisan (both democrat and republican support) with 62 co-sponsors now and could hit the senate as early as next week.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, KOSA (the Kids Online Safety Act) Is a strait up fascist mass internet censorship and serveillance bill that if passed, will force you to upload your government ID online in order to verify your age and give not only the government to track everything you do on the internet, but also the pwer to censor and erase anything or anyone they deem a threat to their power all by using the vague wording of the bill to deem it "a danger to kids"

both of the co writers of the bill, Senator Blumenthal, and Senator marsha Blackburn have fully admitted that they will be using this bill to wipe out any anti-isreal content as well as (in Blackburn's own words) "eliminate transgender content"

This bill WILL be used to end modern activism as we know it.

anything related to Free Palestine, Free Congo, Free Sudan, Black Lives Matter, Stop Cop City, LGBTQIA Rights, will be censored and wiped off the face of the internet.

we are looking at Farenheit 451 and 1984 COMBINED. And I still see almost NO ONE talking about it since my initial post I made talking about it last year. Every single one of you need to interact with this post and spread the word. contact your reps. sign petitions (all of which will b linked at the end of this post) AND MAKE SOME GODDAM NOISE. This is the fate of the internet as well as the fate of modern activism and literally the entire internet.

Resources for learning about KOSA:

Petition and Call Script for contacting your senators and reps

Sign the open letter against KOSA

Stop KOSA Movement Linktree