one moment daxon is trying to be cute and tug everett closer to him and the next he's watching as the son of hypnos submerges himself beneath the water. a laugh ripples out of his chest, gravellike and amused. he's shaking his head when everett finally emerges from beneath the water and he almost wants to reach out to steady him.
he doesn't, though, because he's letting everett talk. he missed what he said, maybe he wanted to be the one who to ask daxon out?
his smiles stretches over his features, his dimples showing as he moves through the water to sit beside everett. he tosses his arm over his shoulder, hand moving to comb through the bleached undercut as he leans in to kiss everett's cheek. “i'd love to go on a date with you.” he says the words easily, without much hesitation at all. he finds himself wanting to get to know the slumber lord, even if that's just during them napping together. “do you want to do that in tokyo or do you want to wait until we're back at camp?” while he might want to go right after this bath session, he could understand if everett wants to take things slower.
“whatever you decide, i'm fine with. but i did find some cool places for food i want to stop at before we go back. maybe we grab a bite to eat and then we do something you want to do?”
Those dimples were going to be the death of Everett, eventually. It would be a cute death, at least. He flushed a deeper shade as Daxon moved to place an arm around him; Everett settled against him as if falling into a comfortable pattern. A natural fit.
“Umm… Tokyo has been fun and all, but a lady sprayed me with a squirt bottle yesterday for falling asleep on a park bench. Not cool.” Plus he was a bit of a homebody, he had a big, comfy bed waiting for him and a big – well – he didn't need to beat a dead horse; but he would: Daxon's footlong was more appealing to him than all the late night coffee shops in Japan. The man attached to that snausage as well was…
Butterflies.
No, really – a few of them seemed to manifest, fluttering over Everett's head as he stared back up at Daxon for a few seconds too long without finishing the thought he'd started. “But um… well… uh…" A little bashfully, Everett added, “I think I'd go anywhere with you.” He smiled with a sheepish, bashful curl of his lips – idly reaching out to intertwine his fingers with Daxon's – playing with them just at the surface of the water as he worked to keep his hands busy. Fiddling with Daxon's bruised knuckles, brushing his digits gently against his chest before he shrugged. ”I like cool places with food, when we get back to the island I can take you to my favourite spot."
To say Teddy was worried would have been an understatement. The mission had proved more difficult than anticipated, enemies besieging them by surprise, but he should have done something when they took Archimedes. Always passive, forever docile, a little lamb he was, helpless as he watched his friend get taken away.
He didn’t know if he was made out to be a hero. A politician, perhaps, as that heritage had run in his family for generations, but as far as he knew, he was the first half-god out of the entire Priscott lineage. Some novel combination of ichor and legacy had created him: a hero caught in constant battle with his own expectations, a forever tug of war.
But having very real stakes always galvanized someone to grow, to harden, to evolve. Drawing on his own worry for his captured friend, Teddy had devised a way to use his magic as sort of a scrying tool, relying on detecting emotions to track their enemies down. The strings of emotions, though, were strange yet familiar … and as they entered the cave strewn about with the dead, Teddy quickly recognized them to be Archimedes’s, leading them to him.
“Thank god, you’re-” alive, he wanted to say, but his word died in his mouth as soon as he registered the sight before him. Truly registered it. Teddy’s throat went dry, and he gulped. He couldn’t stop his eyes from openly admiring what hung between the other’s legs, impressive even in its flaccid state.
The rattling of chains stamped out the little trance. “Right. I am- here to free you.” Teddy hurried over, going to immediately fuss with the cufflinks. The only problem? He didn’t know exactly how to undo them. “Okay, just- yeah. I can do this.” More trying to solve the problem, less thinking about how close they were now.
“But you know, this might be cosmic justice for the, uh, impolite welcome to the island you gave me.” A chuckle left him unbidden, during which he looked at Archimedes and found the other staring as well. They were close. Tantalizingly close, the distance enough for him to memorize all the colors within the other's eyes. “Don't suppose you saw any of our lovely friends on the ground here holding a key?” he whispered. There was no need to speak louder than this when their lips were almost touching.
“Staring at my cock might get a rise, but it sure as shit won't get me out of here.” Archimedes rattled the chains to further dispel the dickomtism that Teddy was trapped in. He got it, really – he did – but he couldn't feel his god damn fingers anymore. Still, there was that grim satisfaction in knowing what he'd always known to be true: the beefy little American prince wanted it, but back then he'd just been too stuck up to admit it.
Naturally, he'd have to suffer.
