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⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: BEAST'S BEST GIRL DIVINE WHISPERS: Beast's Best Girl | divine whispers: beast's best girl⌟

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She moved like a shadow beneath a silver sky.

The air was still above the mortal world, that kind of velvet hush reserved for mountaintops and moments just before prophecy. Artemis stepped lightly across the threshold between realms, the hem of her cloak brushing against the clouds with no sound. She did not disturb the sky when she moved—it merely held its breath and let her pass.

Lately, things had grown... difficult.

She would never say so aloud, not to her retinue, not to the wolves at her side or the girls who pledged their blood in her name. But the air above Olympus had thinned in recent weeks. Not weather. Not season. Just something strange—like the gods themselves had begun exhaling slower, holding something back.

And always, always, it circled back to her brother.

She didn't need to see the golden scorch across the clouds to know Apollo had intervened again. She felt it in her joints, in the bones of the moon when it tilted a half-degree too far, chasing some warmth it had no business wanting. His aura clung to the edges of the realm like the smoke from a burning feast: too sweet, too much.

She sighed—long, sharp through her nose—and tightened the leather cord around her wrist.

Careless. Again.

Of course he was.

Divine interference, twisted time, some mortal girl he couldn't stop haunting. Artemis didn't know the details. She didn't need to. She could smell his recklessness from here, taste it in the stillness like honey gone sour.

He never learned, that was the trouble. For all his songs and prophecies, her twin had never understood the consequences of touch.

Not like she did.

Around her, the night hummed—unbothered, unaware. The wind curled soft around her legs, brushing against the hem of her silver tunic like a child seeking comfort.

She didn't stop moving.

Gods, she hated this part. The wandering. The watching. Pretending she wasn't still alone, even with an army of maidens waiting to follow her command.

That was the irony of divinity, wasn't it?

She could have a thousand girls, a thousand arrows, a thousand prayers whispered under moonlight—and still, she was the only one who would walk this path.

Alone beneath the stars, Artemis let her steps carry her forward, letting instinct guide her where prophecy dared not. The night opened like a scroll in her hands—quiet, vast, waiting to be read.

It wasn't long before the ground below shifted. She felt it in her bones first—an ache in the space between realms, like pressure before a storm. And then she saw it: the edge of the mortal world.

Ithaca.

The island smelled of salt and old stone, its hills bristling with the scent of rosemary and burning torches. She didn't need to be seen—didn't want to be. Not here. Not for this.

She moved through the canopy like wind made flesh, every footstep vanishing before it left a mark. The trees bent subtly toward her as she passed, whispering her name without sound.

Then she stopped.

Across the open space, beneath the stretch of night sky, her brother stood. Apollo. Back straight. Shoulders soft. His hand still cradling the girl's—your—face with a gentleness that made Artemis' stomach twist.

He kissed your forehead.

Just a whisper of a touch, but even from where Artemis stood—half-shadowed near the broken columns—she could feel the warmth in it. It wasn't lust. It wasn't even hunger. It was soft. Frighteningly so. Like he was trying to memorize you. Like he was saying goodbye to something he didn't want to lose.

You looked up at him, and Artemis' jaw tensed.

There was no fear in your eyes. No hesitation. Just this wide, quiet trust that made Artemis' throat tighten before she could stop it.

And Apollo?

He looked at you like he always looked at things he wanted to keep.

Like gold bending toward gravity.

He wasn't glowing—no divine light spilling from his skin—but he didn't need it. Not here. The way his eyes lingered, the way his fingers brushed the side of your cheek like you were a prayer... that was more dangerous than any sunbeam.

Artemis didn't move. She didn't speak.

She just watched.

Watched her twin—this god who had painted prophecies in blood and sung his own praises into eternity—lower himself into something almost human.

And gods, it unsettled her.

Because this wasn't a game to him anymore. Not a passing muse, not another mortal girl to crown and forget.

No.

This was a choice.

Not a whim. Not divine curiosity. A choice. And worse—he thought it noble.

Artemis' mouth curled into something between pity and disappointment. She shook her head once—barely a movement, just a whisper of bone against wind—and turned away before the scene could brand itself too deep.

She had told him once, long ago, that mortals were not to be toyed with. That power could corrupt even the brightest god if held too tightly, too long.

He hadn't listened then.

He still didn't.

Let him haunt his sunlit tragedies, she had other beasts to find.

She moved through twisted corridors of air and leaf, past marble and moss, until the scent hit her—deep and pine-heavy, laced with copper and something old as mountain storms. Each breath took her closer. Down a narrow slope where the stones jutted like broken teeth. Through an archway made from tree roots and moonlight. Up again—climbing.

Until she reached it.

A ledge carved naturally into the face of the cliffs above Ithaca's eastern wall. A shelf of earth and twisted cypress, barely wide enough for a hunter's crouch, but perfectly placed—overlooking the palace courtyard and much of the outer path beyond the grove.

And there she was.

The Askalion.

The beast lay coiled like a question half-answered—limbs tucked beneath her massive body, head resting on crossed paws. Her fur shimmered faintly in the moonlight, not soft but thick and coarse like woven stormclouds. Bronze-tipped claws dug lazily into the rock beneath her, carving lines deep enough to stay. Each breath she took was deep and slow, rising through the thick ridge of her shoulders like the warning swell before a wave breaks.

She was still.

Watching.

Eyes like obsidian knives tracked every sound from the stone paths below—every flick of torchlight, every hush of movement from the palace courtyard, every insect's wing catching the air too sharply. Nothing moved beneath the stars without her notice. The wind shifted wrong and she would know. A deer blinked twice in the grove and she would hear it.

And though her body rested, her mind was honed like an arrow. Every inch of her was poised—not resting, but guarding.

And it didn't take long for her to notice the other presence that stepped beyond the trees.

Her head rose slowly. Ears flattened, hackles raised. A low sound rumbled from deep in her chest—not loud, but sharp with warning—as she bared her teeth. Muscles rippled beneath her thick pelt as her massive body shifted forward, just slightly, like she was ready to lunge.

She didn't blink; she didn't retreat. She stared through the dark toward the new arrival—every inch of her alive with caution.

But Artemis didn't falter.

She stepped forward without fear, her hands raised slowly—not in surrender, but in clarity. A gesture older than language. Not prey. Not threat. Just here.

"I'm not here to harm you," Artemis said, stepping forward without fear. "I'm here to speak."

The beast's growl faltered—just barely. Her head tilted slightly, the movement sharp but measured. Ears twitched—not flattened now, but raised, alert. The rumble in her throat dulled to something quieter, more thoughtful.

Not trust.

But not rejection.

That was enough.

Artemis slowed her steps and moved into full moonlight. The silver wash of it caught on her shoulders, gleaming along the edges of her cloak. Her shadow brushed the stone first, long and steady—reaching just to where Lady's front paw met the rock.

"I know who you are," Artemis said again, this time softer. She let the words hang. "And I know who you belong to. What you protect."

She stopped three paces from the ledge's edge—close enough for the air between them to shift. Far enough to still show respect.

The goddess looked over the creature—truly looked. Not with caution. Not with awe. With understanding.

Lady didn't lower her head again, but her posture settled into something less braced. Her claws no longer dug into the stone. Her breathing slowed—barely—but Artemis saw it. The way her ribs moved different now. The way her weight rested deeper into her forearms.

She wasn't relaxing.

But she was listening.

Artemis folded her hands behind her back, voice quiet but unwavering. "You're not like the rest of them," she murmured. "You weren't bred for battle. You weren't summoned to serve. You weren't tamed."

Her eyes didn't blink.

"Yet... you chose her."

Lady's tail flicked once. A slow, deliberate motion that sent dust curling across the ledge. Not agreement. Not denial. Just... presence.

"And I think..." Artemis continued, her words lighter now, "you may have something to say."

The wind stirred faintly around them. Not enough to move branches. Just enough to brush over skin. It rolled between them like a ripple—soft, slow, waiting.

Lady's ears flicked again, and then—for the first time—her eyes shifted fully to Artemis.

Not past her. Not around her.

To her.

Obsidian met silver.

Not in challenge, but in quiet recognition.

There was no roar. No bow. No nod.

Only the stillness between two wild things, and the weight of something unspoken passing from one to the other.

Then Artemis moved—just slightly. She reached into the folds of her cloak and withdrew a small charm. Old. Rough around the edges. It looked like it had been carved from bone long before civilization had names for the things they feared. The charm fit neatly in her palm, no brighter than dried ivory, marked with simple etchings only a hunter would know how to read.

She held it between two fingers and whispered something into the wind—an old language, older than Olympus. Not meant for gods. Not meant for mortals.

Meant for things with fangs and claws and blood-soaked paws.

The charm warmed against her skin, pulsing once.

And the change was immediate.

Lady's ears twitched hard. Her jaw shifted slightly. The low whine that built in her throat rose sharp and sudden, then twisted—midway through—into something more primal. No longer a growl. No longer a yip. But a howl. Low and guttural, heavy with shape.

It wasn't quite speech. Not the way mortals know it.

But Artemis understood it all the same.

The words didn't form like human mouths would shape them—but they struck the goddess clearly in her chest, like scent does to a wolf or storm does to the sea.

"Why are you here, Huntress?"

Lady didn't move. But her voice—if it could be called that—carried through the rock, through the wind, through Artemis' spine.

"I may be beast, but I am no fool. Gods don't seek our kind unless they want something. So I ask, what do you want?"

Her tone held no fear. Just firm, steady accusation. Like someone who had seen gods come and go. Like someone who had watched them promise and take and vanish.

Artemis said nothing for a moment. She just studied the beast again—the rise and fall of her chest, the set of her jaw, the dark flare of her fur under the night sky. The air still crackled faintly from the charm, but the moon goddess didn't flinch under the weight of the demand, nor did she answer the question.

Instead, she tilted her head. "What made her so special to you?" she asked. "You could've left her. You could've devoured her the day she touched you. You've done it before. You've tasted blood. And yet..."

Her gaze narrowed, voice dropping.

"...You guard her like something sacred. Like she's yours."

Lady's hackles rose faintly again, already understanding who the goddess was referencing—you.

"She is not yours to question."

Artemis pressed on, giving a dry, almost-smile. "No. But that doesn't mean I won't."

She crouched now—just enough to lower her height without lowering her edge. Her fingers grazed the ground, steady, calm, yet she didn't look up when she spoke again.

"Your kind is known to be the most ruthless to ever exist. A beast that even the most proficient gods wouldn't dare bother unless needed to. But still—" Artemis looked up now, meeting those burning black eyes directly, "you chose her."

Another pause.

A breath.

Then Artemis asked, quieter this time, almost curious:

"So I ask you... why haven't you eaten her yet?"

The air tensed like a bowstring.

Lady's entire body shifted immediately—shoulders snapping upward like the mountain itself had insulted her. Her eyes flared, the slit of her pupils narrowing as her maw peeled back, exposing rows of teeth that could crack bone without effort.

Her voice—if it could still be called that—rose again, coarse and cracked like bark over flame.

"Why do you ask about her?"

The words slammed into Artemis like claws. Not because they hurt. But because of the franticness in them. The way each syllable landed jagged, too fast, too sharp. Less accusation—more panic. Confused. Coiled tight beneath it all.

"You speak of her like you know her—but she never came back."

Lady's tail lashed hard across the rock, kicking dust up.

"She left with me. We crossed the sea. We slept beneath the stars. She held me—called me 'good girl.' And then—nothing."

The beast's voice cracked once, like a howl that didn't make it all the way out.

"I waited for her back at the inn. I doubled back, retracing her faint scent trails. I even slept near the bar she was last seen. But she never returned. And then—" she spat the words like thorns, "—a god came for me."

Her hackles bristled hard. Her nostrils flared.

"One that stank of wine and fruit and old, stupid magic. He wore a crown of ivy. His laugh hurt my ears." A guttural sound left her throat. "He smelled like her. Like the wild with purple eyes. The one I once chased."

Artemis stiffened slightly.

"He didn't even bring me to her. Not directly. Took detours. Mocked the sky. Sang to the river."

Lady snarled again—deeper now.

"Then he left me. On a raft. Said it was enchanted. Said it would 'carry me home.' Like that meant anything." Her claws flexed once more, scraping over old scratch-marks already dug into the stone. "I was stranded. On water. For days. With her bag. With her smell. With no answers."

Her head dropped low now, chest heaving. The sound wasn't just anger anymore. It was frustration. Grief, maybe. Something too animal-shaped for Artemis to name, but not hard to feel. The scent of it clung to the air—hot, sharp, sour at the edges. Something mournful trying not to be.

Lady's voice hit again, rough and crackling through the charm's spell. "Now you come. A god. A huntress. Speaking her name. What do you know? Why now? Where is she—?"

Artemis raised her hand—calm, open. "She's safe," she interrupted. "That's all that matters."

The beast's head snapped up, a low scoff tearing through her throat. "Then we've nothing more to discuss, huntress," she growled. "If she's safe, and you won't say where, then you've wasted your breath. I have no use for you."

Artemis didn't rise to meet the tone. She tilted her head instead, lips twitching—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. Just something dry. Knowing. A little cold.

"You care for her," Artemis said flatly. "More than most mortals ever earn."

Lady didn't respond, but the silence between her breaths said enough.

Artemis continued, voice soft but edged like flint. "It's strange... such loyalty. For a girl who gives so little in return."

She stepped closer—not threatening. Just circling. Observing. The way one might approach a trapped wolf to see whether its teeth or its eyes spoke truer.

"She doesn't summon you. Doesn't even wear a charm to understand your tongue. And still—" Artemis gestured slightly to the stone bed where Lady had coiled herself earlier, "—you guard her like a blood-bound thing. Like you chose her with teeth, not instinct."

Her gaze sharpened.

"All that protection, and she doesn't even know what it means."

Lady growled low again, something more defensive now, but Artemis didn't stop.

"She sleeps in silk that's not hers. Walks with gods she doesn't understand. Drinks what should've burned her alive. And you—you follow. You carry her scent like an oath. Why?"

There was no cruelty in Artemis' voice, but there was judgment.

Not cruel.

Just honest.

Unforgiving in the way only moonlight could be.

Lady's head lifted sharply, maw peeling back into a snarl so sharp it sang in the air.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

Her voice scraped like stone dragged over bone—deep, indignant, offended. The kind of offense that came not from pride, but from something more personal. Older. Protective.

"You speak like the gods always do. Like time has made you wise, when all it's done is dull your eyes. You've roamed too long. You've forgotten how different mortals can be."

Her claws flexed, cracking old lines in the stone anew.

"You call her selfish. You think she's like the rest of them—just another open-handed thing who wants warmth and safety without earning it. But even the smallest of beasts know better than that. Even we know not to generalize."

She huffed, a breath like steam.

"You don't know her. You haven't watched the way she wakes before dawn to keep her promises. The way she holds grief in her mouth without letting it spill. You haven't seen the way she tries, even when she doesn't understand what she's been handed."

Her voice dipped lower now—quieter. But no softer.

"She didn't ask for me. She never once claimed me. But she stayed. She looked. She saw. And that's more than most gods ever do."

Artemis let the beast's words settle—like fallen arrows left to shake the grass. Then, calmly, with no rise to her tone, she spoke.

"I never said she was like the rest."

Lady's ears twitched.

Artemis stepped forward one last time—close enough that their eyes could meet again through the thinnest veil of air.

"I said she doesn't understand. That doesn't make her selfish. That makes her human."

She tilted her head slightly.

"And if she means this much to you, if what you say is true..." Her voice was soft now. Not warm. But less like steel, more like still water.

"Then make me understand. Why her?"

The wind stilled again—flat and unmoving, like the night itself had paused to listen.

Lady's gaze didn't break, but something in it flickered. Not fear. Not shame. Just... hesitation. That ancient, primal instinct to keep the softest parts tucked beneath fang and fur.

She didn't answer right away.

For a moment, Artemis thought she might refuse altogether. Thought this might be the end of it—silence passed like a verdict. But then—

A breath.

Ragged. Low.

And then Lady shifted. Not much. Just the weight of her body easing from her haunches, tail curling tight around one foreleg. The kind of posture a beast took not when they submitted—but when they decided to speak.

"I wasn't looking for her," the Askalion said, voice quieter now. "I was hungry."

Artemis blinked slowly, but said nothing. She didn't have to.

"There was a hunting party. Ithacan." Lady's eyes turned toward the hills below, distant in memory. "A group of them. Loud. Smelled of sweat and arrogance. I followed them down from the cliffs. Thought maybe they'd lead me to something easy. Something that wouldn't put up a fight."

A pause.

"And then... I saw her."

The tone changed. Lady's voice dropped lower, more cautious now. Almost confused.

