run apollo run

mcknighty9  asked:

Tell me a bedtime story.

His father told him: “Do not fly too high, because the sun will melt your wings, and you will fall. Do not fly too low because the salt water will soften the wax, and you will fall.”

He didn’t listen, because he never listened. He didn’t listen.

If he had - he would have realized. No matter what, he falls.

He falls.


Apollo was very pretty. He kissed Icarus’s skin and called him a darling boy, and soon every time sunlight hit his skin it felt like a lover’s touch. He said come to me, come to me, and I will worship you, my days are full and busy and I will not have much time for you - but my nights are yours.

Who could refuse a god? Who could have god offer to worship them when they are nothing more than an aging inventor’s child, and say no?

If he’d listened to his father, he would have known - the sun never truly sets, there is no night, only places where the sun is absent.

Maybe if he’d listened to his father he could have refused Apollo, could have told the golden god of sunlight that he was happy where he was.

(He wasn’t, but if Apollo was going to lie to him it only seemed fair that Icarus did it in return.)

But he never listens.


So Icarus flies too high, leaving his father behind. He thinks if he can fly high enough fast enough then Apollo will be able to catch him, pluck him from the struggles of this mortal world.

But Apollo doesn’t come for him, and his wings melt. He goes crashing into the sea, and he doesn’t even have the time to tell his father he’s sorry.

He would have told his father that he was sorry.


He doesn’t die.

Poseidon is powerful and curious and considers Icarus to be a beautiful, curious thing.

Icarus did not know he was beautiful. Poseidon runs powerful hands over his hips, and Icarus doesn’t think Poseidon and Apollo know the same definition of beauty that he does.

When he thinks of beauty he thinks of his father’s machines, of stone walls that have been smoothed down so perfectly that they almost shine silver, of shadows dancing elegantly from a fire’s grasp.

He doesn’t think he’s any of these things. He doesn’t know what they mean when they call him beautiful, but he doesn’t think he likes it.


He is tired. Poseidon is very demanding, and every time the god comes to his bed Icarus feels likes he’s dying. It would be easier if Poseidon were a worse man, but he’s kind and thorough and Icarus always ends up having been satisfied but never really feeling satisfied.

He expects Poseidon’s wife to be angry with him, to hate him. He bumps into Amphitrite in the hall once. He bows low at the waist immediately, “I’m deeply sorry, my lady.” He wonders if she’ll kill him. He wonders if he’ll care.

She laughs, and it sounds like calm waves lapping at a shore. She presses two fingers underneath his chin and forces him to rise, then gently tilts his head to the side so she can see the trail of bite marks her husband has left down his neck. “Better you than me, my dear.” She pats his cheek twice and walks away.

What does that mean?


He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Not more than a decade, he thinks, though he hasn’t aged.

Nothing ever changes. The bite marks never truly fade before Poseidon adds more.

Icarus waits for Poseidon to be slumbering beside him one night before wrapping the sheet around his hips and tip toeing out of the room. He doesn’t hesitate before stepping outside of the palace walls, and instantly he’s drowning. He’s so deep in the sea that it’s a toss up about what kills him first, the pressure on his tender organs or the lack of air in his lungs.

Not that it truly matters. No matter what, Icarus dies.


He wakes up. Again.

“My lady,” he greets, bowing before a goddess with skin the color of potting soil and hair the richest red, like rubies, or - “Pomegranates,” he finishes, and Persephone, queen of the underworld, smiles.

She says, “I’ve had my eye on you.”

She says, “Amphitrite speaks well of you.”

She says, “I am gone six months out the year. My husband gets lonely.”

He’s dead. There’s nowhere else for him to go.

“Okay,” he says.


The snow begins to melt. Persephone leaves, and the underworld itself seems to mourn her absence. He waits tense in his room that first night, but no one comes.

Nor the second night.

Nor the third.