As the good old boy fussed with the chains – close enough to smell Archie's breath – the son of Persephone leaned a little at the waist, letting the soft ridge of his cock bump against the front of the other's questing attire. He craned in at the neck, stubble brushing Theodore's pale cheek, “The scrawny one in the red, check his pocket.” Archimedes swung back a little, content to get the fuck out of here and leave Teddy with a swollen set.
It couldn't have been more than a few months later before they were on another assignment, this one required more tact… More diplomacy and subterfuge. Archimedes had the charm to work a room but at his core he'd still grown up on an island packed with demigods – his social graces weren't where they needed to be, but Theodore was a senator's son and had apparently inherited more than the metabolism of a fucking bull.
“Mhm, of course – certainly.” Archimedes affirmed, lending a bit of an advantage to Teddy as he remained entrenched in conversation with a suspected diplomat. Discreetly, Archie's hand lifted behind Theodore – slipped up the back of his jacket – found the interior seam of his shirt… And began to draw a line down the length of his spine… featherlight, callouses running against the unblemished skin of a pampered boy.
between the stammering and the peeking-between-the-fingers, ricky reached up and tugged his hat down to be a little more settled on his head. letting his idle builk and build shift and settle as he did so; fully putting himself on offer. it's no fun if someone doesn't sweat a little, right? even if he'd already sweat enough for both of them.
"okay, 'not me'."
still spread out and laid at an angle, he turned his head to fully focus on this one more than the fighting at hand. "ender? it's ricky." nice and easy. "I'd offer to shake, but I'm way to comfortable right now, and you probably don't want this." chuckling, as he shook out a damp hand. there was probably a towel within reach...somewhere. "think so?" head tilting up, chest puffing with a bit of easy pride. "see, it's all in the vision." he leaned a little more towards ender, careful not to fall off the bench. "can see when something's gonna go bad. so I shift and adjust, make sure it's gonna go good. but you really gotta wait for it to be a bad one, right? or else they're never gonna commit to anything, since they never get a hit on you otherwise." that, and moros only seems to send him the really bad ones. like a spear to the belly. that probably would've sucked, if he'd let it happen.
not his preferred method of getting impaled by a man. good grip and heft, though.
"know I said it can take a while, but what would it take to see you out there some time?" head tilted. door left open, proverbially. a bolder man might walk through. "could start with some basic stuff. get your form right, see what fits in your hands. strip you down, slap some armor on you."
“Wow you um… You sound like you've been at this a while.” Maybe that confidence came with time, but even the thought of stepping out there… In front of everyone, that tied something vicious in his stomach. He'd freeze, he'd get sick, he'd screw it up – that's what he did, every time.
How many shades of scarlet could a person turn in a single interaction? In Ender's time at the island it seemed that the age old adage was true: the limit did not exist. Through every action taken by the muscular hunk sprawled across the bench, Ender had to look anywhere but in the direction of the B in his A to B conversation. Every time he attempted to chance a look he ended up following a bead of sweat; there was one at the hunk's temple, another disappearing between his thigh – “Gosh, the clouds sure look nice today.” He swallowed, pointing at one of the few, sparse, thin clouds overhead, “You think Olympus is on one of those like in Hercules?” He asked… Ignoring basically the entire second half of the line of questioning. Not quite intentionally, it was just that he was too nervous to respond, too sure that there was a joke in there somewhere at his expense – and too positive that he'd only make a fool out of himself.
Ender was also sweating, which felt sudden. His back hadn't been wet before, he was pretty sure about that, and that little trickle running down his spine was also a new development. “I'm um –” just be fucking normal, End. “I'm not much of a f-fighter.” Stupid stutter.
What was this guy's name again? R… Richard? Rodger? Ender had gotten lost in his eyes at some point. Hunk, while appropriate, was a little rude – wasn't it? But he couldn't ask again, could he? No, new plan: wait to hear someone else say the Hunk's name, yes – perfect. Fool proof. Ender-proof as his brothers and sisters would say.
@heroicfolklores
location: an undisclosed location, off island -- during an active quest.
notes: a series of flashbacks & vignettes
Humiliation wasn't a good look on him, but everyone could make a stupid mistake, everyone could end up outnumbered, and everyone could end up in nothing but their fucking birthday suit – cuffed and hanging from their wrists by a set of manacles designed specifically to keep them from any funny business.
Still, those measures didn't do much against what was already planted. Impaled on thorns, blood leeched, their will to live sapped – one by one these would-be-captors dropped like flies… And yet, the chains remained. An unfortunate turn of fucking events.