"She was... behind the group. Trailing a little. Lost in her own world, like it was her first time taking it all in, the wilderness. She didn't even have a weapon. I watched them laugh at her once because she kept scaring off prey. Eventually, she wandered off on her own—getting lost in the maze that's only a fraction of Ithaca's forest."

Lady blinked slowly. Her claws flexed once, dragging over stone.

"She should've been an easy kill. I thought—I thought that's what I was there for." Her tail thumped once—anxious. "But when I came through the trees, when I saw her—really saw her—she didn't run."

The air went still between them again.

"She didn't even scream," Lady said. "Just turned her face toward mine. Eyes wide. Not scared. Not brave either. Just... still. She looked like something waiting to be chosen."

Artemis tilted her head. "And... you chose her."

Lady let out a low sound—not quite a growl. Not quite a sigh.

"I didn't know I could." The words were honest. Bare. "Not like that. I've tracked blood through decades. Ripped men apart under full moons. I've eaten men who thought they could tame beasts. But that day... I saw her. And something in me clicked."

She looked at Artemis now.

"It wasn't magic. It wasn't prophecy. I didn't smell fate. I just knew. The way a wolf knows its den. Or a hawk knows the shape of the sky. She was mine. Before she ever knew what that meant."

Silence again.

Then Artemis scoffed—a low, clipped sound, more teeth than humor. "You almost sound human." A pause. "Or worse—a pet." Her arms finally unfolded from behind her back, one hand gesturing toward the great beast as if to wave away the sentiment that still lingered in the air.

"Still a cub, and already this bold? You haven't even grown into your second coat."

Lady huffed, but Artemis wasn't finished. Her voice curved sharp now, laced with something cold.

"Bloodbinder Ascendant. That's what they'll call you. A theory. A fluke. A mistake."

The title hit the air like a thrown blade—flashing, ugly. Not an honor. A slur dressed in divine recognition. An old name. A warning.

Lady's eyes narrowed.

Artemis tilted her head slightly, watching her. "Do you even remember what you were supposed to become?" she asked. "Before her?"

Lady's maw curled. "Things change," she said evenly. "Paths turn without asking."

Her voice wasn't defensive. Just... unbothered. Honest in a way that didn't seek approval. Like this wasn't a debate. Just a fact of nature.

But Artemis wasn't done.

"The last time one of your kind bonded," she said, voice quiet now—quieter than the wind—"an entire hunting village vanished."

Her gaze cut sharp, moonlit and merciless.

"Their screams echoed for weeks."

That silenced them both.

No rustle of leaves. No breath of wind. Just the stillness that came when memory opened its mouth and dared them to deny it.

Artemis stood steady, her body carved from poise and stormclouds. And Lady—no longer curled in thought, no longer growling—simply stared.

Not in fear.

But recognition.

And maybe... regret.

Because history did not forget. And neither did Artemis.

Not when the blood still seeped through time like ink.

But just as quickly as the feelings surfaced, it vanished—swept aside by a snort from deep in Lady's chest.

"And that should bother me?" the Askalion said flatly.

Her voice didn't waver. No apology. No hesitation. Only the rasp of something old and animal, unmoved by threats dressed up as prophecy.

"You speak of blood like I should be ashamed of it." Her eyes narrowed now, the dark sharpening. "As if I haven't worn worse on my fur. As if gods haven't caused ten times the ruin just because the weather soured their mood."

Her claws flexed slightly against the stone.

"It's entertaining, really," she continued, voice curling low. "A goddess—you—speaking of devastation like it isn't practically a pastime for your kind. As if your own brother doesn't scorch cities when his heart breaks. As if he hasn't shattered whole bloodlines because someone loved too loudly."

Artemis did not speak. Not yet.

But Lady saw the flicker in her jaw, the stillness that wasn't peace but restraint.

So she pushed.

"You talk about vanished villages and blood-pacts like they're ancient tales. But I wonder..." her ears tilted back slightly, her voice dropping into something colder, tighter. "Is it guilt that brought you to me tonight, Huntress? Or curiosity? Because if you were looking to scold a beast for getting too close to her chosen..."

Her eyes gleamed now, sharp with something near accusation.

"Then perhaps you should speak to the god who brought her to the mountain. Who supposedly poured ambrosia on her tongue and tried to make her forget where her bones were born."

The air around them thinned.

Artemis' face did not change—but the silence behind her gaze turned colder. Not offended. Not angry. Just... measured.

Lady didn't flinch. She knew she was toeing lines that beasts were not meant to cross. Ancient ones. Ones written in divine blood and iron.

But when it came to you—what had been done to you, what was still being done—she didn't care.

Artemis didn't move. She only stood there, hands still clasped behind her back, moonlight carving her face into something too still to read.

Lady braced herself for the strike. For divine heat, a flash of silver, the sharp sound of judgment from a god long known for her temper when disrespected.

But none came.

Instead, Artemis sighed.

Soft. Controlled. Like breath leaving stone. It wasn't tired, not quite. Just... thoughtful.

A pause bloomed between them—quiet, strange. And something settled. Not in her bones—but in the place gods rarely acknowledged.

Because Artemis had heard a thousand oaths. Had watched heroes weep and kings swear themselves blue. But beasts? Beasts didn't pretend.

And if even a creature born of fang and fury would defend this girl without hesitation—

Then perhaps the question wasn't about the girl at all.

Perhaps it was about the gods who kept underestimating her.

Then—

A smile.

Small, but real.

"Animals don't lie," Artemis murmured, gaze never breaking from the Askalion. Her voice was quiet, as if saying it too loud might change the shape of the truth. "And if even one of your kind can speak this fiercely for her..."

She exhaled again, this time with something closer to amusement.

"Then maybe... maybe Apollo was right."

Lady blinked, wary. Her muscles didn't fully relax, but her ears perked slightly, surprised by the sudden shift in air.

Artemis stepped closer—not too close. Just enough for her next gesture to be seen clearly. She bowed her head. Not deeply. But low enough.

To a beast.

"I apologize," she said, calm and sincere. "For my tone. For the prodding. I needed to see for myself. And I did."

Then, quietly—like a secret she didn't care to keep, but wouldn't explain either—she added. "She's returned, by the way. Your human. Back where she belongs."

Lady's breath hitched. Her tail swayed once—just once.

But Artemis was already pulling away.

"Take care of her," the goddess said, already turning toward the trees. "The gods certainly won't."

And then she was gone.

No flash. No storm. Just shadow slipping into silver.

The wind followed in her wake, curling soft at Lady's paws, and the ledge was quiet again.

For a single, suspended moment, Lady didn't breathe.

The wind curled gently around her ears, brushing the fur at her jaw. The moon hung still and heavy above. But none of it mattered.

Not the sky. Not the quiet. Not even Artemis sudden departure.

Because one single thought had taken hold, sharp and impossible:

You were back.

Her ears jerked up.

Her muscles snapped taut.

And then—she moved.

No roar. No howl. Just motion.

A blur of black fur and coiled power, she launched from the stone outcrop with the force of a thunderbolt, claws cracking into bark as she bounded down the forest's side. She tore through shadow and grove, over walls and columns and moon-drenched pathways, faster than any guard could track—if they'd even dared try.

Her limbs burned. Her lungs stretched wide. But none of it registered.

Only one thing mattered.

You.

The moment she reached the palace steps, she skidded—gravel flying beneath her paws. She surged past the startled servants, past the flickering torchlight that lined the corridor, ignoring the shouts and wide eyes in her wake.

She knew where to go.

Knew it like breath, like hunger.

Your scent was faint—draped in wine and silk and the distant cling of something divine—but it was there. And that was enough.

She bolted through the final stretch of hallway, claws echoing sharply against polished stone, until—

Your door.

Closed.

Untouched.

She froze for half a second, then stepped forward and pressed her massive paw flat against the wood.

Scratch.

Whine.

She tried again, more urgent this time, nose pressing hard to the base of the door, breath fogging the edge of the seam.

Scratch, scratch—whine.

No answer. No shuffle. No voice. No returning footsteps.

Just... silence.

Except—no. Not silence.

Because under all of it, past the walls and the stillness and the veil of sleep...

She could hear you.

Your heartbeat.

Soft.

Steady.

Sleeping.

Lady exhaled hard through her snout and let her body slump slightly against the threshold. Her chest rose and fell with a shudder, equal parts relief and something else—something raw.

You were here.

Finally.

She didn't call again.

Instead, she leaned gently against the door, pressing her weight into the wood like it might carry her closer to you.

With a low huff, she curled herself into a ball, thick limbs folding beneath her, tail curling around her haunches. The cool stone floor met her side with a quiet chill, but she didn't mind. Not here. Not now.

Not with you just on the other side.

Your scent was faint but real. Salt, sleep, and something softer beneath it—something hers. The steady thump of your heartbeat, barely a whisper beneath layers of wall and silence, was enough to keep her still.

Her tail thumped once—twice—against the floor. Weak, tired. But content.

She rested her head on her crossed paws, ears flicking once at a whisper of wind that danced through the corridor. Her eyes fluttered shut.

And for the first time since you disappeared, the weight in her chest loosened.

She let it come—sleep, slow and steady.

But just before it took her fully, she thought of you again.

The warmth of your hands. The way your fingers had once dug into the thick fur at her neck when you were scared. The way your laughter smelled like wind and sugar.

She missed that.

She missed you.

Even now—with you returned, tucked safe just beyond the door—she wanted more.

More than this silent reunion. More than the scratch of wood between your heart and hers.

She didn't need gods. Or forests. Or stories.

She just needed you. Warm. Breathing. Smiling. Alive.

In her dreams, her voice returned—not snarls, not growls, but words. Rough and stilted, the way memory sometimes carried them. She didn't know if you would ever hear them. But that didn't matter.

Because she meant them.

"____... Don't go again," the words curled softly into the dark. "Just stay. Just be mine."

And with that, she slept at your door.

Your shadow.

Your beast.

Your guard.

Always.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to ch.62 ┃ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬; ahhh! i'm back lovelies~ didn't mean to dip (i know it's been like a week but it felt so much longer i swear 😭💔😩) but yeah, it's been... ugh... yeah. if you follow me on tumblr, you might have saw a few rants/posts i've made there and pieced together why i've dipped, but if not, plz read the a/n at the bottom... i know i do a shitton of them but i swear it's the best way of communicating, especially seeing as this book is posted across 4 seperate platforms--- but yeah! plz enjoy the chappie first! it was one of my most favs ngl, it was fun writing in the different povs heheheh enough, not gonna spoil, enjpy babes! also! i know i said i'd update the comments but actually never got around to it! i've been swamped with doubles at work, so i've been hella tired, but i'm resting when i can so hey 🤣 )

A/N: okay this is kinda long but not really but here i go.... real talk—i almost didn't update this week. 😭 and ngl, part of that's on me. i've let too much slide in the past, been a little too chill when some comments crossed a line. maybe that gave the impression i'm okay with that kind of stuff... i'm not. so going forward? i'm setting boundaries. just because i didn't clap back earlier doesn't mean it didn't get to me. i'm done pretending it didn't—it does. like i felt so awkward/doubting my upcoming chapters/projects, feeling insecure about the way I plotted things, wondering if maybe some commenters were right about certain stuff. but yeah, if you're wondering where this is coming from—stick around and read the rest of the note. if not? then i honestly don't know what to tell you lol.

anyway, earlier this week i was tussling with a few of y'all in the comments and it's been... exhausting. like—i get it, not everyone's gonna love every decision i make in this story, and that's fine! but GODSDAMN. 😭😭 to literally say i "must not have any good ideas" or call me a bad writer just because i used a cliché trope you didn't like?? like. bitch. chill tf out. i grew up reading enough books—fanfic and regular—to have the maturity to recognize that tropes are tropes for a reason. if you don't like one, that's valid—just keep scrolling! it's not that deep. and honestly? if that already pissed you off, then go ahead and stop reading this and anything i ever post—because i'd hate to see your reaction when the actual messy plot twists hit. 😭 like baby i can't control what my brain cooks up, and i'm damn sure not about to force it to do something else just because someone asked me to. i'm not nickelodeon, this ain't paid programming. this was just the warm-up. but fr, jokes aside, please just remember, if one thing from this entire note: i'm doing this for free. i don't get paid for this, i do this because i want to! and i pour a lot of time, love, and damn energy into as well. so if you don't have something kind or constructive to say... maybe just don't? i used to be open to critique, but some of y'all take an inch and run a whole damn marathon with it, so i don't even want any more of those because y'all starting to get shady when a scene/plot doesn't go as planned 💀i try to remind myself it's because y'all care and are invested—and i love that—but i'm not gonna let disrespect slide. especailly when you can just leave instead of feeling like you just HAVE to say/leave the negative comment. so yes, please continue to read and enjoy!! but if i see something shady or passive-aggressive (even from 100 days ago), just know i WILL be matching the energy. idc anymore. y'all getting the more crass Xani 😂 and yes, i do miss a lot of comments because i get flooded with so many (which i'm super grateful for, btw—some of y'all are hilarious and more than make up for the shitty ones), but just because i don't respond immediately doesn't mean i don't care. just know when i do catch it? expect a reaction. love y'all fr—but it's the kind of big sister love where i'll hug you one second then slam the door in your face for breathing wrong the next 😌💕

P.S. just a heads-up: i do not control how anyone else responds in my defense—whether it's my sister or another reader. so please don't expect me to police their reactions if something you say upsets them. i'm not here to micromanage other people's emotions, especially when they're just defending me/feel that they might have been disrespected. be mindful of the energy you put out, because i can't promise others will respond as passively as i'll (try) to be. and hey—setting boundaries is new to me too. i'm still learning how to navigate this, and yeah, sometimes that means I rant or vent more than i mean to. so thank you to those who've stuck around, encouraged me, and given me grace while i figure it all out. and once again, sorry for the rant! i know y'all ain't here for all of that, so i usually try not to do this but i just had to get this off my chesticles 🫶🏾

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr penguintreblemaker

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winxanity-ii · 6 days ago

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i never really got this whole x reader hate train because like… y’all do know x readers and ocs are basically cousins right? like i’ve read so many oc fics where the character makes just as many cringe decisions as y/n and nobody bats an eye. but the moment it says “you” suddenly everyone’s a literary critic 😭 and honestly? if the writing feels bland or awkward, that’s not a you problem—it’s a writer problem. the format didn’t fail, the craft did. just like with published books, some stories hit and some don’t. blaming the entire style because a few fics weren’t giving is like swearing off novels forever because you read one bad wattpad mafia au in 2013.

like be fr… we’re all in the fanfic trenches together. the rest of the writing world already side-eyes us for writing kissy fics about roman generals or getting railed by anime Pro-Heroes. maybe we don’t need to fight each other in the mud too 😭✌️

hate an x reader fic do not put me in a situation

#xani-rambles #some of y’all ocs are just y/n with a backstory #be so serious rn #poc!reader inserts EXIST babyyy we are out here writing bangers #maybe read something that wasn't written in 2011 by an 11 yr old who only knows the word 'orbs'#stop acting like all x reader is the same when y’all wouldn’t DARE say that about ocs #y’all swear you hate ‘you’ pov then turn around and pretend you’re a traumatized elven barista in a dragon dating fic #‘i don’t relate to y/n’ ok but you out here self-projecting onto an oc named moonlit raven with one eye and a cursed soul??#half of these complaints are just ‘i don’t like when other ppl have fun in ways i don’t personally enjoy’#why did i read 5 comments that said ‘x readers are boring’ then watch y’all describe the most generic oc i’ve ever seen 😭#this discourse reads like a group project fight and nobody did the reading #i know we all got different tastes but be fr for a second #why are we beefing in fanfic community when the published author girlies already looking down on us for writing about Bakugou’s dick #every time fandom beef starts God nerfs my internet for 5 minutes for peace #you can just scroll #you don’t gotta throw a literary tantrum every time you see a second person pronoun #anyways i’m going to sleep but if i wake up and someone fighting over y/n again i’m logging off this app forever #🛌💤📚

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winxanity-ii · 8 days ago

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I don’t mean to push but when will the next chapter come out? I can’t wait to see our bbg telephone commercials again

hey love—thank you for asking 💛 i really appreciate the excitement, and it means a lot that you’re looking forward to the next chapter.

that said, i’ve been feeling really burnt out lately. people have been testing boundaries and pushing in ways that just… take the fun out of it. it’s easy to say “just ignore it” or “they’re only invested,” but when you’re getting hit with passive digs across four platforms because someone didn’t like a choice i made or how a scene was written, it starts to wear you down. and ngl, it’s gotten me a little insecure about even posting at all.

don’t worry though—this doesn’t mean i’m abandoning the story. i’m just taking a break from posting and shifting focus to some other projects for now. i’ll be back, and so will the chaos. thank you again for wondering, truly 🫶🏽

#xani-responds: godly things #yeahhhhh maybe i underestimated this whole fanfic visibility thing #like being perceived is cute until it's NOT 😭#shoulda stayed a silent reader fr #me @ me: why did you write a whole novel and post it publicly???#im on a down day rn #but don’t worry the chaos will return 💅#just taking a break from posting not from plotting #telephones will ring again 📞#im dramatic AND sensitive AND still gonna curse yall out when i come back #fanfic burnout is real yall #be kind to your local chaotic writer pls #thanks for the love tho seriously 🫶🏽

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winxanity-ii · 10 days ago

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just because it’s posted online doesn’t mean i have to accept shitty comments. i’m not running a workshop. this ain’t your beta read. it’s a self-published fanfic that i made—for free—and y’all got way too comfortable thinking that entitles you to tear it down under the guise of “critique.”

and then when i clap back, suddenly i’m sensitive? i need to grow thicker skin? nah. maybe you need to learn boundaries. some writers love feedback. some don’t. some will ignore you. and some (hi, it’s me) will reply. so if your comment wasn’t kind, helpful, or even just respectful, don’t be shocked if you get cussed out. i’ll match the energy every time, idc if it’s its over a !reader fic—it’s something i spent hours on. this is MY space. respect it or leave. simple.

and to my fellow writers: start cussing them out. idc. it’s 2025. stop letting people punk you in your own comments just because “it’s public.” okay? so is your clapback. you’re allowed to defend your work. it doesn’t make you egotistical. it makes you someone with self-respect.

the anonymity the internet gives people has them twisted. they forget there’s a human being behind the writing they just tried to drag. remind them. match energy. set boundaries. lock the door and blast music like the chaotic literary god you are. i support you, every damn time.