He can think of nothing more unpleasant than Persephone’s wrath, so on the fourth night he goes to Hades’s room. When the god answers he bows low and says, “Your wife the Lady Persephone sent me.”

Icarus doesn’t dare look up when Hades says, “My brother is quite cross with me. He came demanding you back. I was willing to hand you over, but my wife said she had use of you.”

He can’t return to Poseidon. It’s cold and dark and makes him feel worthless. Even if Hades is a harsh lover, he’s better than his brother. “She wishes me to provide you company. She says you get lonely.”

“Does she,” Hades drawls, and Icarus cringes. “Boy, look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

So Icarus does. Hades has nothing to the perfect symmetrical beauty of Apollo, nor the wild strength and power of Poseidon. Hades has skin like bleached wood and hair the color of machine oil, with dark, expressive eyes and a nose a little too strong for his face.

He looks like a person. Like Icarus’s father might have looked as a younger man. Like Icarus might have looked if he was allowed to grow old. He looks beautiful.

“Come with me,” he sighs, “if my wife wants you to keep me company, then you shall.”


He follows Hades around everyday. As he maintains the circles of the underworld, the lost souls, attends to the gods and other non-dead things that make their home in his domain.

Icarus starts helping. Hades is without his queen, and what he would normally do with her he now does alone. So Icarus looks over the passenger logs for ferry over the River Styx, addresses the complaints that are grave enough to filter their way through the palace, and when Hades looks particularly tense and lost Icarus brings him pomegranates.

Hades still doesn’t sleep with him.

Icarus doesn’t know if he’s disappointed by that or not, but he thinks he’s happy here.


“You know,” Hades says one day while they’re looking over reports, “they call you Thanatos.”

Death god. “Why?” he demands. He’s not afraid of Hades anymore. When Hades is upset he screams and yells, then he goes and sits in the garden Persephone made for him. He doesn’t lash out to hurt.

Hades smiles and doesn’t answer.


Icarus is there to help Persephone off of the ferry. “He’s missed you,” he says, holding out his arm for her to use as balance while she steps out of the boat.

She raises an eyebrow, “You know, they used to call me Kore.” She stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, “Thank you, Thanatos.”


Two hundred years later, in the midst of summer, Icarus gathers his courage and kisses Hades while both their hands are stained with ink and another war has made the lower levels of the underworld smell like corpse rot.

Hades kisses him back.

In two months, Persephone will kiss him for the first time as he helps her out of the ferry. Sometimes when things get stressful or Hades is upset, Icarus will climb into his lap and kiss him slowly.

They never sleep together.

Icarus is happy here.

gods and monsters series: part i

aj anthology “no use worrying”

translation: @gyakutensaibanvsaceattorney
raws/cleaning/typesetting: @officialbarokvanzieks

please do not remove caption, edit or repost ty

pixiv Zingaro Gallery at Nakano Broadway

I was in Tokyo this past week and thought I’d share photos of the gallery in case anyone wanted to see what it was like. The photos aren’t the greatest, I know. Sorry about that! I also took a video of the gallery that I may upload at some point.

A lot of the merch was sold out when I arrived (close to when the gallery was ending for the month), but luckily I came back another day and they had the keychains inspired by the second photo available again! I was lucky to get Maya and Edgey, but I wish I could’ve gotten Nick and Franzy as well!

(side note: I only noticed I wasn’t supposed to take a picture of the outside of the gallery when I was looking through my photos later… oops! Everything else was good for photos)


: an essay by me.

ALRIGHT SO; Recently ive been reading Puzzle Pieces ( a wonderful fic featuring baby polly being adopted by miles and a lovesick teacher phoenix who cant get over his childhood crush)


Running in the Shadows (a fic where Miles is a blind CEO by day, a vigilante like hero by night. And Phoenix is a single dad of two who is also a detective that is somehow involved with the mafia. Also metahumans) and I just need to vent after reading the 4th chapters of each of these fics?? Because?? They are so frigin good????