So there Archimedes stood, wrists purpling as he waited – hoping – for the rest of the party to find him. Now and then he wriggled, tugged, and pulled – but it was to no avail. Short of breaking his own hands with instruments he couldn't reach, there was no getting out of this alone. The rescue party in question comprised at least one little fledgling that Archimedes had taunted not five days prior when good Theodore turned up on the island. The fates had a sick sense of humour,
“Tch –” A cruel scoff accompanied the sharp twist of the demigod's smirk, cocky still despite the precariousness of his position – all confidence in the face of the buttoned-up good boy. “Looks like you won't just have to picture me naked anymore, pretty boy.” Archimedes tugged on the chains, rattling them overhead, “Now get me the fuck out of here.”
[ michele morrone, bisexual, cismale & he/him ] — a new age of heroes approaches, among those is ARCHIMEDES FRISCIA, child of PERSEPHONE. they have walked this earth for 35 YEARS, living in ROME, ITALY, as a UNEMPLOYED, until they came to the isle of olympus 34 YEARS ago. they will carve their name in myth with their TACTFUL, METICULOUS, & WILLFUL but the fates know of their ARROGANT, NARCISSISTIC, & APATHETIC that may immortalize them forever. the battles ahead will shape them into who they are destined to be, but will this cause the age of the gods to fall and the age of monsters to rise? only the fates know the truth and those prophecies have yet been uttered. let their heroism shine against the challenges ahead. godspeed, demigod!
𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝
Full Name: Archimedes Friscia
Face Claim: Michele Morrone
Divine Parent: Persephone
Birth Date: January 1st, 1991
Gender: Cismale
Relationship Status: Physically single, emotionally handcuffed to a bedpost.
Sexual Orientation: Bisexual, Homoromantic
Preferences: Strict Top
𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬
Power Manifestation: An orchard of twisting, necrotic trees -- a halo of chthonic spores -- vitality pulled from the limbs of his enemies; the roots of the earth bulging with the memories of dried, dead bones. The longer he fights, the stronger he and his allies become -- and the more certain defeat for those who stand against them.
Fighting Style: Versatile, he prefers to weaken enemies at a range or finish them from far off but has enough experience to be competent in either.
D&D Parallel: Circle of Spores Druid
Scars:
Favourite Music:
Tattoos:
𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲
Tbd
Tldr: Born under unfortunate circumstances in Rome, Italy in a traditional and ancestral home that was still decorated with the remains of the dead (outlawed in Italy in the 1940s).
Family took a trip and ended up lost in a storm, still an infant, Archimedes was found washed up on the shore swaddled and bearing his father's family crest.
Awakened during adolescence, moved into the Persephone cabin shortly after.
"Should I start calling you gramps now?" The retort was almost immediate from the child of the spectres. Head tipped toward Fletcher as soon as he'd become aware of another presence alongside his own in the bathhouse. Well. Another living presence. Did he want to spend time lingering on why the dead were also just... present near enough everywhere he went? Absolutely not, he was here to relax and not deal with that. Instead, he watched the other's approach, clocked those noises.
They were something of a contrast. The other reinforced himself, made himself sturdier in the middle of the fray, while Riaan left himself exposed. Dropped his guard as a way to bait others in to his range, kept them on their toes with little regard for his own safety. It's why his body remained a tapestry of scars.
"Only because you asked nicely." He did still roll his eyes a little, before shifting his way around the edge of the tub. Bringing himself up from the water, settling instead on the edge with a leg either side of Fletcher, and reaching a hand down to begin a steady pressure against where the other's neck met his shoulder.
Magic hands – magic in general – maybe. Fletcher would take whatever he could get from the son of all those spirits that the moonborn knew so little about. There was a haunted quality to the other he couldn't realistically relate to; Fletcher's life was more charmed than most right up until it wasn't, but even now he'd come well into his own. A life led without regrets, or at least without enough afterthought to consider them.
“Oof – yeah that's the spot man.” Fletcher groaned, his head knocked a little to the side – forehead bumping against Riaan's knee as he did. As if on habit, his hand brushed against Riaan's shin where he felt the gouge of a long-healed scar, the tissue knit unseemly back into place. He didn't think enough about it as he maybe should have, perhaps not as selfless as one might say a demigod ought to be – but he'd never claimed to be much of a hero – and by antiquities standard, he was doing just fine.