#xani-rants #plz I’m over it #see I’m about to start back cussing y’all out #tf wrong with y’all #like I’m not even kidding anymore #writing #a03 fanfic #wattpad #quotev #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity

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winxanity-ii · 14 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 62 Chapter 62 | where the light fades⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The next moments dissolved into light—a shimmering blur of gold and warmth, like a breath held too long before bursting free. You didn't feel your feet move, didn't feel the air change, but you felt the pull. Like being yanked softly through the seam of a dream.

Colors bled together—gold into pink, a whisper of silver licking at your edges—then—

Coolness.

The ground rose to meet your bare feet, sudden and unyielding. No moss. No stone. No garden humming with peacock cries. Just the raw, unadorned now of the mortal world.

You staggered once, breath catching, and felt a hand steady yours—still wrapped in it. Apollo. His fingers were still curled around yours like the space between realms hadn't made him let go.

And when you looked around—

Stars.

Not Olympus stars—those painted kind, arranged for beauty. No, real ones. Sharp, blinking dots scattered across the night sky, some faint, some flickering. The air smelled different here. Cooler. Salt-touched. Real.

Your gaze dragged slowly over your surroundings, and the breath caught behind your ribs again.

You were home.

Not inside—but standing in Ithaca's courtyard, the one just beyond the pillars of the palace. The stones were still cracked from age and salt. The cypress trees loomed tall on the edge of the grove, dark silhouettes against the stars. The garden gate still leaned slightly off its hinge, ivy spilling through the cracks in the wall.

You finally blinked as a breeze brushed past your ankles.

For a second, you didn't say anything, you just existed: lungs tight, fingers still tangled with his, staring at the real night—not gold-drenched or honey-thick, but dark and unadorned.

Apollo still didn't let go of your hand. Not yet.

He hummed softly beside you, gaze sweeping over the courtyard like he was seeing it for the first time—or remembering something he'd rather forget. His voice came low, almost too smooth. But there was something caught under it. Not quite resentment. But not joy either.

"Here you are, my muse..." he murmured. "...Ithaca."

The way he said it—like the name tasted wrong in his mouth. Like it didn't belong to you anymore. Or worse, like it did.

You turned to look up at him.

His face caught the starlight—shadowed and golden in the dark, no divine glow left on his skin now. Just him. Just Apollo. Standing barefoot on mortal stone with your fingers still in his.

"Thank you," you said softly.

His eyes flicked to yours, and for a second, something in them softened—melted, almost. The sun-king faded, and all that was left was a boy who liked your voice too much.

"No need for thanks," he said, and this time his voice held none of that earlier bite.

His free hand rose, slow and deliberate, brushing your cheek before cupping the side of your face. His thumb grazed the line of your jaw as he tilted your head slightly, like he couldn't help himself. Like he needed the weight of your gaze one last time.

"I liked having you there with me in Olympus," he said quietly. "More than I thought I would." He smiled, just barely. "And next time... when we see each other again..." his thumb brushed the apple of your cheek, his gaze not quite meeting yours now, "you'll have your answer."

You knew what he meant.

The choice he gave you earlier. The promise. The decision about forever.

And gods—it was already reaching for you.

Before you could say anything—before your foggy mind could string together a thought or make up another excuse—Apollo leaned down.

It was quick.

Just a brush of his lips against yours—soft, chaste, barely pressure at all. But it knocked the air from your lungs like a hand pressed to your chest. Your breath caught, and by the time you even thought to respond—

He was gone.

Gone like light retreating behind clouds. Gone like a sunbeam swallowed whole.

And when you opened your eyes... it was just you, standing alone in Ithaca's courtyard, mouth still warm from the kiss, hand still lifted as if he might take it again.

You blinked—Once. Twice.

The stars above blinked back—bright and distant and far too mortal. And then, without warning, a soft breeze swept through the trees. It curled around your ankles, brushed up your legs, kissed the back of your neck. And suddenly, you shivered.

Because the warmth? It had gone with him.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, tugging what little fabric you had tighter around your frame. The silk clung light and useless to your skin, more decoration than clothing—spun for Olympus, not for cool Ithacan wind.

Bare feet on stone. Bare shoulders kissed by cold. A dress made of light and nothing.

You hadn't realized until now just how little you had on, just how far you were from the sun.

With a sigh, you turned toward your room.

The stone beneath your feet felt colder now. More real. More grounded than any marble path in Olympus. And your body—still draped in silk spun too thin for the mortal world—moved without thinking. You didn't need to remember the way. Your feet knew. They carried you down familiar halls, through the quiet corridors where oil lamps flickered low against the dusk.

And yet... something felt different.

Not wrong. Just... off. As if the space itself had shifted ever so slightly while you were gone.

You turned a corner and up ahead, a servant girl passed by, balancing a tray of goblets between careful hands. You knew her—recognized the slope of her shoulders, the quiet way she walked. She often brings wine during dinners.

You almost called out, but something stopped you.

Maybe it was the way her hair looked longer now, darker near the ends. Or the way her profile seemed just a little sharper when the torchlight hit it. She didn't glance your way, just moved down the corridor, turning toward the dining hall with the same measured grace she always had.

Before her, from far off—too far to touch—you heard it. Music. Laughter. The scrape of plates and the murmur of voices.

Dinner.

Of course, it must've been around that time.

You blinked slowly, mind still hazy, still buzzing faintly from Olympus and ambrosia and the press of a god's lips on yours. You stared after the girl a moment longer—then shook your head. Probably nothing. Just the wine. Just the dream.

Just the sun not quite letting go.

Eventually, you reached the royal wing. The halls quieted the deeper you went, marble floors soft beneath your steps, torches flickering low in their sconces. You rounded the final corner—and saw him.

A single guard, standing stiffly at the edge of the hallway, spear upright, gaze fixed straight ahead. He didn't move. Didn't breathe. You barely noticed him.

Didn't catch the way his jaw tightened when he saw you.

Didn't see how his fingers twitched faintly around the haft of his spear, like he'd seen something he didn't know how to name.

You just walked.

Past the heavy doors that creaked open at your touch. Past the threshold he didn't dare cross. He opened his mouth—maybe to speak, maybe to stop you—but by the time he found the words, you were already gone.

And then—finally—you were there.

Your room.

The moment the door shut behind you, something in your chest sagged. Your shoulders slumped as the silence wrapped around you like something familiar and kind. You didn't even bother lighting the lamps, just let the shadows settle over everything, soft and dim.

Gods—you could've cried.

Not from fear. Not even from sadness.

Just... relief.

Because you hadn't realized how tired you really were. How much weight your body had been carrying since Olympus. Since the garden. Since his kiss.

You moved on muscle memory, sluggish and slow—fingers untying knots without thought, feet dragging across stone as you stripped off the silk-thin layers that still clung to your skin like a memory. You left them where they fell—across the floor, over the edge of the bed—forgotten like smoke after fire.

Then you collapsed face-first into the sheets, limbs heavy, spine bowed. You didn't even pull the covers up, just let the cool air wash over your bare skin and the linen cradle you like a final offering.

And for the first time since returning—you exhaled.

Before you could sink into the peace, a dull ache pulsed at the top of your scalp—sharp and annoying. The headpiece. The one Hephaestus had presented like a gift and Apollo had fastened like a claim. You hadn't even realized it was still there, dug in at an angle that made your temples throb.

Eyes still shut, you fumbled upward, fingers tangling in your hair as you searched for the fastenings. You found them—eventually—but not before a few strands caught in the filigree.

You hissed a curse under your breath as the crown finally came free, taking with it a few strands of hair. The weight lifted—but not without damage. You tossed it beside you on the bed with a graceless thud, the gold catching a faint sliver of moonlight from the window.

And then you flopped flat on your back, arms sprawled wide, face tilted toward the dark ceiling.

For a moment, you just lay there breathing—letting the quiet creep in through your bones, letting the room remember you.

You blinked once. Twice. And then your chest gave a small ache.

Lady.

Somewhere in the haze of Olympus and goblets and gardens, you'd forgotten her. Not really—but distantly. Like remembering a part of yourself you'd left behind.

Where was she?

Your brows furrowed.

Dionysus. He said he returned her, that she'd been dropped off in Ithaca long before the feast ever began.

So why wasn't she waiting at your door?

You shifted slightly, eyes flicking toward the empty space near your feet. Nothing. No soft huff. No warm fur brushing your legs.

The ache grew tighter.

Maybe she was with the Queen. That would make sense. Dinner was probably still going—judging by the distant music you'd heard earlier. Maybe the queen wanted her nearby. Maybe she was curled in her eating to her stomachs content. Maybe—

You yawned, loud and long. The kind that started in your jaw and pulled through your entire chest.

Gods.

You couldn't think anymore.

Not about Lady. Not about Olympus. Not about the taste of ambrosia still ghosting across your tongue.

With another sigh—this one longer, heavier—you rolled onto your side.

The sheets shifted beneath you, cool and silk-soft, but it wasn't enough. You curled inward, tucking your knees toward your chest, reaching blindly for the nearest pillow. Your arms wrapped around it with slow, clumsy insistence. You pulled it tight, letting your cheek rest against the edge, hugging it like it could anchor you.

It didn't take long.

The exhaustion seeped in deep, thick as wine. You felt it settle behind your eyes, drape itself around your limbs. The edges of the room blurred, your breath slowed, and your thoughts... began to fray.

You were drifting, slipping under, but not all the way.

Not yet.

Because just before sleep could pull you under completely, your mind wandered—like it always did. Back to Olympus. Back to the garden. The feast. The music that didn't stop. The gods who didn't blink. The nymphs with smiles too pretty to be real. The way wine tasted like starlight and silk. The way everything shimmered.

It had been beautiful.

Gods, it had.

But it was also... lonely.

So painfully so.

Because no matter how many times they called you muse, touched your hands like offerings, crowned you like something sacred—you didn't belong there.

Not really.

Not when everything still whispered that you were no ordinary mortal, but never quite a god either. Just something in between. Wanted. Watched. Touched.

But never home.

Your arms tightened around the pillow, and this time, you didn't sigh. You just let the ache settle.

And before you could stop yourself—before reason could catch up to your wine-drenched thoughts—you whispered his name.

"...Telemachus."

Barely sound, barely breath, but it slipped out, soft and aching, like a wish you didn't mean to say aloud.

You could see him then. In that place between waking and sleep. His hand brushing back your hair—like Apollo had done, yes—but slower. Softer. Not because he wanted something. Not because you glowed. Just because you were there. Just because it was you.

You pictured the weight of his arms wrapped around you. The steady warmth of his lap beneath your thighs. The quiet press of food offered in his hand—no gold, no ribbons, no thrones. Just something simple. Something real.

A kiss, maybe. In your mind, it was shy. Familiar. Not the burning of godfire. Not worship.

Just lips meeting yours like a promise made quietly beneath stars.

It wasn't grand.

It wasn't divine.

But it was yours.

And so—wrapped in silks that didn't feel like yours, drunk on ambrosia you didn't ask for—you curled tighter into yourself. Hugging that pillow like it might turn into something steadier. Something warmer. Something that smelled like salt air and old wood and home.

And that's how you fell asleep.

Curled in a ball, reaching for a hand that wasn't there.

☆

Sunlight.

Warm. Soft. Heavy like honey over skin.

It poured across your shoulders in thick golden threads, too warm to be real, too still to belong to dawn. Your eyes fluttered open with a squint, lashes sticking slightly as the light met them. You inhaled sharply on instinct—air sweet with flowers.

You were lying in a field. A wide, endless one.

Wildflowers brushed against your arms as you shifted, petals tickling your collarbone. The grass was long and gold-dusted, moving gently even without wind. Above you, the sky stretched wide and endless, no sun in sight—but everything glowed a dream-glow. Soft. Saturated. Unreal.

You blinked hard, heart knocking once behind your ribs. Your first thought—ridiculous and immediate—was that some god had come and taken you again. Scooped you up while you slept and dropped you somewhere soft for round two.

But then you looked down.

A simple chiton draped your body—soft linen, unadorned. No gilded trim, no jeweled pins, none of the ornate embroidery that screamed of Olympus. Just plain white fabric, loose and familiar. The kind you'd worn as a girl fetching water at dawn or gathering figs in the marketplace.

You sat up slowly, pushing yourself upright with arms that still felt heavy, hazy. Fragmented memories surfaced—your fingers fumbling, untying knots, shedding silk before sleep took you completely. That fleeting, desperate need to feel like yourself again, if only for a night.

So this? This had to be a dream.

It had to be.

For a moment, you thought about getting up and walking through this impossibly vivid landscape to understand why your mind had conjured something so vivid—why everything felt more like memory than dream. But before you could move—before your bare feet even brushed the grass—you heard it.

Laughter.

Warm. Effortless. Familiar.

Apollo.

You froze. Your head jerked to the side, eyes wide, scanning the open field. Your pulse picked up—not in fear, exactly, but something close. You twisted again, shoulders tensing as you tried to find the source of the sound.

There.

Faint, beyond the swaying flowers—his voice dancing on the breeze like sunlight given sound.

You pushed yourself to your feet, a sharp flicker of annoyance blooming deep in your chest. Small. Petty. Human.

Couldn't you get a single moment alone? Even in your own dreams? Must the gods haunt every corner of your mind, whispering, clinging, laughing?

Still—you walked.

You told yourself it was just curiosity. That you only wanted to see if your sleeping mind hadconjured him correctly—if his smile would crinkle the same way at the edges. But your feet moved faster than your lies could form.

The meadow stretched endlessly, grass whispering against your ankles, petals catching like silk ribbons. Only his voice guided you—that bright, mocking pull—and it felt like you were walking forever.

Until, finally, it came into view, a single tree.

An ancient, impossible thing it was. It towered over the field like it had grown from a god's ribcage, its trunk wide, bark gleaming faintly like molten bronze. The branches stretched wide, thick with leaves that rustled despite the windless air. Beneath it, golden light shimmered like spilled nectar.

And there—

Apollo. Waiting.

Gods, how it burned in your chest—that anger, thick and choking. Wasn't it enough? Hadn't he had his fill of you already? The feast. The songs. The wine. The kiss.

You didn't even want to think about the kiss right now, because your brain still hadn't decided how to feel about it—whether to be angry, or flattered, or maybe a little disgusted by how much you almost liked it. How your mouth had followed before your mind could say no. How you hadn't pulled away until you tasted the wrong name rising in your throat.

And now—now he invaded your dreams? Not as some half-formed memory or shadow, but fully realized—laughing, radiant, lounging beneath that impossible tree like he owned the very air you breathed.

Your steps grew heavier as you marched through the flowers, fists clenched tight enough to leave crescent moons in your palms. The golden light ahead seemed to pulse mockingly with each thud of your heartbeat.

The tree loomed larger with every step, its gnarled roots like the sprawled limbs of some slumbering titan. Beautiful. Awe-inspiring. And currently the focal point of all your mounting irritation.

"And the audacity of me having to walk in my own dream," you muttered to the uncaring flowers. "No divine chariots for mortals. Just blisters and frustration."

Eventually, you reached the tree. You didn't hesitate as you breached the circle of dappled light—though your breath did. That sharp inhale before the storm. And then you spoke. Because gods, if you didn't say something now, you'd choke on it.