The way its all written, the character relationships and the plot is just so interesting and in a lot of cases so frigin adorable???? I think I found my two new favourite ongoing fics ever-



Puzzle Pieces:

Running in the Shadows:



YOU RUINED MY SLEEP SCHEDULE BUT IT WAS WORTH IT. Thank you very much for writting this and I hope you have very awesome and amazing day!!!!

We were Gods - Chapter 2

Golden; the lament of Patroclus

There’s a light in him. A molten skyline with soft edges and lazy thrown half-shades, that reflects like the blaze of fire on water. Pure, unbridled gasoline that pumps through his veins and pushes him - pushes pushes pushes - towards a larger goal, to something glorious, magnificent, real.

Sometimes he wakes in darkness that threatens to swallow him whole.

Sometimes he wakes in golden sunlight that catches in the little droplets of sweat on his front.

He’s not entirely sure which one is better.

He sorts his life in cycles and ages, and not in days or years like all the other do.

Patroclus is ten when Hector teases him about his olive skin and throws his gym clothes in a puddle of mud and rainwater.

Patroclus is thirteen when Apollo thinks he can beat the crap out of him.

(But Patroclus is fast, you see, and he runs and runs and runs until Apollo bends over and gasps for air like a fish on land.)

Patroclus is fourteen when he realizes he’s not like the other boys, because girls with bare legs and creamy skin or full, luscious lips do nothing for him.

Patroclus is seventeen when the sun blinds him and golden rays catch in the thick mess of curls of a young man; he meets Achilles.

It’s not until then, that his life finally starts.

Achilles runs.

Achilles always does.

Achilles runs if he’s angry. Achilles runs if he’s happy. And Achilles runs if he’s nearly collapsing from the weight on his shoulders.

So, Achilles runs.

And Patroclus watches him.

He watches him, because he loves the way the sun plays with Achilles‘ hair, or the way his face lightens up in the gold.


Always gold.

He loves him.

Tomorrow, Patroclus thinks and rests silent. I’ll tell him tomorrow.

Would you -

the boy breathes against his lips.

Legs intertwined, heat rising between them, fingers pressing in the hollows under his chin -

Yes, he answers, I would.

One day, he steals Hector’s aviators.

The boy can deal.

They look better on Patroclus anyway.

Demeter’s Diner is green and warm, with a ton of tropical flowers standing all around; a palm in the corner, golden Musas on the table, Hibiscus hanging in gaudy pink on the wooden counter. The wood and straw remind him often enough of a Haitian tiki bar. Patroclus loves it - three days a week he works Persephone’s shift so the girl can have some time off.

Achilles visits him every shift. He drinks a soda and talks when no customers are around. Sometimes he eats a Blueberry muffin and Patroclus observes, fascinated by how little crumbs of pastry stick to the corner of his mouth. The moment goes on, Patroclus eyes transfixed on Achilles‘ mouth - Achilles licks his lips.

Tomorrow, Patroclus thinks again and rips his eyes away, busies himself cleaning the counter with an old blue rag. I’ll tell him tomorrow.

He wants Achilles like he wants a punch in the mouth.

Like blood sweeping between his teeth and lips.

He wants to watch Achilles unravel, like a mess of guts churned together and being pulled apart one by one.

He wants Achilles.

But the risk asking Achilles if he wants him too is simply too high.

I would, Patroclus says.

You would what? -

Confusion. Hope. Fingertips painful around his throat.

I’d do anything, Patroclus answers again.


Hector corners him after his last history period.

Patroclus’ back hits the cold surface of the old school building and the rough masonry scratches through the thin cotton shirt he wears. The sun radiates its unyielding shine from the sky and dips the schoolyard in a sea of rich gold.

Achilles, he thinks and closes his eyes against the warm breeze.

Achilles, he thinks again when Hector’s fist meets his jaw.

I really need there to be Trucy and Maya interaction please.