Still, as he craned his neck a bit to give Riaan better access, body leaning flat against the edge of the tub, against whatever parts of the other he could, his thumb brushed that same scar. “Where'd this one come from?” If Riaan even remembered – there was enough of them to have forgotten more than a few.
luckily for vincent, it was indeed marshall's hotel room.
unluckily for the both of them, marsh had both arms full of stacked dessert boxes when he kicked his door open. for two sons of hermes, the next series of events likely occurred in something akin to slow motion.
marsh was not aware of the very handsome, naked man flying towards his legs. that meant he didn't have that many thoughts about it until it happened. so, boxes went flying in every possible direction. cream puffs, cake slices, jiggly miniature cheesecakes, all sorts of things.
for all intents and purposes, marsh was delighted by the plot twist.
nowhere near as fast as his brother, marsh only had time to be di(ck)stracted by so much. one marh stood in the hallway, stunned. one marsh valiantly tried to twist to fall onto his back, arms spread to catch whatever confections he could. one marsh considered it a wash and aimed to dive on top of vincent himself, much more drawn to the sweet treat of his brother's lips, his body underneath him. one marsh flailed on his way down, arms waving wildly in a way that would absolutely destroy the largest amount of desserts possible.
which marsh was real?
briefly, he did try to settle on vince, to feel his brother warm against him. then he returned to the true effort of landing on his own back and butt, arms outstretched. what would vincent choose to do?
Fortunately for Vincent and unfortunately for Marsh, the other had already explained the gist of how this expression of his domain worked. They were all real for the briefest of instances, and in those brief moments of flickering reality – Vincent thrived. He was a tangle of limbs on the floor until his tongue was tracing Marsh's neck in the hallway; he was swishing a piece of frosting mid air before he was gliding it over Marsh's lips as he tried to fall onto his back – pressing it across his tongue; he was taking a firm feel of Marsh's ass – squeezing firmly and playfully; he was greeting Marsh's lean to with his own, mouth meeting his brother's with wanting gree; he was – at last – waiting for Marsh as he fell. A soft-ish place to land with a bit of an “Oomph.” As Vincent's face screwed up a bit – though he couldn't appear more blissful as a myriad of desserts splattered the ground around them, his body, their bodies.
Vincent's tongue moved over his lips as he laid on the floor beneath Marsh, holding the other across his waist as a set of digits walked up Marsh's thigh. “Oh no… I made a mess, didn't I?” His fingers got as far as the other's waist, his backside – suddenly hoisting him a bit closer. “I'll have to make it up to you…”
There was no shame in the way his cock was big, and that made up for a lot of sins. He could feel the want and need as he looked at his cock.
"Don't worry, I'm sure we can get that pretty smile to the base of my cock, even if it takes some time." He let out a low moan as the lips wrapped around the head of his cock as the hands started to move along his shaft. "I doubt anyone could find us in this hideaway anyway," he spoke as he felt precum start to bead off the head of his cock as he looked down at his brother.
The hand found the back of his head and slowly pushed him along the shaft, his cock knowing where the other could take him to right before the choking and gagging started. Once he felt the tightness of the back of his throat, he guided him back. "Fuck missed how good your mouth around my cock."
The praise did wonders, Vincent always did enjoy a reward system. He snickered – despite his lips being stretched around Jasper's head – and tasted the salt of him as the heavy feel of his brother's crown laid firm against the rough brush of Vincent's tongue. Salivating over Jasper's cock, he pulled back enough to lay a heavy gob of spit and pre across the top, stroking him, “Afraid the locals will judge – or get jealous?” Vincent mused, replacing his lips over his brother again as he felt that familiar hand find the back of his head – guiding him down inch by heady inch.
There was that familiar hard press before Vincent barely made it to the midpoint, and immediately he felt his throat lurch around him. Coughing a messy wheeze even as Jasper guided him back – where Vincent's mouth failed to reach, his hands worked over – following the trail his lips left behind as he coughed into his hand, sniffling a bit before he looked back up at his brother. “That right – ?” he mused, eyes only a bit bleary, “So… guess I'll take it slow then. Let you savour it.” Him too, obviously.
Vincent's tongue moved over his lips, clearing his throat as his wrist twisted his grip near the top of Jasper's cock. His mouth followed, hollowing his cheeks as best he could around the girthy shaft, sucking his tongue against the softer, veiny underside of his brother. Bliss followed, clear pleasure evident as Vincent abandoned the use of his hands to bob and swivel at the first – more manageable inches – working his own dick out of his pants to jerk himself off as he took hold of Jasper's base once again.