"I swear to every constellation above, if you brought me here to watch me sleep like some twisted theater—" Your voice sliced through the dream's stillness. "Why are you even here? What possible reason could you have spurred you to do this?" You gestured to the dream. The field. The gold-stained sky. "This—this dreamwalk, or illusion, or whatever it is—what do you want from it? From me?"

You kicked aside a creeping root. "Was Olympus not enough? The gardens? The music? The gods? That whole crown-and-chalice spectacle?" The words tumbled faster now, less polished, more raw. "Did you really need to violate my sleep too, just to get another answer I never promised to give?"

Your pulse roared in your ears. The accusation hovered between you like drawn steel.

"Because if this is about that kiss—"

The words died in your throat abruptly.

Not because you lost your nerve. Not exactly.

But because Apollo—he didn't react. Didn't blink. Didn't even turn toward you.

The realization struck like iced water—he couldn't hear you.

And that alone should've brought a smidge of relief, that your disrespectful outburst wasn't heard, but then you saw it.

Not just Apollo—though he sat there in perfect repose, lounging against the gnarled trunk like sunlight given form. His legs stretched through the grass, that damned golden wreath glinting in his curls, one hand draped carelessly over his stomach as if he'd been lounging there for hours.

No, it was the boy beside him who stole the air from your lungs.

Curled against Apollo's side as naturally as breathing. An arm tucked beneath the god's, another resting possessively across his chest, his head nestled in the hollow of the sun god's shoulder like it was the only home he'd ever known.

And gods—

He was beautiful.

Not in Apollo's impossible, god-forged way. Not radiant or gilded or meant for temples. But painfully, devastatingly real.

His skin held the deep, honeyed warmth of sun-baked earth. Dark curls tumbled rebelliously across his forehead, soft as summer rain. And that smile—that bright, unguarded smile—held enough joy to level cities, full of something devastating.

When he laughed at some whispered secret, the sound punched through you. Not because it hurt, but because it glowed. Because his eyes—deep, gleaming brown—crinkled at the corners with pure, adoring warmth as he gazed up at the god beside him.

And Apollo? He looked at him like a man discovering water after decades in the desert. A soft, private smile playing at his lips as he tilted his head toward those dark curls. His fingers tracing idle patterns along the boy's forearm with the ease of infinite repetition. This wasn't performance. This was memory etched in flesh.

And gods, you didn't know how—but you knew who he was.

Hyacinthus.

You couldn't believe it. His name had never crossed your lips, likeness never been painted in your mind before now. But somehow... with bone-deep certainty, you knew that was him.

Apollo's heart made mortal.

The reason for your change in fate.

The boy who death broke a god's heart so beautifully, the world rewrote itself to give him back a piece of what was lost.

The ghost between every look Apollo gave you.

And here he was—vibrant, alive, laughing like tragedy had never touched him.

You edged closer, each step measured as if testing thin ice—like if you got too close, the vision might dissolve, or worse, notice you. But they didn't. Neither of them so much as twitched. Apollo remained sprawled against the tree, sunlight caught in his lashes, that familiar smirk resting easy on his lips. Hyacinthus shifted closer, legs draping across the god's lap with the casual ownership of someone who'd done it a thousand times before. Like he belonged there.

Maybe he did.

You weren't sure if they could see you—or if they just didn't care to look. They were lost in their own world, their own words.

Hyacinthus groaned dramatically, flopping backward with an arm over his eyes. "Ugh. I'm going to die of boredom before I ever die in battle. All I do is follow Father around all day, listening to old men argue about land and trade and what shade of red the army cloaks should be this season. A warrior shouldn't waste his youth listening to elders argue about fabric!"

Apollo's chuckle was honey-warm. "How tragic," he murmured, fingers toying with a dark curl. "A prince drowning in silks while begging for swords. The poets will weep. How ever do you bear it?"

"You're insufferable." Hyacinthus peeked from beneath his arm, eyes gleaming. "Try ruling a kingdom someday."

"Darling, I rule the sun." Apollo caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to the pulse point. "But do go on about your embroidery troubles."

Hyacinthus playfully yanked his arm back, shooting him a look. "You're mocking me."

"Never," Apollo gasped—completely unconvincing. "I'm empathizing. Must be so hard having everyone listen to your pretty mouth every time you open it."

The Spartan prince scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You don't get it."

"Oh, I do," Apollo hummed. "The plight of princehood—endless banquets, fancy shoes, responsibility."

With an indignant sound, Hyacinthus flopped sideways until he was half-sprawled across Apollo's chest. "You're the worst god ever created."

Apollo's answering smile could have lit cities.

Then—so tender it ached—he cradled Hyacinthus' face, thumb brushing the apple of his cheek even as his other hand found the prince's ribs, gently jabbing into the boy's side.

"Come now, love," Apollo teased. "If it's so awful, I'll make it better. Let me ease your suffering," he purred, fingers dancing mercilessly.

Hyacinthus shrieked, twisting away with breathless giggles as he swatted weakly at Apollo's hand. "Traitor! Divine—ah!—tyrant! Stop—stop! That tickles!"

Apollo's smile deepened as Hyacinthus buried his face against his shoulder, laughter vibrating through them both. His hand traced slow, soothing lines up the prince's spine—an anchor in their private storm.

And you?

You just stood there frozen—watching the god who had kissed you like a vow cradle another man as if he were the only prayer worth answering.

Hyacinthus finally caught his breath, rolling onto the grass with mussed curls and laughter-flushed cheeks. "Fine, fine," he conceded, grinning up at the gilded leaves. "I'll spare you my princely grievances."

Apollo turned to him, sunlight gliding over his pleased expression. "Good," he murmured. "I don't get to steal you away nearly as often as I want—and I'd rather our time be spent on us than on some snot-nosed court filled with land maps and boring fathers."

Hyacinthus gasped in mock outrage. "Are you insulting my kingdom? Are you insulting Sparta?"

"Am I wrong?"

"You're impossible."

"I'm a god."

Hyacinthus scoffed. "Same thing."

Then—

A blur of motion.

One heartbeat they were side by side; the next, Apollo had flipped them, golden robes swirling as he pinned Hyacinthus beneath him. Their chests pressed together, breaths mingling, golden curls brushing against dark, entangled like fate’s own threads. Apollo nudged the prince's nose with his own, voice dropping to a molten whisper.

"Oh yeah? Then please, future-king—tell me what you will you do to me if I don't?"

Hyacinthus didn't miss a beat. He lifted his head just enough to brush Apollo's lips with his own. "I suppose," he murmured, all warm defiance, "you'll be the first god to kneel and suffer the wrath of a mortal's judgment."

Apollo's laughter rang bright as temple bells—

Then softened into something sacred as he closed the distance. Their lips met in a way that made the dreamscape feel too quiet, too still.

The kiss unfolded like dawn: slow, inevitable, radiant. Not taking, not claiming—just being. A communion of breaths where the world itself seemed to hold still.

When they parted, there was no teasing. Just breath shared in the space between them and a look so full of quiet adoration it made your chest ache. Apollo cradled Hyacinthus’ face, thumb tracing his cheekbone as if he could memorize it, hold it, and keep it for eternity.

And Hyacinthus—

Hyacinthus gazed up at him like he already had.

Finally—the prince spoke. His voice was quiet, a little breathless, lips still brusied from the kiss. "Do... Do you love me?"

"Yes."

"More than any other mortal you've ever loved before?"

A pause—not long, not hesitant. Just enough for Apollo to drop his gaze for a beat, like he was pulling the truth from somewhere deep in his chest, weighing lifetimes. Then—his eyes met the prince's again.

"Yes."

Hyacinthus' smile could have outshone the sun. It wasn't sly or seductive—it was joy, pure and boyish, a cracking open something in your ribs you didn’t know could bleed. "Good," he breathed. "I'd be jealous otherwise."

Hyacinthus didn't wait for a response—he dragged Apollo down with a laugh, pressing kiss after playful kiss across the god’s face.

And before Apollo could say another word, Hyacinthus reached up and wrapped his arms around the god's neck—tugging him down with a laugh, kissing him again. And again. And again. Not with passion, but with pure, unbridled joy—lips brushing his cheeks, his jaw, the bridge of his nose, each touch a sunbeam given form. Apollo's laughter rang out, bright and unguarded, the sound of a god unshackled.

Then—the sky ripped.

Not with storm or fury, but with color—a thin shaft of light arcing down from the heavens in a line so bright it burned into the edges of your vision. A single streak, like someone had plucked a thread from the rainbow and stitched it directly into the field.

It landed silently in the grass, a shimmer of light and mist forming where the end touched down. Then—from within it—she stepped out.

Small. Only just taller than a cypress sapling.

Her skin was the color of warm clay, like sunlight baked into earth. Her hair—if you could even call it that—floated like mist, fluffy and white, like a cloud had settled on her head and decided to stay. Her dress was plain and white, sleeveless, simple as a prayer. But her eyes—gods, her eyes—each iris shimmered a different hue, like she was looking at the world through prisms.

Iris. The messenger of Olympus. The rainbow that ran.

Apollo stiffened the moment he saw her. In one fluid motion, he sat upright, his legs folding beneath him as he repositioned himself between Hyacinthus and the light. His relaxed posture sharpened into something defensive—shoulders squared, muscles coiled—every inch the protector despite remaining seated. The golden ease of moments ago had hardened into something dangerous.

"Iris." His voice was winter frost.

The rainbow goddess didn't flinch. She glided forward, her footsteps leaving faint chromatic smudges on the grass. She stopped a few paces away, hands clasped neatly before her. "Forgive the intrusion," she said, her voice echoing as if spoken through falling water. "But Olympus calls. Your presence is needed. Immediately."

Apollo's jaw tensed. "My duties are fulfilled. The sun rides its course. The Oracle sleeps. The muses have their songs." His fingers curled into the grass, blades withering to gold where they touched. "I'd appreciate not being summoned like a wayward child the moment I step away." His voice wasn't loud, but it struck like a whip.

Behind him, Hyacinthus sat up slowly, his hand coming to rest at the small of Apollo's back—a silent plea for restraint.

Iris remained impassive, though you could see the unnease growing in her. "This comes from Zeus' own lips."

Apollo didn't blink.

"I. Don't. Care."

The words hung in the air like struck bronze—vibrating, damning. Even Iris's rainbow aura dimmed as if recoiling from their weight.

Apollo rose slowly—not with a god's grace, but with the deliberate menace of a predator disturbed. When he spoke again, his voice scraped like waves on jagged rocks.

"Zeus tolerates no happiness but his own. He's the only one allowed to skirt off responsibility, to disappear when it suits him, to chase whatever or whoever he wants without consequence. But the rest of us? We're summoned. Commanded. Dragged back into his messes the moment we find a scrap of peace." Each syllable cracked with centuries of smoldering resentment. "His hypocrisy stinks worse than Ares' sandals."

A new voice sliced through the tension—bright as a blade:

"Careful, brother. That almost sounded like poetry."

Hermes materialized beside Iris, lounging midair as if on an invisible chaise. A pomegranate rested in his palm, its juice bleeding over his fingers as he spat seeds into a floating jar that chimed like distant temple bells.

"Look, I get it, you're upset. But don't shoot the messengers," he said through a mouthful of fruit. "You're not the only one being called in, the whole pantheon's being summoned. And trust me, none of them are thrilled about it. Even grumpy Hephaestus had to put down his hammer." He gestured with the dripping pomegranate. "Zeus and Hera are at war again. Something about 'Mother'—you know how they get."

Apollo's glare could have charred ambrosia. "And you're just fine with that? Being their errand boy?"

Hermes shrugged, the motion making him bob slightly in the air. "Better than being their scapegoat. Plus, I prefer the term 'opportunistic neutral party.'" He flicked a seed at Apollo's chest—it turned to gold dust before impact. "Defiance tastes sweet, but consequences? Those stick in your teeth."

He floated closer, his tone turning more serious. "Besides, I'm not saying it's fair. But we don't get to pick our battles. Not with them."

Apollo scoffed at Hermes, eyes flicking to the pomegranate. "What are you even doing?"

Hermes bit into another seed with a smirk. "Collecting pay," he said breezily. "That's it."

Before Apollo could ask another question, Hermes gave Iris a quick wink and tipped his head. "Mind giving me a lift back to Olympus? My poor feet—and wings—are simply exhausted," he sighed, dramatically flopping from midair to the ground.

Iris rolled her eyes, smacking her lips in exasperation. "Fine," she muttered, holding out her hand like it was a chore.

Hermes giggled, wiggling his brows as he clasped it. "Such a lady."

Then, with a half-salute to Hyacinthus in farewell, and a trail of citrus-sweet wind, the two vanished—gone in a blink of prismatic light.

Apollo exhaled—a slow, measured release of breath that did nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders. You could see the war in him: godhood's chains versus this stolen moment of tenderness. The desperate need to stay. To pretend, just a while longer, that he was only a man in love.

But Olympus tolerated no such fantasies; it never asked—it demanded.

When he finally turned to Hyacinthus, his hands were trembling.

The sharpness in his face melted away—not completely, but enough. Enough that he looked less like a god and more like something human, something tired. His hand reached out without thinking, brushing a dark curl from Hyacinthus' brow, fingers lingering like a man memorizing scripture.

"Wait for me." Not a request. A vow carved in sunlight.

Hyacinthus leaned into the touch, lips quirking into a smile so easy it hurt to look at. "Always," he murmured, shifting to press their foreheads together. "But you better not take too long."

Apollo's breath huffed warm between them—almost a laugh. "Why, bored already?"

"Desperately." Hyacinthus collapsed backward into the grass with theatrical flair. "You still owe me a rematch. We haven't finished our last game, and you'd let me win next time."

"That," Apollo said, grin flashing, "was a lie. But I'll teach you to throw discs properly."

"You'd better." The prince's eyes shone with challenge.

Apollo bent, lips grazing Hyacinthus' forehead—a kiss that lingered three heartbeats too long. His thumb traced the arch of a cheekbone one final time before he stood. The air behind him shimmered, colors bleeding like watercolor—rose and amethyst, the last gold of drowning daylight.

He never looked away. Not even as the light swallowed him whole.

"I'll return."

"You'd better," Hyacinthus whispered to the empty air.

Then—silence.

The meadow held its breath. The wind stilled. Even the leaves ceased their whispering.

Hyacinthus didn't move.

He sat there beneath the tree, arms draped over his knees, face upturned to where Apollo had vanished. Sunlight dappled his skin through the leaves, as if the world itself sought to comfort him and keep him warm.

Long moments passed before he spoke again, so softly the words might have been mistaken for rustling grass:

"I'll be waiting."

For a moment, you couldn't breathe.

Couldn't look away from him—Hyacinthus, bathed in honeyed light, fingers twitching against the grass as if missing their anchor. His gaze remained fixed on empty air, but you saw what clung to his expression—something you hadn't seen on Apollo in a long time. Not wonder. Not grief.

Just love.

Real, quiet, uncomplicated, undemanding, enduring love.

Your throat tightened.

You knew he couldn't see you. Knew this wasn't your memory, your moment, your right to witness. And yet—

You stepped forward anyway.

"Hyacinthus."

Just his name. Just a whisper.

But he heard it.

Gods—he heard it.

His head whipped toward you—sudden as a plucked lyre string. Those bright eyes locked onto yours with startling clarity; he looked right at you—right through you—with a kind of recognition that made your knees go soft.

You opened your mouth, stunned, not sure what to say—how to ask, how to even breathe—but it didn't matter, the dream shuddered.

Light pulsed.

The world dissolved like mist beneath morning sun.

And then—like a string snapped in your chest—everything went still.

The tree, the field, the gold-dusted sky.

Gone.

You didn't fall.

You faded.

A/N: i swear, i think i enjoyed writing hycanithus and apollo more than i thought 😩😩 i swear, i even have a lil oneshot featuring a Hyapollo x reader oneshot somewhere in my google notes, hahaha but yessss! we back home babes!!!!! now... i been peeping the comments and see that you all are ready to get back to bby tele, but all imma say is, i gotta wrap up a few lose ends---THATS ALL DONT ASK IM NOT GONNA SAY 😩😭😭😭😭😭😭 okok see yall next update, hope thius double update satisfied hahaha ❤️❤️ might take the next day or two finally getting around to editing the comments i've made for the fanarts back on ch.60---AGAIN thank yall for being so understaning!! and though my notes./comments arent there---BEST BELIEVE I ATE EVERY SINGLE FANART UPPPPP---and if yall so happen to see a t-shirt one of these days with them on there, just know thats me😭😭

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️ (email: [email protected] | tumblr: winaxity-ii) also because wattpad/tumblr is being a meanie, i can't show 18+ drawings on here, even if edited 😭😭 but don't worry i shall still sing my praises! but good news! i have them available on archiveofourown (ao3) and have my account/books to where guests can see so you guys don't have to make an account ❤️❤️ also, if you haven't seen my last update/PSA i'm no longer doing personalized notes under each art i receive the way i used to do them, i'll now post them with credits, and when given the chance come back and post my thanks/what i love about them! this way, i can share my babies and also still keep grinding/writing, thx for being understanding lovelies ❤️❤️❤️

from simp_0207

[BABY MC]

[TELEMACHUS (REDESIGN)]

[TELEMACHUS (REDESIGN) PRT.2]

from sarligo

[MC DESIGN]

from wishesonstars39781

[TELEMACHUS AND MC___CH.39]

[TELEMACHUS DOODLES PRT.4]

[TELEMACHUS DOODLES PRT.5]

from fvckcare

[SIREN!MC]

[MC ON KLIN]

from livjlaufeyson

[(LEFT TO RIGHT) MC, TELEMACHUS, HERMES, APOLLO]

from weezer

[MC WAKING IN OLYMPUS___CH.55]

from nevaiee

[MC AND TELEMACHUS]

from alina

[MC AND HERMES]

from riftstar

[MC WAKING IN OLYMPUS___CH.55]

from a3n0r

[DIONYSUS AND MC]

from imdiobrandobitc

[APHRODITE DOODLES]

76 notes · View notes

winxanity-ii · 14 days ago

Text

𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐗

╰ ⌞🇬‌🇴‌🇩‌🇱‌🇾‌ 🇹‌🇭‌🇮‌🇳‌🇬‌🇸‌: 🇲‌🇦‌🇮‌🇳‌ 🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒—❝...the line between chaos and calamity is thinner than you think.❞

..... ... ..... ━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━ ..... ... .....

✦ What are Divine Whispers?

Hey, winxies! Just a heads-up—𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒 is a little in-book one-shot series I've been sprinkling between chapters. Since I rewrite/edit my books a lot to make them more digestible (my daydreams shift perspectives like a damn film reel), some scenes end up getting pulled because I don't want to mess up the pacing or overwhelm y'all mid-plot.

BUT—since you've told me you actually like the "unnecessary" bits 😩❤️ I've decided to post them here.

These chapters are usually:

outside the MC’s POV

told through the eyes of gods, advisors, enemies, lovers, or ghosts

tonally heavier, weirder, more symbolic, or just meant to give deeper context to a moment already passed

So yeah. Think of this space as the whispers between the lines—what the gods mutter when they think no one's listening. Plus, I ran out of room in my original index, lolololol

..... ... ..... ━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━ ..... ... .....

Parts:

10.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐝𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐬 - 2.0k wc

12.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐓𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 - 2.7k wc

17.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐦 - 4.0k wc

20.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝 - 3.7k wc

25.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐆𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 - 2.6k wc

34.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐞 - 3.7k wc

35.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 - 2.9k wc

36.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 - 2.7k wc

42.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐖𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐖��𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 - 10.4k wc

43.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐤𝐞 - 4.7k wc

45.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐍𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐇𝐮𝐫𝐭 - 3.6k wc

48.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬, 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐬 - 6.7k wc

54.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 - 4.5k wc

60.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬 - 3.8k wc

61.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐏𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭 - 1.6k wc

62.5 ┃ 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒: 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭'𝐬 𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥 - 5.6k wc

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winxanity-ii · 14 days ago

Text

⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: ONE ALTAR PER REGRET DIVINE WHISPERS: One Altar Per Regret | divine whispers: one altar per regret⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽 ❘ 🇩‌🇮‌🇻‌🇮‌🇳‌🇪‌ 🇼‌🇭‌🇮‌🇸‌🇵‌🇪‌🇷‌🇸‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The feast glittered.

Gold-tiered towers of honeyed fruit spiraled high above lacquered tables. Harpists lined the far wall, their music too slow, too pretty—like they were being paid to sound like background noise. Fountains carved from veined crystal whispered prophecies into overflowing goblets, but no one listened. No one dared.

The room buzzed with energy—nymphs laughing as they trailed clouds of perfume across polished marble floors, while demigods passed scrolls to one another with shaking hands. In the corners, minor deities debated ethics over cups of ambrosia, their morals conveniently forgotten by the second serving.

It was decadent, chaotic, blinding in its extravagance—and yet somehow, beneath all the shimmer and noise, it felt utterly... empty.

Because you and Apollo were gone.

Hermes noticed the moment it happened. His gaze swept once across the room, then again—sharper this time. The space where Apollo lounged was empty—no sun god holding court, no muse beside him. Just lingering shadows and the fading warmth where your laughter had been moments before.

And Poseidon—Poseidon was too pleased.

He lounged far too comfortably near the center dais, legs stretched out, arm lazily draped across the back of a seafoam-draped throne. The god of oceans had taken a more mortal-form tonight—his tail replaced with legs that glimmered faintly with scales where the light hit wrong. His robes hung open down the chest, stitched from kelp-thread and tide, bare feet soaking in a personal basin of saltwater that shimmered with every shift.

Sea nymphs clustered around him like petals caught in a gentle tide, their laughter bubbling up as they vied for his attention. They giggled behind webbed fingers, pressing pomegranate seeds to his lips with eager hands. One particularly bold nymph cradled his trident against her chest as if it were some long-awaited prize she'd finally been deemed worthy to hold.

Hermes' jaw ticked.

It hadn't been long since you told him. Since you'd whispered, quiet and unsure, about the sentence Poseidon had laid on you. Three days beneath the sea. Three days of silence and breath held in debt.

And now here Poseidon sat—laughing, drinking, basking in the glow of your celebration like nothing touched him. Like Olympus didn't remember.

Hermes forced a smile, plucking a cup from a passing servant—nymph-born, wary-eyed, careful not to meet his gaze—and downed it in a single tilt. Sweet wine. Too sweet. It burned going down, but not enough.

Then he walked.

Nearly every major god in attendace watched from the corner of their eye. Hestia glanced over the rim of her goblet but said nothing. Artemis quirked a brow and said less. Dionysus didn't even turn—he just leaned closer to the forest nymph whispering in his ear.

This was Olympus.

They knew better than to interrupt.

The air shifted before he arrived—not by magic or command, but something deeper, more primal. Instinct.

A nymph spotted Hermes first and went still, her fingers tightening around her wineglass as if it might help her dissappear. Another hastily offered him a seat.

He ignored it.

With a single step forward, his boots clicked against the polished stone with deliberate precision. Then, with a careless shrug, he let his empty cup fall. It hit the floor with a quiet clink—hardly more than an echo—but Poseidon's head lifted all the same.

Finally.

"Well," Poseidon said at last, voice rolling like a distant storm, "what stirs the wind this far in my direction, dear nephew? Olympus must be dreadfully dull if it means its favorite little winged pest is paying me a visit. Especially during such a festive event as this."

Hermes smiled—sharp, playful—but only on the outside.

"Oh, you know me," he said lightly, plucking a goblet from Poseidon's own table and sipping it without asking. "I go where I'm called. Where the gossip's good. Where the drama smells deliciously mortal."

His voice shifted—subtle as a needle threading silk.

"And while out doing what I usually do, I caught wind of a funny little thing," he mused, glancing down to inspect his nails like they weren't already perfect. "Apparently one of Ithaca's ships met quite the storm recently. No clouds. No wind. Just... violent waves out of nowhere." A pause, weighted. "Almost as if the sea itself grew teeth."

When he looked up, his eyes glinted with knowing amusement. That polished smile never wavered.

"How curious—considering Apollo's newest fascination was aboard."

Poseidon's laughter rolled low and dangerous—the sound of ice cracking over a frozen sea.

"Ah. That." His lips curled, cruel as seafoam dashing against jagged rocks. "The feast seems to grow dull without Apollo's little muse here to grace us with her voice." He bit into a golden fruit, juice glinting on his teeth. "Perhaps he's keeping her too occupied for introductions."

Hermes didn't laugh, didn't blink. He just stared, sharp and flat. "Strange," he mused, tone dripping false lightness, "how the sea always roars loudest when someone's overcompensating."

The nearest nymph tensed, coos falling silent. She didn't say a word—just shifted her eyes to the nearest god with a weapon and readied herself to vanish at the first sign of divine bloodshed. Another nymph dared to touch Poseidon's shoulder—then thought better of it and recoiled as if burned.

The air around the table dropped a few degrees, the temperature plummeting—not from storm or spell, but from the sheer weight of presence. That ancient, crushing pressure of deep waters.

And Hermes?

Hermes didn't flinch. He drained his wine in one slow swallow, then—unceremoniously—set the empty cup down on the edge of Poseidon's plate, and smiled.

Poseidon chuckled again, dark and thick as tar.

"What gnaws at you, little herald?" He plucked a grape cluster, his fingers still gleaming like coral slick with storm-surge. "Don't tell me the Sun Prince forgot to share his new toy—is that why you're in such a touchy mood."

Hermes didn't blink. "She's not a toy."

"Of course not," Poseidon purred. "She's mortality on a leash. It's quite the charming novelty—until the leash snaps."

"You touched her."

The table went still. The fountains didn't stop whispering, but the harpists slowed—just enough to notice.

Poseidon tilted his head, chin resting on one clawed hand. "I saved her."

"You kissed her."

Poseidon scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "You sky gods always mistake practicality for passion. That was no kiss."

"She thought it was,"Hermes' tone remained light, conversational even—but something underneath was fraying. "And that's enough."

Poseidon's eyes gleamed like deep ocean trenches—ancient, unbothered. "A breathing boon," he recited, almost amused. "Not even a hint of tongue." His teeth flashed predator-bright. "Theatrics. She lives. You're welcome."

"You don't get to rewrite that scene just because she's not screaming anymore."

Poseidon's laugh echoed this time. "Ah! Didn't realize the messenger god had a claim."

"No claim," Hermes countered. "Just memory."

With a lazy shrug that made his coral-bright robes shimmer, Poseidon leaned back. "Then enlighten me, little courier—why so agitated? Afraid she'll start directing her prayers to more... worthy deities?"

Hermes' smile turned razor-edged. "She doesn't pray to me. Doesn't need to." He took a single step forward. The remaining nymphs scattered from the table like minnows before a shark. "Becasue she trusts me. "

Poseidon's grin stretched—wide, cruel. "Oh, is that the pretty word you're using? Trust?" His voice dropped to a mocking whisper. "You think if you play the clever jester long enough, she won't see the hunger beneath? She won't see what you are?"

Hermes tilted his head, curls catching the light like they'd been gilded. "What I am," he said mildly, "is irrelevant."

"No," Poseidon agreed, "It always is. Until you lose."

Hermes' grin widened, effortless as a summer breeze. "You'd know all about losing, wouldn't you, Uncle?"

The sea god's gaze sharpened, yet he remained silent.

"Your temples crumble faster than your worshippers abandon you." Hermes leaned in slightly, the basin between them rippling in uneasy circles. "Modern sailors don't pray to you anymore. They pray for clear skies. For safe harbors." A beat. "To me."

The water's surface shuddered, forming jagged shapes before collapsing flat—a silent threat. A warning.

But Hermes continued, honey and poison woven through each word. "You think you're the storm, but you're not. You're just the undertow. Predictable. Slow. Dragging everything down because you can't bear not being the deepest thing in the room."

Poseidon's trident trembled where it rested nearby, but he didn't rise. "Mind your tongue, boy," he warned, voice low. "You're swimming in dangerous waters."

A laugh, bright and unafraid. "You mistake my circling for fear, Unlce."

Then—subtle as a cloud passing over the sun—Hermes' smile dimmed. Something older, crueler peered through the cracks of his carefully crafted levity. Something Olympian.

"I don't care what lies you tell yourself," he said, each word delicate as a knife being set on a table. "But if you touch her like that again—without cause, without warning, without reason—" His voice dropped; lightning flashing in his mouth, sky in his eyes. "—I will scatter every piece of your temple across a hundred coastlines. One altar per regret."

Poseidon laughed then—not the booming roar of waves against cliffs, but the quiet, dismissive sound of a god who'd heard empty threats for eons. "You think I fear you? A messenger?"

"No," Hermes said simply, f, stepping back and letting the wine finally pass his lips. "I think you've forgotten what happens when the only god who outruns Olympus decides to stand still."

And then—he was gone.

Not with thunder or spectacle, but as all true messages are delivered: swift, inevitable. A gust of wind. A shimmer of wing. Salt lingering on the air.

And Poseidon?

Poseidon sank back onto his throne—slower this time, as if testing its weight. The wine tasted a little too bitter on his tongue. The nymphs held their breath.

And Olympus—ever the gracious host—quietly, pretended not to have heard a thing, even as, far below, the restless sea fell into an eerie, unnatural stillness.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to ch.61 ┃ 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰: okay so. a lot of you were waiting for this chapter 👀 the long-awaited Poseidon vs Hermes tension finally snapping—and believe me, delulu me had many versions (including one where Hermes unleashed his own 600-style strike for that kiss-not-kiss poseidon did to mc 💀). but in the end, this felt like the most realistic way it would unfold. not with sea storms or battles—but with words sharp enough to scar, pride on the line, and that ancient, god-tier tension simmering just under the surface. because let's be real, they're gods. and gods remember. so yes—this is the quiet fury, the divine politics, the memory that doesn't fade. and Hermes? he might not scream. but he doesn't forget. (also, yes, deep down, he was one breath away from snapping, hoped i showed that enough lolol.) if i'm not too busy (lolol i'm currently at work sneaking in the break room 😩😩🤣) i'll try to update ch.62 later today, since this was ike 1.5k words ❤️❤️

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winxanity-ii · 15 days ago

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do fic readers know that their comments actually influence the course of the story sometimes? i don't mean in a "you need to write it this way because i say so 😡" type of comment, i mean when people are asking questions or really engaging with the plot and the themes in the comments they sometimes bring up things that i didn't even think of, or dig into parts of the story that i've overlooked, or get really interested/fixated on something i was going to just kind of glance over--and it has me going 'oh wait that's actually really interesting, that's a good point' and fully adding or tweaking or changing things about the story going forward. i'm literally adding an entire additional chapter to something right now because someone's comment had me like "oh i didn't dig into that as much as i could have." you have impact!

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winxanity-ii · 15 days ago

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me with hermes in godly things lololo

I finally understand what writers mean when they say that their characters have taken over the story. Like I am trying so hard for an enemies to lovers arc, but apparently my characters don't want to hate each other, cuz they just 'don't like the vibes' and want to become good friends so that it's awkward as fuck when they start having romantic feelings for each other.

Guess I have to just go with it now...

#bro was never a love interest #he made himself one literally #he aight i guess lollol

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winxanity-ii · 16 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 61 Chapter 61 | something golden, something hollow⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

Time blurred after Hermes brought you back inside.

You weren't sure how long you stayed there. How many songs you played for Apollo, fingers moving across the strings like your body remembered even when your thoughts didn't.

He asked for melodies you didn't know the names of. Tunes that danced through your ribs and caught behind your teeth like breath. Sometimes he hummed along. Other times he just watched you—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, like you were something holy. Or his. Maybe both.

The first time you returned from your little outing—still shaken from Zeus, still tethered to Hermes by the tilt of your smile—Apollo looked up from his seat, and his expression cracked just slightly. Just enough. Hermes caught it, finding endless joy in it.

"Oh dear," he said, fake-sweet. "Was I not supposed to bring her back?"

Dionysus only grinned and passed you a goblet behind Apollo's back. "Drink this," he whispered, winking. "It's not strong... probably."

You did; it was warm and sweet and made your lips tingle.

After that, it became a game. Hermes dragging you around to show you off to minor gods and gossiping nymphs, only to bring you back to Apollo like a stolen prize.

Dionysus plucking you from your corner with a new wine to try and a dramatic story to tell.

Apollo never said anything directly—but his silences got heavier. His hands lingered longer when he brushed hair from your face. His compliments got sharper, wrapped in gold and warning.

Hermes noticed. He always did.

"You're sulking, big brother," he said, floating aboveyou all with one leg crossed lazily over the other like it belonged to him. "Not very sun-god of you."

"I'm not sulking," Apollo said, absolutely sulking.

"You're glaring holes in the sides of our heads," Dionysus chimed in, barefoot seated on the edge of the table. "One might think you hate us."

That earned him a look that could've shattered marble. You giggled behind the rim of your drink.

Apollo scoffed a sharp little exhale through his nose, eyes narrowing as he shifted in his seat, golden laurel wreath tilting just slightly with the movement. He looked at Hermes first—then Dionysus—and the glare he gave could've singed wings and grapes alike.

"Why are you both still here?" he asked, his tone bright but bitten at the edges. "Father's hall has plenty of room... Or have you forgotten how to find your own seats?"

Hermes grinned like he'd been waiting for that. He drifted down slowly, sandals whispering against the air, until he hovered right beside Apollo's shoulder. Then—with a little hum—he reached forward and flicked the edge of Apollo's laurel crown with two fingers.