Wandering into the wrong person’s room had proved a serendipitous surprise, it seemed, as Napoleon’s hands held onto the sides of a beautiful man now trying to sit on his fully erect dick, thighs straddling him rather expertly. “You’re a big fan of Napo here?” he asked through a droopy grin, one that vanished soon after as he sucked in his lower lip to bottle up a groan. He couldn’t let the choir out yet, but the squeeze of Vince’s walls made it quite the challenge. They gripped onto him hotly, velvety in feel and all but divine in their squeezing of his girth.
A girth that, by all means, defied expectations with how thick he was – especially near the middle, bulbing out so that when he was in, he held on. But the other proved quite skillful as well, making his eyes momentarily roll as he took in the entirety of the length with ease, that ring consuming every inch in earnest until it reached base. The heat, the squeeze, and that rascal’s smile and challenge – gods, he could not even think to stop himself from busting right then and there, exploding like a pressurized hose within the heat he had nestled himself in.
Groaning, Napoleon fought through the haze of his powerful – and the very first – orgasm to latch onto the other’s hipbones to start bucking. Heavy strokes, upwards, pushing all the girth into Vince and dragging it all so heavily back out, with a growing grin on his face. “Don’t know if you’ve heard, but I recover quick and store quite a flood in my balls,” he breathed out. “Hold tight, my love, ‘m about to– move–” And the barrage started, a sudden upward pounding into the other from underneath, each thrust accentuated by a wet squelch as the load leaking back out of Vince began to foam a salty white.
The stallion did not disappoint, not by a mile. Thick in general and in unexpected places, Vince felt himself locked into place as his thighs moved in easy tandem – bucking up – before gliding back down. His firm, hot embrace sheathing Napoleon entirely even as Vince felt like his body might split through his core. In college he'd been a star athlete, as popular around the locker room as he was with his twin brother; naturally, Vincent liked to perform and being a demigod had only hardened his already toned frame, had ramped up endurance, and pushed his tolerance beyond mortal measure.
His speed, as well, was nothing to dismiss.
Practically buzzing around Napoleon's cock as he hummed with speedy influence, feeling the great rush of a tide that washed inside of him. Vincent's cock, hefty as it was, worked more as a joystick than anything else. He liked what he liked, only leaning in the other direction when a very particular mood struck. His fist ramped up, his arm blurring as he caught the world in what seemed like a slow motion. The stillness of Napoleon's face caught in mid bliss, the slow crawl of the son of Poseidon's gushing seed flooding him within – a cacophony of expression flashed across Vincent's features – too quick to easily discern, then he erupted with force and vigor of his own. Ropes like a shotgun splattering Napoleon's abdomen, chest, and beard.
Still, with the son of Poseidon firmly locked in, Vincent intended to milk everything he could. “C'mon baby--” he mused, half-thoughtful and half-fucked-stupid, “y'know I can take it.” He abandoned his cock to splay his hands on either side of Napoleon's head as he felt the wet squelch of him draw out, only to slam back in as the chaotic thoughts ping ponging around his head went off like an arcade machine. Sweat beading off his brow as he managed to bear down with instruction, fingers combing through Napoleon's damp hair as Vincent arched against him – full but still wanting – a rumble sputtering up from his chest as he roared with ecstacy.
Spilling over the rim of his hole, flooding the base of Napoleon's shaft and leaking over that heavy sack, Vincent felt the limpness of his body in real time as the kinetic energy of the atmosphere buzzed in his ears – vision momentarily blurring – as he reached behind him with a lazy grin and stroked at the heavy base beneath that bulbous seal. Fingers messy with salt and foam, sticky as his free hand slid over Napoleon's chest – gathering some of his load – before slipping it into Napoleon's mouth. “How's that, huh?"
He’d been bombarded with a whole lot of information real fast over the last few days but it didn’t overwhelm him. Well, it didn’t crack that cool and calm exterior he always exuded, even when things were more tumultuous below it. He did like to keep his hands busy, though, and this island was severely lacking in big metal things to tinker on to pass the time. So, what else to do but get his hands dirty in the land, just like mom probably would’ve liked. His biological… goddess of a mom.
He saw someone up to something nearby and Danny was too nosey to not check it out. He’d apologize for snooping if it was practically anyone else, sadly. But Fidele would see the most brief slip of that mask as surprise took over his face. Then it was gone, replaced with a small smirk and tilt of his head. Because why would anyone be here?