"What fun is that?" Hermes cooed. "All that space and no one to bother? I'd rather be annoying up close. Especially to my big brother." He grinned wider, resting his chin on Apollo's shoulder for a beat—just long enough to be annoying, before flitting back like a leaf caught on breeze.

Apollo didn't flinch, but the sharpness in his jaw said he wanted to.

And then Dionysus spoke, voice low and sing-song, drawn out like warm honey. "Mmm, he's got a point, golden boy." He leaned further into his seat beside yours, one leg still kicked up, the other lazily brushing your ankle beneath the table. "I couldn't help myself either."

He gestured vaguely with his goblet—toward the way his ornate vine-wrapped throne had somehow migrated beside yours. Closer than before. You didn't even remember him moving it, but here he was—draped comfortably—his entourage spilled around like offerings at his feet.

A satyr snored gently under the table, one leg twitching. A forest nymph with skin like moss leaned across Dionysus' armrest, plucking at the grapes braided through his curls. Another was curled up beside the base of his throne, hair spilling over his knees like ivy.

They didn't match Apollo's nymphs—clean, elegant, gold-kissed things perched like birds on marble. No, Dionysus' followers were all earth and laughter and tangled limbs. They didn't sit straight or stay quiet, they giggled when you smiled and stole fruit from Apollo's platters without shame.

And yet somehow—both groups were seated at the same stretch of table. A few of Apollo's attendants exchanged wary glances with Dionysus' wild-eyed ones, but no one dared speak.

Apollo, for his part, didn't speak either. He just looked between the two gods seated near you—his half-brothers. One grinning like he'd just stolen the sun, the other humming like the whole evening was a lullaby.

And then he looked at you.

Still seated between them.

Still sipping from Dionysus' cup.

And gods, if looks could burn.

His fingers tapped once against the armrest of his throne. A quiet beat of frustration masked by poise. And if you weren't mistaken, the light around his shoulders flickered—just for a moment—brighter.

Hotter.

But still... he didn't ask you to move.

He didn't say a word.

Not yet.

You leaned back slightly, caught between them all—and smiled. Because even with the tension thick as honey, even with the wine buzzing behind your eyes... it was nice.

Nice to be wanted, catered to.

Even if Apollo's hands itched to pull you closer.

Even if Dionysus winked every time you laughed.

Even if Hermes never sat still long enough to stop smirking.

It was chaos—warm, glittering chaos.

And now? Now, you were walking through a garden that didn't quite feel real.

The sun was warm on your face, too warm maybe, and everything smelled like nectar and green things. Your feet were bare—why were your feet bare? There was a fuzzy, distant thought about sandals. You'd had some, you were sure, but they were gone now. Lost somewhere between laughter and wine and music that still rang faintly in your ears.

You stumbled over a stone path, catching yourself on a hedge that shimmered with pink blossoms. They smelled like honey, or maybe peaches, or maybe that was just you. Everything felt like a blur—soft and slow, like the air had thickened with perfume.

The flowers swayed gently beside you, brushing against your ankles, brushing against the edges of your thoughts. Above, golden light streamed through high, leafy arches, dappling your skin with soft shadows. You felt flushed, dreamlike, like you could fall asleep standing up and the world would keep blooming around you.

You didn't know where you were going, didn't really care. Somewhere behind you, you heard Dionysus laughing again—probably at something Hermes said, probably about you—but the thought didn't stick. Nothing really did anymore.

You just kept walking, and the garden kept blooming.

You turned a corner—ducked beneath an arch of ivy curled over two marble columns—and rounding a hedge, you pushed aside a spray of flowering vines—and stopped. Everything in you stilled as a small cove stretched out before you, tucked between groves of myrtle and twisted olive trees.

A smooth pond sat in the center—glass-still at first glance, but pulsing with soft ripples from a tiny waterfall trickling down a curve of black stone. Sunlight pooled in golden puddles across the clearing, catching on the water's surface, flickering like stars.

And there, scattered across the grass like royalty grown from earth—

Peacocks.

Dozens of them.

It wasn't just beautiful. It was otherworldly.

Your breath hitched and you didn't move.

Not because you couldn't, but because you didn't want to break the spell. They were just... there. Moving slow. Lounging like they had nowhere to be for the next century.

Some sunned themselves along the edge of the pond, their long, shimmering trains curled in lazy spirals behind them. One dipped its head to drink, beak cutting delicate circles into the water's reflection. Another flapped its wings with a low, vibrating call that echoed through the trees. Others strutted among the berry trees—blackberries, wine-dark and bursting, hung low from vines that curled like beckoning fingers.

But it wasn't the movement that held you still.

It was the color.

Not just the deep blues and velvety greens—but silver. Gold. One with feathers that shimmered like moonlight spun into silk. Another with a body the color of dusk, the ends of its tail tipped in coppery fire. A few stood tall and elegant with feathers so pale they were nearly translucent, and when the wind moved through their tails, they looked like ghosts of starlight.

You couldn't help it, you smiled. The kind of smile that bloomed slow, quiet, like your body had remembered how to do it without asking your mind.

So, you just stood there—shoulders loose, mouth parted, arms slack at your sides—as the garden garden unfurled a secret meant only for you.

A hidden pocket of quiet wonder.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?"

You jumped, the sound shot straight through your spine. A yelp caught in your throat, your heel sliding slightly on the mossy ground as you spun toward the voice, freezing again.

Apollo stood beside you.

You hadn't heard him, hadn't felt him, hadn't even sensed the warmth that usually trailed behind his presence. But he was there now—close enough to touch, yet not reaching. Just... watching.

His golden goblet hung loosely in one hand, fingers curled around the stem like he'd forgotten it was there. His laurel crown was crooked, tangled a bit in the curls falling across his forehead. His hair looked windblown, like he'd been moving too fast or pacing too much—like he hadn't sat still since the last time you left his sight.

His eyes weren't on you, they were on the cove. Soft, steady, a little far away.

You swallowed hard and turned quickly back toward the water, your face warm. "Y-Yeah," you said, voice catching at first. You cleared your throat, tried again, quieter this time. "They're... they're beautiful."

It wasn't eloquent, it wasn't god-touched or poetic, but it was real. And that felt like enough.

He didn't reply, not right away. Just let the silence stretch and settle around the two of you like soft fabric draped over the moment—something fragile and wordless.

You shifted your weight, letting your bare toes curl into the moss below. The softness grounded you. So did the faint sound of water lapping from the pond, the rustle of leaves as one of the peacocks shook out its feathers, sending a fan of silver and blue into the air like an afterthought.

Your voice came quiet, almost hesitant. "Are... Are they mortal souls?"

Apollo glanced over, brow raised.

You kept staring at the birds. "Like... your lambs," you added, a little softer. "The ones you said were once people."

There was a beat. Then a sharp scoff, so light it was almost under his breath.

"Of course not," he said, a note of offense curling in his voice like you'd just insulted the lambs—or worse, him. "Hera isn't... that kind."

You slowly turned to look at him.

"She's not the type to waste her breath reshaping the afterlife for a few adoring mortals," he went on, voice laced with that golden sort of condescension that only an immortal could pull off. "These aren't spirits. No tragic souls trapped in animal skin. They're just... birds."

You followed his gaze as it swept over the clearing.

"She keeps them here because they're hers," he said, gesturing faintly to the dozen lounging near the pond, "She likes them. Lets them breed. Eat her berries. Wander around being decorative."

He took a sip from his goblet, then huffed a breath that wasn't quite a laugh.

"It's the most 'benevolent' thing I've ever seen her do," he muttered, voice dipped in dry amusement. "Letting something live without demanding it worship her for the privilege."

He shook his head and tilted his goblet lazily toward one of the gold-feathered birds pecking at the grass. "Honestly? I think she just likes how they look against the marble."

You didn't answer. Just watched one of the peacocks stretch out its wings, the spread so wide it looked like a fan of stars, and wondered—quietly—how something so simple could still be enough. Even here. Even among gods.

The thought rolled over you again—soft, quiet, and just a little unbelievable. Your gaze drifted back to the peacocks, to the way they walked without fear, basked in the warmth, dipped their heads to drink from the pond. Unbothered. Undemanded. Free.

Since arriving on Olympus, you'd come across gods who bent light, who moved people like pieces on a board, who changed the rules just to win. Gods who touched you with hands wrapped in honey but hearts too sharp to hold.

Apollo, with his obsession disguised as worship. Dionysus, wrapping vines and words around you like wine-laced ropes. Even Hermes—kind, clever Hermes—he never moved without meaning.

Everything here had a cost. Everything was taken, pulled, named.

But this?

Hera—of all Gods—doing nothing but letting a dozen peacocks wander through a hidden garden? Allowing them to live, to nest, to preen, to eat, to simply exist without being turned into stories or symbols?

It rattled something in your chest. Tugged at the threads of every myth you'd grown up hearing.

Hera, the goddess queen.

Hera, the storm behind every scorned marriage.

Hera, cruel and vengeful, the goddess who punished women for the desires of her husband. The one who cursed, who broke, who smote.

Hera... gentle?

Your brows pinched faintly. "She..." you began, the words catching. You hadn't meant to say anything—hadn't even realized the thought had turned to sound—but your lips kept moving. "Hera...?"

Apollo looked over, brows lifting.

You felt your face warm, your hands fidgeting at your sides. "I just... I don't know. I didn't expect that from her," you admitted quietly, words falling slow and hesitant, like you weren't sure if they'd offend the air around you. "The myths. She's always painted so... angry. Spiteful. Cruel."

You turned your gaze back to the birds, voice softening. "But this? Just letting them live here like this—?"

You didn't finish the sentence, didn't have to.

The question hung between you—raw and real. Because for all the gods who called you their muse, who wrapped you in silk and kissed your name into song... she was the only one who hadn't reached for you.

And maybe—just maybe—that's what made her feel the most human.

You stood there a little longer, letting that settle—like a small stone dropped in deep water. The thought didn't quite ripple. It just... sank. Quiet and strange.

Beside you, Apollo hummed. Low. Noncommittal. The kind of sound someone made when they weren't really listening, but didn't feel like being rude. His gaze stayed forward, detached, eyes sweeping lazily over the garden like it was a backdrop, not a moment.

You glanced sideways, catching the shift in his posture—the slight roll of his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed once around the golden goblet in his hand as he stepped past you and down the slope of the garden, sandals forgotten like yours, bare feet brushing over soft moss and scattered petals. His long white chiton flowed behind him, trailing faintly in the grass.

The sunlight curved with him—no, followed him, like the garden bent to keep him gold.

He crossed the clearing and wandered deeper into the cove, between tall flowering shrubs and lazy, low-hanging trees, until he reached the pond's edge. There, tucked half in shadow and half in bloom, sat a wide, flat stone—smooth from weather and water, ringed with tiny star-shaped blossoms. He settled onto it easily, the goblet set beside him with a soft clink.

Around him, the peacocks stirred.

One lifted its head, sleek and dark, a shimmering green-blue sheen across its neck. Another rustled from behind a tree, gold-feathered, near mythical in the glow. And then—soft, careful steps—came a smaller one. A chick. Pale down with hints of ivory and gray. It blinked up at him, curious, then tottered over, hopping clumsily onto the rock with a faint chirp.

Apollo chuckled softly, eyes crinkling as he turned to look at you. Then, slowly, he reached out a hand—palm out, fingers curled just slightly, beckoning.

"Come."

At this point, the command no longer caught you by surprise due to having hear it much of the night, as well as your time with him. But now, he looked... different. Not godly. Not burning with pride or prophecy or golden hunger. Just—boyish.

Hair tousled from the walk, laurel wreath a little askew, one curl dangling near his brow. His cheeks flushed from the heat, his smile crooked, uneven. Like he'd forgotten what pose to hold and had let something real slip through instead.

And gods—he looked handsome like that. Unpolished. A little too sun-warm. A little too soft at the edges.

His fingers curled again, and for a moment... you didn't move. Just watched him, heart stuttering like maybe it didn't know what to do with this version of him—the one who wasn't a god, or a sunbeam, or a poet who thought the sky owed him love.

Just a boy on a rock in a garden, waiting for you to join him.

You blinked, breath catching like your body had just realized it was holding something too tightly. The haze around you didn't lift—it was still warm, still soft, still draped like dream-light across your skin—but it wavered a little. Enough to shake you loose.

You stepped forward, your gait was slow, uneven, like your legs weren't entirely sure this was real. You stumbled once and you felt the heat rise to your face once more.

Apollo chuckled, the laugh dancing through the air like sunlight between trees.

When you reached him, the pond still rippled beside the stone, the little peacock chick now curled near his knee, blinking sleepily in the sun. Apollo's hand rose without a word—smooth, steady—meeting your hip and guiding you gently down.

You didn't sit so much as you were settled. His touch was careful, slow, coaxing your body into place like he already knew the shape of you. One of his arms slipped behind your back, the other curled around your waist. Your legs bent instinctively, draping across his own, one knee tucked slightly over his thigh. The hem of your dress spilled down around you like water, warm against both your skins.

He adjusted you once—just a little, enough to tuck you closer—enough that your ribs brushed his when you breathed before sighing a soft, deep sound.

You felt it more than heard it. The way his chest rose and fell behind you. The way his head tipped slightly against yours. The hand at your side drifted lower—resting warm and broad over the curve of your thigh. Not heavy. Just there. His thumb began to trace slow, absent circles into your skin, the contact feather-light but grounding.

The arm across your back tightened, pulling you deeper into him. You could feel the heat of him now—sun-soaked and steady—seeping into your bones.

His voice was the next thing to reach you—Low, warm—barely more than a hum.

"So, tell me..." he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear, "How have you enjoyed Olympus, my muse?"

You didn't answer right away because gods—how were you supposed to?

Your mind raced, trying to find words that didn't feel too small or too big. Your hands twitched slightly in your lap, fingers brushing the edge of your dress as if touch might give you language. You swallowed once, twice, and then—

"...It's...it's kind of... unexplainable?"

Apollo hummed as if encouraging you to go on, the weight of his arm around you shifting just enough to keep you close.

You glanced down at the peacock chick still nestled nearby, its feathers puffed out, half-dozing in the sun. Your voice followed, quieter at first, then spilling a little faster than you meant it to.

"I mean—it's beautiful. Obviously. Everything's glowing or enchanted or blooming. And people float instead of walk, and no one really blinks when wine pours itself or marble sings. It's... It's like a dream and a storm all wrapped in silk and gold. Like a temple made from breath and sun."

You laughed under your breath, cheeks warm.

"And it's loud? And soft? Like it's everything I imagined Olympus to be, but also... nothing like it at all. Like I didn't realize how alive it'd feel. How big it is. Or how lonely. Or warm. Or..."

You trailed off with a sheepish breath. "Sorry—I'm rambling."

Apollo didn't say anything for a moment.

Then—he chuckled.

You felt it in his chest before you heard it, that soft, fond sound rumbling beneath your back where you leaned into him. His hand—still resting against your thigh—gave a slow, affectionate squeeze before stilling.

"You're so cute when you do that," he murmured, voice thick with warmth. "Get all flustered and poetic like I haven't already decided you're the most charming thing on this mountain."

His other hand came up, tucking a loose piece of hair behind your ear before he pressed his cheek to your temple. His smile was audible in his next words.

"You can keep talking if you want. I could listen forever."

Your breath caught between ribs that didn't know whether to tighten or loosen. He said it so easily—like a secret he didn't care if you heard. Like your voice was a gift he'd already unwrapped and was just waiting to play with again.

You didn't need to, not really—but you thanked him anyway. A soft murmur against his shoulder, barely a breath. He smiled at that, small and satisfied, the sound sinking into his skin like something he'd tuck away for later.

Apollo then grabbed his goblet, the gold flashing in the sunlight. He brought it to his lips and tipped it slightly, taking a slow, measured sip like the whole moment existed just to taste the wine.

A drop escaped.

Just one.

It caught at the corner of his mouth and rolled slow—lazy—down the curve of his jaw. Bright gold, like it might burn through his skin and yours if you touched it. Not yellow like candlelight, but glowing.

It shimmered too bright to be real, brighter than it had looked inside the banquet hall without all the shadow and velvet. Here in the garden's natural light, it didn't look like wine anymore.

It looked like something sacred.

A drop of ambrosia let loose from a god's mouth.

You caught yourself leaning slightly toward him—just barely, just enough for your breath to still against his cheek—and you weren't sure if it was instinct or gravity.

Apollo's eyes flickered down, and gods, the moment you realized—you looked away, like a kid caught reaching for something she wasn't supposed to want. Your cheeks flared hot, gaze snapping back to the pond, to the peacocks still dozing in the grass, to anywhere that wasn't the golden god whose lap you were sitting in.

But his mouth?

It tilted into that crooked, knowing smile—the kind that didn't ask if you were enchanted. It just assumed you were. He didn't say anything, didn't tease, just let the smile stretch, slow and smug and soft all at once.

And he didn't wipe the drop away. That bit of gold still clung to the corner of his mouth, shining in the garden light. He let it stay, letting it gleam like an ornament, like a dare.

Like he liked being watched.

His thumb curled again against your thigh, tracing a new shape now. His other arm adjusted behind you—not tighter, just... firmer—like he wanted you to know how steady he was. How he wasn't just holding you, but reminding you that he was.

As Apollo turned his head slightly, breath brushing your cheek, the scent of wine and something sun-drenched curled at the edge of your jaw. His lips—still sweet, still golden—barely grazed the top of your ear. Then his voice—low and soft, barely a whisper—slid into the space between your pulse and his mouth.

"You want a sip?"

Before you could answer—before you could think—he shifted the goblet toward you, tilting it gently like an invitation. His hand cradled the base, wrist angled just so, and the rim hovered inches from your lips.

The gold inside shimmered. It caught the light and swirled, thick and sweet, glinting like melted sun.

You could smell it now—warm berries and summer, touched with something older, something that buzzed just beneath your ribs.

Apollo watched you.

Not with pressure.

Not with command.

Just that same half-lidded softness. Like he already knew you'd say yes. Like part of him was already savoring the sight of it—the way your mouth might close around the cup he'd touched. The way you'd taste what he tasted. Sweet and divine and just a little dangerous.

And gods, you didn't move. For a moment, you just stared down at it. The liquid inside shimmering, thick and bright, casting a glow against your chin.

The word crawled back through your memory like a whisper from another room.

Ambrosia.

You recall both Dionysus and Apollo drinking it, how the latter held it up to his lips as the feast spurred on around you both.

"It's deadly to mortals. It burns the human body. Tears it apart from the inside out," he'd said, so casually, like it was just a fact.

And now—here it was. Balanced on the edge of your mouth, held steady in his hand.

The thought slipped out of you before you could catch it.

"...You said it was deadly," you murmured. "For mortals."

Apollo chuckled, the sound shaking you loose.

Your eyes lifted, breaking from the trance of the wine and landing on him again—his face close, watching you with that same steady heat. The light in his eyes shifted, gold catching gold, and then he moved.

His arm curled tighter around your waist, pulling you closer. Your hip met his, your chest brushing his shoulder, and the rim of the goblet pressed firmer against your lips. You felt the warmth of it kiss your skin, tasted the barest smear of sweet on your bottom lip.

Apollo leaned in, breath fanning soft across your jaw. His voice followed—low, purring, coaxing. "Didn't I tell you, you're not like other mortals?" His nose brused just beneath your ear, lips dragging slow along the line of your jaw; a touch so soft it didn't even feel like pressure. "You're not some girl from a song," he whispered. "You're my muse. My flame. My chosen."

He tipped the goblet again, just slightly.

"Drink."

His thumb resumed its slow circle against your thigh—slower now. Like a metronome keeping time with your heartbeat.

And gods, it was loud.

Because everything in you was suddenly awake—too warm, too aware—pressed to a god who spoke like prayers were promises and poison could be sweet if it came from his hands.

Your mouth parted, and the wine touched your tongue.

It didn't taste like wine.

Not really.

It tasted like heat. Like sunlight cracked open and poured straight into your mouth. It bloomed warm against your tongue, then slid down your throat like honey laced with thunder—soft and thick and golden. It didn't burn. It warmed.

You felt it spread through you. Slow at first—like a breath. Then faster. Down your spine. Through your ribs. Into your fingers, your toes, your thighs pressed to his. A glow. A hum. Like someone had lit a flame behind your ribs and it was spreading outward, licking at the edges of your skin.

You inhaled sharply—only it wasn't sharp. It was soft. A gasp and a sigh all at once. Your lips parted wider, greedy for more, and just when your body began to lean into it—

Apollo pulled the goblet back.

You made a sound, a small one, but it slipped out, low and caught in your throat—disappointed, unthinking, like a child told no after the first bite of sugar.

Apollo laughed.

Gods, he laughed.

Not loud. Not mocking. Just amused. Teased.

"Easy. You'll give yourself a headache." The goblet dangled in his hand now, just out of reach. He tilted it lazily, watching the gold inside swirl.

"Or worse," he added with a grin, "you'll start thinking you can handle more than one sip."

He looked down at you—flushed, wide-eyed, breath short—as his fingers found your chin, tilting your face up.

"You like how it feels?" he asked, not really needing the answer. His thumb brushed against the corner of your mouth, catching a lingering drop. He stared at it for a beat—like it belonged to him—then licked it from his skin.

The wine in your blood pulsed louder, and you couldn't think.

And honestly, you aren't sure if you even wanted to.

Not when the warmth still curled in your belly. Not when your lips still tingled from where the wine had touched them. Not when his voice was that low, that soft—like he could see every thought you were trying not to have and liked them all anyway.

You didn't answer, and Apollo noticed.

Of course he did.

He watched you for a moment longer—eyes flicking over your face, your parted lips, the daze in your. Then, slowly, he set the goblet aside. It landed on the moss with a quiet thud, wine forgotten.

His other hand came up, cupping your face in both palms now—gentle, but firm. His thumbs brushed across your cheeks, warm and steady. His fingers curled along your jaw, tilting your head up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

He hummed, low in his throat. Not teasing this time. Not entirely.

"You do like it," he said. Not a question. Just fact. His smile was small. Crooked. Knowing.

Your breath hitched as he slowly leaned down. His eyes dropped—to your mouth, ingering there for just a second. Maybe less. Then they lifted again, locking back on yours.

"And you look... so blissed out right now."

You looked up at him, lips parting to breathe—but there wasn't enough air. Not with him this close. Not with his hands still cradling your face like you were something precious, something soft—like a doll.

"You could feel like this all the time with me." He tilted your chin slightly, his words coiling around your ribs. Tight. Sweet. Heavy.

"You don't even know what I could give you, do you?" he asked, almost to himself. "You don't even know what it could mean."

And gods—he looked at you like he'd give it anyway.

Like even if you said no, even if you didn't understand yet, he'd still try. Still pour gold into your hands and say it was yours to keep.

"You were always meant to be mine."

And then—he moved, leaning in, closing the space like it had never mattered. Like the garden, the wine, the gods watching from above had all gone still just to watch this moment unfold.

His hand slipped behind your head, fingers threading through your hair, gentle but possessive—cradling the back of your skull like he was afraid you'd vanish if he didn't hold tight enough.

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

Like he'd waited eons.

Like this kiss had been echoing through time, waiting for your mouth to exist.

You gasped, your hands clutching at the fabric of his chiton without thinking, fingers bunching at his chest. He was warm everywhere. Blinding. Gold pressed against your skin.

His mouth moved against yours with something deeper than hunger—something desperate and reverent—as if he were trying to memorize the shape of you with every tilt of his head, every drag of his lips.

And you let him. Gods, you let him.

Because in that moment—sunlight pouring down through the ivy, peacocks fanning their feathers in the distance, the taste of ambrosia still on your tongue—it almost felt right.

Almost.

Because even as your heart fluttered too fast, even as you were wrapped in his gold-touched warmth—something in you flickered.

Your eyes had fluttered shut without meaning to, the motion as natural as falling asleep. But when the darkness behind your lids took shape—when the kiss bloomed into feeling—it wasn't sunlight you saw.

It was Telemachus.

A flash. A split second.

Your mouth on his, salt on your lips, calloused hands cupping your jaw—that shy, unpolished touch that made you feel real. Like someone chosen, not claimed.

The thought was selfish. Disloyal. You hadn't meant for it to happen, but it did—like a string pulled too tight in your chest, snapping behind your ribs.

And then—

Apollo licked your lips.

Gods, it was like a spark—not the kind that ignites you, but the kind that wakes you.

Your body went still.

The fog didn't lift, but something inside you did—a breath, a whisper, a quiet no. Not loud. Not angry. Just there.

Present.

And before you could question it, before the heat could drag you deeper—you pulled back.

Not harsh. Not rejecting.

Just... overwhelmed.

Your lips parted from his with a soft, breathless sound, your hands still resting on his chest, trembling just slightly.

Apollo stilled.

You didn't look at him yet—you couldn't.

And Apollo, of course, mistook that stillness for shyness.

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat, warm with amusement, pleased—as if you were just flustered, as if you'd melted from the taste of him rather than recoiled from the hollowness it left behind.

Blinking dazedly, you watched as he leaned back just far enough to see your face. His cheeks were flushed, golden in the light. His eyes darker now, pupils blown wide like he was drunk on the moment. His tongue swept over his lips as he licked them—slow, savoring—his gaze staring down at you like he couldn't believe his luck.

Like you were already his.

"There's no need to be shy," he murmured, cradling your face with a touch too practiced to be truly tender. His thumb traced your cheekbone, his smile radiant, fond—the kind of look that made it dangerously easy to forget he was a god.

"You're allowed to get lost in your god... you're allowed to get lost in me."

And gods—you wished it were shyness. But this wasn't hesitation.

Wasn't nerves.

It was ache. A flicker of grief for something you couldn't name. The echo of lips that should've felt like fire but instead felt like air. Like the ambrosia still burning in your veins had conjured a want too big to carry—and it wasn't yours.

Not really.

But before you could say anything—before you could even pull a breath deep enough to speak—a voice cut through the air like a blade dipped in frost.

"I'd be careful, if I were you. Hera wouldn't be too pleased to find this level of intimacy being performed in one of her sacred gardens. Especially not by those unmarried."

You froze.

Apollo did too.

Your heads turned at the exact same time, the haze still clinging to your skin like mist, and there—leaning with her arms folded against a myrtle trunk, half-shadowed by twisting leaves—stood Artemis.

She looked unbothered. Cold-eyed, straight-backed, mouth twitching with something that might've been amusement—or judgment. Maybe both. Her tone hadn't been cruel, but it hadn't been kind either—just... honest. A kind of warning wrapped in courtesy.

Apollo scoffed—soft, more breath than bite. Not angry. Just tired. Frustrated. "Oh, she'd be upset regardless," he muttered, still not looking away from his sister. "Hera's idea of grace is pretending the world still runs on loyalty." He reached lazily for his goblet again, tipping it toward his lips. "Can't blame her for being bitter. When you're married to the biggest cheat in Olympus, I imagine it poisons the way you view love."

The words hung heavy.

Scathing.

True.

And as if on cue—a low rumble cracked faintly across the sky above the garden.

Not loud, but real.

Like Zeus himself had heard his son's voice across the clouds and growled in warning.

Neither of them flinched.

Not Apollo, who took another slow sip from his cup.

Not Artemis, who raised a single brow and said nothing.

They just stared at each other in that tight sibling silence—centuries old and steeped in quiet tension—and didn't look away.

Then Artemis exhaled softly, the sound almost a laugh. "You're incorrigible," she murmured under her breath, shoulders dipping with a shake of her head.

But her tone shifted when she straightened—chin tilting, eyes sharpening with quiet purpose.

"The sun's nearly due to rise on the mortal plane, and since you're already on thin ice with Zeus..." Her eyes flicked to you for half a second—barely long enough to sting, but long enough to be noticed. Then back to Apollo. "I suggest you be ready. And on time."

With that, Artemis turned—no flourish, no dramatic exit—just a pivot and silent steps into the hedges, her silver-trimmed cloak flashing once more before the garden swallowed her whole.

Apollo groaned—low, aggrieved—the sound of a man dragged from something sweet against his will. He slumped back against the stone, tipping his head toward the sky, his sunlit curls a lion's mane around his sulking face. Handsome. Put-upon. Too golden for someone complaining

"Unbelievable," he muttered, as if to himself. "My own twin. Always so quick to chime in, so eager to ruin the mood."

His hand dragged down his face, voice souring. "The man sleeps around for half of eternity, leaves chaos in his wake, and somehow I'm the one scolded for sneaking kisses." A slow shake of his head, jaw tightening—then the tension melted, light sliding off marble. "But no. Duty first. The sun must rise. Father watches. Artemis always watches. Gods forbid I take what I want."

You stayed quiet, cheeks still warm, heart still knocking against your ribs.

He sighed, louder now. "Duty," he repeated flatly, as if the word tasted bitter. Then his gaze found yours again—quieter now, threaded with something gentler. Regret, maybe. Or just the slow resignation of a god pulled back to duty.

"A shame," he murmured, not without longing. "But she's right. I'm already tempting fate with Zeus."

He reached out, brushing his knuckles against your cheek in a soft line. "I suppose it's time," he said, the words sigh-soft. "Time to return you to the mortal plane."

And with that, the warmth between you began to shift. Still tender. Still sun-drenched. But no longer meant to last.

A/N: ahhhh! see i wasnt gonna have a kiss in there at first while planning this, but i just had too 😭😭 y'all i know apollo is supposed to be yandere but i like my men a lil obsessed 😩 only in books though!!! cuz a man got 1 time to try it for real in real life and im screaming 😭. like yall dont understand how deep i am in the delusions with Apollo, the way i have so many ideas it's wild, i legit have to make myself/re-edit to mak sure i'm not being too delulu. even then, i enjoy how my writings came across, showing that it's not all good things to be the obsession of soemone--let alone a god. plus, the only reason i wrote mc like this/showing yandere as a negative thing cuz tbh its not fr---especially in real life---so i kinda wanted to try my hand at the realism of having a mc outisde of the 'yandere books trope' (i.e her being okay, being just as delulu) but best beileve, MC in the isekai fic will be in the grey area---especially since the characters will be her fav book characters, so it should be fun with her trying to grapple with wheather yandere is still good or not since it'll technically be 'real' to her since she's now in the book.. ahhh let me stop rambling 😭😭 take care lovelies ❤️❤️

from simp_0207

[APOLLO AND DIONYSUS OUTSIIIDDEEE❗❗]

[HERMES AND MC]

[MC VIBING]

[MC AND HER DIVINE BABYDADDIES]

from wishesonstars39781

[TELEMACHUS DOODLES PRT.1]

[TELEMACHUS DOODLES PRT.2]

[TELEMACHUS DOODLES PRT.3]

from asteriaangeline7

[MC DESIGN]

from m0rl

[MC AND HERMES FT.SUN APOLLO]

from Francsy/Franie (@idkanyonealrr on tumblr)

[GODLY THINGS DOODLES (IN ICONIC-IDIOT-CONS ARTSTYLE)]

from aetherlive

[MC AND APOLLO__CH.54]

from yang

[MC PLEADS TO ODYPEN TO GO TO LYRAETHOS]

from penesauce

[MC DESIGN]

from Sushiiin

[ANDREIA]

[ANDREIA PRT.2]

[MC DOODLES PRT.2__ch.30]

[MC AND TELEMACHUS__ch.27]

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winxanity-ii · 19 days ago

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Do u post in tumblr or wattpad first?

hmm, i actually post on all 4 sites at once lololo i write on wattpad, copy&paste across quotev, tumblr, and ao3 and try to post right after the other on each one---some days wattpad is first, others is ao3, it really depends, especially when uploading the fanart i get!

#xani-responds: godly things

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winxanity-ii · 19 days ago

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Hello!

I just want to ask how to be able to send art?

hiiii ❤️❤️ you can either send art here, through my inbox or send it to my email: [email protected]

#xani-responds: godly things

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winxanity-ii · 19 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: STUCK BETWEEN PRAYERS DIVINE WHISPERS: Stuck Between Prayers | divine whispers: stuck between prayers ⌟

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

In the mortal world, the sun sat high over Ithaca's courtyard, casting long shadows that didn't quite match the time in Telemachus' chest.

It was too bright for how he felt.

Too warm. Too loud—with birds chattering in the olive trees and the dull clatter of dishes from the kitchens nearby. Somewhere, a servant laughed as a jug tipped and caught itself on the edge of a fountain. A broom scraped across the stone in slow, lazy arcs, like the courtyard didn't know anything was wrong. Like the world hadn't stopped spinning the second Athena disappeared from their study without taking him too.

But he walked anyway.

His jaw was tight. Shoulders stiff. His feet dragged across stones that had somehow grown unfamiliar in just a matter of hours—days? Gods, he didn't even know anymore.

He'd stopped counting time when Athena left. Now it was all just sunrises and prayers.

Since then, he hadn't really slept. Not in the way that felt real. He closed his eyes, but nothing rested. He ate only what his mother forced onto a plate. He bathed because the guards were starting to glance at him sideways. But everything else? A blur. All of it. Just noise and ritual, passing under his feet while he waited.

Waited for a sign. A scroll. A whisper from a nymph or an omen in the coals.

Waited for you.

Because you weren't dead. He clung to that. Athena said so. You were alive. She'd looked him in the eye and told him that. Over and over, like she thought he needed the repetition.

But gods—that only made it worse.

Because if you were alive... then where were you?

Why hadn't you sent word?

Why hadn't you come back?

Why couldn't he feel you?

He paused at the edge of the courtyard, staring out toward the empty path that led to the docks. His hand curled against the column beside him, fingers tight. The stone felt too smooth under his skin. Too cold.

The wind moved gently through the trees, brushing against his hair. It smelled like thyme and old sea salt. Familiar. Wrong.

He should've felt something.

He'd always known when you were near. It was like a string tugged somewhere under his ribs. A quiet shift in the air, even if you never said a word. You just were. Present. Real.

Now?

He felt nothing.

No footsteps approaching the gate. No whisper from the wind. No sign in the sky.

Just warmth. Just birds. Just the slow, unbearable press of a world that didn't know you were missing.

He hated it.

Hated how normal everything looked while his insides were unraveling thread by thread.

His mother said to be patient.

His father had warned him that interference only invited more gods.

Callias had even joked that you were probably on some cliff somewhere, yelling at a cloud for looking too much like a prophecy.

And maybe that was true. Maybe you were just—somewhere. Untouchable for now. Maybe there was a reason for the silence.

But none of that made the waiting easier.

He shoved his hands into the folds of his tunic, pacing now. Barefoot. He'd forgotten his sandals. Or maybe he never put them on this morning. He didnt care. The stone was warm under his feet. Sun-heated. It reminded him that time was still moving—even if he didn't want it to.

He glanced up at the sun. Still too high. Still too bright.

It made him angry.

Because how dare it stay there—suspended, unmoving, shining like the world was whole—when you weren't home yet?

He turned suddenly, walking toward the garden shed where you used to keep your instruments.

Something yanked in his chest.

He wasn't even thinking. Just moving. Just needing.

The door creaked as he pushed it open. Dust danced in the beam of light that slanted through the window. The scent hit him all at once—old wood, lavender oil, the faintest trace of lemon wax and sea air.

He stood there for a second, breathing it in.

The shelves were cluttered. Bowed under scrolls and cracked strings. Paint pots tipped sideways. Someone had placed a rosebud on the bench—withered now. Forgotten.

But what broke him was the lyre.

Yours.

Or what was left of it.

It sat on the top shelf—tucked higher, like someone had tried to hide it from view. The wood was split along the side. Strings slack. The curve of its frame fractured down the center like something divine had held it too tight.

He didn't move.

Just stared.

His throat burned because it was the last thing tied to you.

Telemachus stepped forward slowly. His breath was thin, quiet, as he reached for it—his hand shaking just enough for him to notice. His fingers barely grazed the warped edge of the frame. He didn't lift it—didn't dare—just touched it. Light. Careful. Like if he moved wrong, it might vanish completely. Like maybe—if he was gentle enough—it would hum. It would breathe. It would call you back.

But it didn't.

Nothing moved.

Nothing hummed.

It was silent.

His breath caught in his throat like it didn't know how to keep going. He closed his eyes—just for a second. Just long enough to remember the sound of your laugh. Just long enough to remember the way your hands used to move when you tuned it. The way you used to sit in this very room and pretend the whole world wasn't sitting on your back.

And in the quiet—small, raw, like something cracked beneath the ribs—his voice slipped out.

"...Where are you?"

No answer.

Just birds outside. Just wind.

He pressed his forehead against the edge of the shelf, exhaling through clenched teeth. Tight. Sharp. His knuckles scraped faintly against the wood, his jaw ticking as he breathed through it, forcing the storm to stay quiet.

Still nothing.

No hum. No sound. Not even a whisper from the broken lyre that once pulsed with your song.

And then—his chest squeezed tighter, because he couldn't stop thinking about the beast.

Lady.

The moment she'd returned had been strange from the start. Not loud or chaotic like the rest of the palace—but quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that meant something had been torn.

She'd appeared at the edge of the cliffs like she'd been spat from the sea. Soaked. Shaking. Your satchel clutched around her thick neck like it had been tied there in a rush. Or... in fear.

Telemachus had run to her.

He remembered that clearly now. The way her great body collapsed into him. The way she shoved her snout into his chest like she couldn't breathe right without your scent.

He hadn't thought much of it then—just grief. Just confusion. But now, standing here, staring at one of the last things you've ever owned, it churned louder in his stomach. Ugly. Loud.

You hadn't arrived with her. She'd just... shown up. Alone.

And your bag—gods, your bag—he remembered what was inside. Your spare cloak, still damp with saltwater. Your sandals. Some half-eaten rations. A polished stone you'd picked out for Kieran. A jingly bracelet for Lysandra. Scarf for Asta. Dagger for his father. Seashell necklace for his mother.

Gifts for all of them. All, each with tiny, scrawled notes in your handwriting. A name for each one.

Except his.

There was nothing for him.

Or—No. Not nothing. Just a note.

He remembered holding it in his hand. How the parchment had been slightly smudged from seawater. How your handwriting had tilted more than usual. Like you were rushing. Like your hand had been shaking.

"Yours is too important to keep in a bag."

Telemachus shut his eyes now, pressing his head harder against the shelf, the words burning behind his eyelids.

Too important.

What did that even mean? What had you meant to give him that couldn't be wrapped up like the rest?

His breath caught.

Lady would never have left you.

Not like that.

Not willingly.

And suddenly the hot knot behind his eyes burned worse.

"She never leaves your side," he muttered, voice rough in his throat. "Not unless..." He trailed off.

Not unless what?

Not unless she was forced to. Or ordered to. Or told to run.

His heart thudded.

He straightened slowly, hand still braced on the shelf, his breath coming shallower now. His eyes darted to the lyre again—cracked, useless. A relic that had once sung and sparked beneath your hands. But the most damning thing—the thing that made his stomach drop all over again—was what wasn't in your bag.

The divine lyre.

The one Apollo had given you. The one that shimmered faintly even when tucked out of sight. The one you never let out of your reach.

It was missing.

Gone.

Mother said you'd taken it with you on the trip. Everything in him knew you wouldn't have left it behind. Not unless—

Not unless you'd never meant to leave at all.

Telemachus' throat closed, his whole chest pulling tight like a rope had cinched around his ribs and yanked hard. "Gods," he breathed—then let out a sharp, frustrated groan and yanking both hands through his hair. His fingers twisted into the strands and tugged, too hard, until his scalp stung.

"Idiot," he muttered, half to himself, half to the room. "Stupid, stupid—"

He backed away from the shelf like it had burned him, stumbling a step before catching himself. His feet dragged heavy over the stone, pacing once, twice—then stopping.

Athena had said you were safe.

She looked him in the eye and said it.

And he'd believed her.

He'd held onto that one thread since it was casted, like it meant something. Like her word—her calm, clean certainty—could fill the hole you left behind. But the longer he sat with it, the longer he breathed in this too-silent room—

The less he believed it.

Because safe didn't look like this. Safe didn't feel like grief woven into the curtains and silence so loud it made his ears ring. Safe didn't come without letters. Without whispers. Without even a trace of your voice left behind.

He exhaled, jaw clenched tight, then forced his legs to move. Just enough.

He dragged himself toward the workbench—your bench—the one you'd always used when you wanted quiet. When you needed space. He could still remember watching you sit there once, hunched over some tangled knot of string or paper or ink-stained map, your brows furrowed and one foot twitching as you focused too hard to notice him standing in the doorway.

He sat down on the edge now, slouched forward like the weight in his chest had finally forced him to bend. His elbows braced against his knees. His gaze dropped to the floor—fixed somewhere near his sandals, but not really seeing them.

Before he could stop it, a memory came.

No—rushed him. Overtook him like a tide he'd forgotten how to swim against.

It was the last time he saw you before he left for the smaller villages along the coast. He had duties to fulfill. Trade routes to assess. Small border disputes to mediate. His father had insisted it would be good for him—"to gain experience, to learn the pulse of the people." But all Telemachus remembered was the guilt of walking away. The weight of your eyes on his back. The question he hadn't answered.

The memory bloomed: soft and golden.

You were in your room. Late afternoon. The sun was sinking behind Ithaca's hills, casting amber light through the windows. The curtains glowed, sheer and golden, filtering the world in shades of honey and fire. The shadows were long, but warm. Safe.

You were sitting upright on your bed, legs curled to the side, a wall of pillows stuffed behind your back like a little fortress. Your divine lyre was in your lap, fingers plucking it in thought—not quite playing, not quite composing. Just drifting. Searching for something in the strings that hadn't taken shape yet.

He'd laid on his side beside you, one arm tucked under his head, watching.

That was all he did—just watched.

Your hair had caught the light like thread spun from flame. Your face, backlit in gold, looked like a painting—one of those sacred ones that hung in the halls of temples. Timeless. Distant. Something to be admired, not touched.

And yet you sat there, humming under your breath, not aware of the way you stole his breath every time you shifted in the light. Not aware of how long he'd been looking.

You'd smiled at him once—barely—and that had been enough to undo him.

He remembered thinking, I could stay like this forever.

But he hadn't said it.

Not then. Not when it would've mattered.

And now—gods, now the memory was louder than the silence he'd left you with.

A few more minutes passed.

Then, before he could stop it, the words spilled out like breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Are you happy here? In Ithaca, I mean."

Your fingers paused on the lyre. A soft, slow blink. You tilted your head, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

His eyes widened a fraction, and he sat up too fast, throat already closing around an excuse he hadn't built yet. "I—I didn't mean—" he began, but then stopped.

Before he could backtrack—before the lie could take shape—a pillow hit him square in the face. Soft. Playful.

You snorted, that breathy kind of laugh that curled his spine. "Why would you even ask that?"

Telemachus let the pillow drop slowly into his lap, eyes still a bit wide.

At the tip of his tongue was, "I don't know, just... wondering." Easy enough to say. Easy enough to let slide off into nothing.

But something inside him pushed. A flicker of honesty that didn't let go. And before he could smother it, he was rambling—words spilling out faster than his pride could stop them.

"It's just—so much's happened. Since Father came back. Since you found out you were blessed by Apollo..." He swallowed. "Since Lady showed up. Since Andreia, and you—"

He faltered. Looked down.

"You died."

The words left his mouth like a dropped stone. Heavy. Unavoidable.

He rubbed the back of his neck, face pinkening with quiet shame. "It's like—every time I think I've found steady ground, it cracks under me. Like the gods are playing a game I was never invited to, and I'm just... supposed to keep walking like nothing's shifting beneath my feet." His voice dropped, thickening. "And you..."

He looked at you then, really looked—like the words might break him.

"You keep getting dragged into it. Hurt by it. And I—I can't stop it. I want to. I swear I want to. But nothing I do feels like enough. I'm always a step behind. A moment too late. I just..." He dragged a hand through his hair, eyes flicking away. "I guess I needed to know if you're happy. Or if you're just surviving. Or that I need to—"

You let out a soft laugh—gentler than before, but real. You reached out, hand sliding into his. Warm. Steady. Your fingers squeezed, grounding.

"Telemachus," you said, smiling, "breathe."

He did.

Slowly. Deeply.

Once. Twice.

Then again, a little shakier this time, like he could force the nerves out of his chest if he just breathed hard enough. And then he looked away. Face red. Ears pink. "...Sorry," he mumbled. He sounded like he wanted to disappear into the sheets.

But you didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. Just scooted a little closer, the movement slow and easy like the sun shifting across the floor. Your lyre was set aside, its strings still humming faintly from your earlier touch.

"You worry too much," you said, nudging your knee against his. Then—without warning—you reached up and gave his head a light, playful shove. "One of these days you're gonna hurt that pretty head of yours, thinking so hard."

Telemachus scoffed under his breath, the sound half a laugh. "You think I'm pretty?" he quipped, turning toward you. His smile twitched wider when you rolled your eyes—but before you could shove him again, he caught your hand in his.

Warm. Easy.

He laced your fingers together, slow and sure, like he'd done it in a hundred dreams but never dared in daylight. Your hands fit. Stupidly well. Like they'd grown up waiting for each other.

He stared down at them for a moment—your thumb resting gently over his. His calluses brushing the back of your knuckles. And then...

"____."

He said your name.

Soft.

Like it was something fragile. Something he didn't want to break by accident.

Your eyes met his.

And gods, he forgot how to breathe again.

Because the light from the window was falling across your face just right—gold along your cheekbones, softening at your lashes—and for a second, you didn't look real.

His throat tightened.

"I just..." he started, the words catching before they landed. He looked down again, thumb brushing yours. "I don't know how to explain it. It's not just about safety. Or duty. Or the palace."

He looked up, met your gaze again, steadier now.

"I just want you to be happy."

Your expression softened.

"I want to be the reason you smile without thinking," he added, voice lower. "Even if it's just for a second. Even if I never say it right."

He swallowed, thumb still tracing that same little circle over your skin.

"I know I can't stop the storms. Or the gods. Or whatever it is that keeps pulling you out of reach... but if there's even one part of this world I get to protect—if there's anything I'm allowed to hold onto—it's this."

A beat passed.

His voice fell quieter.

"You."

And he said it like a promise.

Like he meant to spend the rest of his life trying to keep it.

Your breath hitched. Barely—but he felt it. Heard it. And when you said his name, soft and uncertain, it landed somewhere beneath his ribs. "Telemachus..."

Then came the smile.

Gods, that smile.

It bloomed slow, like sunlight warming over frost. But it grew. Glowed. Broke open across your face like a secret only he'd been trusted to witness. Your eyes shimmered—not with tears, not really, just... something misty. Something full.

And in that moment, Telemachus swore—swore by every god above and every stone beneath his feet—that he would make it true. That he'd keep you smiling like that, even if it meant burning his knees on every temple floor in Greece. Even if it meant clawing against fate itself.

But now?

Now he sat alone.

Back in that same room—your room—the light all wrong and the air too still. And gods, it clung. You clung. To the edges of the bench, to the shelf where your old lyre currently sit. To the pillow that still had a tiny indent where your elbow used to rest while you played.

And all he could think was—

You looked like a vision that day.

Like something he should've reached for. Should've held tighter. Should've said more to. Something he'd already begun losing, even as you smiled.

Everyone kept saying you'd be back. That you just needed time. That he was making something out of nothing.

But they don't feel the space you left behind. The ache of something missing that didn't have a name.

His throat tightened as his foot tapped once and then stilled. His hands sat heavy in his lap, fingers twitching like they were used to holding something—your hand, maybe. The frayed edge of your sleeve.

"I..." he tried to say—but the word caught in his throat, dying in the space between his teeth. Groaning softly, he dragged a hand down his face. "Gods..."

He missed it.

Gods, he missed you.

But missing wasn't a big enough word anymore. This—this was something else entirely. Not longing, not heartbreak. Something slower. Meaner.

Like a pressure behind his ribs that wouldn't ease. Like sitting in a room someone had just left, still warm with their breath.

And for the first time, he wondered—

Is this what she felt?

His mother. All those years spent waiting, weaving, pretending the ache was survivable. Was this what kept her up at night, this phantom-limb feeling of a person who should be there and wasn't?

He'd never understood it. Not really.

But now?

Now he did. Gods, he did.

The quiet. The wondering. The whiplash of carrying love when there's no one left to give it to.

Maybe this was what love became when you hoarded it too long—quiet, unused, and too late.

He had chances, and yet, he continued to spend them like they were infinite.

Time to tell you. Time to hold you. Time to press his forehead to yours and whisper something stupid, something small, like: "Stay."

But now? Now all he could do was wonder.

Were you happy, wherever you were?

Were you afraid?

Did you miss him the way he missed you, or had the gods already swallowed that part of you whole?

He closed his eyes, his hands curled into fists. He imagined you out there—walking along some path, under a sun that shone just for you, among gods who saw you as prophecy, as prize, as poetry.

But not as you.

Not the you who scrunched your nose at his old boots. Not the you who laughed so hard at his training stories that you nearly fell off the bench. Not the you who once fell asleep mid-conversation, your head tipping onto his shoulder like it belonged there.

He would give anything—anything—just to hold you again. Just to feel your hand slip into his and know you'd done it because you wanted to. Because you were still his. Not in title, not in fate. Just...

His.

And gods.

He hoped you still felt that too.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to ch.60 ┃ 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐧; lolol so happy you all enjoyed the last chappie, especially zeus, cuz he will be popping up in the isekai---as well as other works i have planned!! also, decided that i'll continue leaving notes under the fanart i recieve---they're just too amazing to not at least say something; someone helped/suggsted that i post them with the credits and whenever i get the chance to come back and edit the little notes when i have time, so i'll do that!! i already made a few comments on a few pics and will be sure to do the rest before re-uploading them onto the other platforms i post on ❤️❤️ also! i see you guys have lots of questions, so if you want, i can host a mini-q&a, but the twist it'll be interactive!! so that means i'll reply to whatever questions in character under the comments, which means more info/clarification for anything you'd wanted to know (i saw this done a few years ago from an book i read and had hella fun doing it/asking questions!) lemme know if you guys wanna try it!

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