On the list of people Fidele might've expected to run into, Danny was at the very bottom. For a brief moment he caught himself flitting through the old rolodex of memories he hadn't touched in a decade – looking for a sign of a symptom. Even in this, his mind's eye came up wanting: in the moment he'd been too caught up, and too engrossed to notice anything particularly supernatural. Quirks of theirs were easy to dismiss, and for someone like Fidele – who'd kept everything personal to him, discreet – it was hard to see clearly through the shadows.
“You had a sloppy hook up and ended up half-goat-by-injection?” Quipped back quickly as he gave Danny a bit of a once over; a lot of years separated the bucks they'd been and the men they were today. “Congrats, now show me your fuzzy little tail, bambi.” He ran the joke a little while longer before finishing the job he'd been working on the peel to pull a full wedge free – an easy gesture in the other's direction. “How'd you find out?” They all had their stories, some more treacherous than others; Fidele's glock came with a hell of a clip these days.
@ingentlewhispers
location: Bathhouse
notes: 1 year ago
Three years onto the island and at every turn Tomas was found a surprise waiting around every corner. Every mission was different, every obstacle required a more creative approach than before – and when it came to who emerged from the Temple – there was really no knowing what they might be like. The children of the Gods were more varied and diverse than the Olympians themselves. Tomas enjoyed being kept on his toes, he enjoyed the lack of predictability to it, and he relished in the instant gratification that came with saving a life.
But, as any hero would tell you, rest and recovery was just as important. Tomas liked to indulge in as much within the baths of the antiquated style of the bathhouse, admiring the glimpses of flesh punctuating the warm curl of steam swirling off the water's surface.
In the life that Tomas had lived before this, love at first sight wasn't a concept he'd ever prescribed to. There was something to be said about the feeling that people often spoke of: when you know, you know. While Tomas wouldn't go so far as to broadcast as much, he could say with confidence that when he first saw Jannik whatever else was happening in the bathhouse seemingly dissolved. The lights seemed a bit dimmer, and Tomas found himself suddenly grateful that a demigod's awakening didn't come with an expiry.
Only a little coy, his hand lifted from the water – and waved.
@ichorlacedblood
location: the market (island edition)
notes: insert pithy comment here
What could one say about the resources on the island? While the digital detox had taken time, there was a playful simplicity to haggling with merchants, in trading a few gold for a trinket or regressing into the bartering system instead. Whatever worked in the moment – truthfully he found that most people on the island had little use for gold. They could grow, build, or create most of what they needed but now and then the odd import graced the stands.
Even before a deranged man had stormed into his office and made attempt on his life – Cooper loved a deal. His room in the Moros cabin was decorated with all the chachkies as proof of the bad habit, the “loot” he returned with held the same benchmark of practically useless but sentimentally valuable… Assuming he remembered where he'd procured it from.
“You have it all wrong,” Cooper argued with the especially fuzzy satyr that stood opposite the stall, “this is a genuine scale ripped from the hide of a hydra only a year ago –” It had made a lovely bookend, “that should get me an extra bottle at least.” The goat-like beard twitched, but Cooper got nowhere – relenting and making out with only one of bottle of bouza. It wouldn't do much for him as a demigod, but he did enjoy collecting things and the egyptians had a five-thousand year history of making beer.
Catching sight of a familiar, pink tuft of hair, Cooper bumped his brother's shoulder, “Find anything you like?”
@aetherumbra (danny)
location: farmland of some kind on the island
notes: hello again
There was something inherently mischief to plundering the fields before anyone else could get to them, but they had to understand – oranges were in season – were Fidele's sticky fingers not meant to find the roundest, ripest one, and rip it straight from the tree. Usually it didn't earn him much more than a stern look or a finger wag from one of the Demeter kids that maintained this place, but what was the point in living on a commune if you couldn't take advantage of someone else's hard work?
Fidele pressed his prize to the bark of a nearby orange tree, then rolled the skin across the rough surface to make the peel lift a bit easier. He was pretty sure he'd gotten away with it too until he heard the telltale crunch of dry grass and a rustle through the canopies – the shadows reached for him intrinsically – coiling over his frame and preparing to dissolve him completely before whatever budding concentration was building immediately fell away.
In eleven years – and even longer – Fidele had seen his fair share of ghosts.
@ scout
location: dealer's choice
notes: sorry to scout, sorry to this man.
The last time Oliver was in Tokyo it was for a work conference, in standard order he hadn't done much in the way of sightseeing – touristy things – had never quite interested him. Back then he'd only ever seen his career; family, friends, and small distractions never landed on the radar. Inevitably, it made for an incredibly predictable life with outcomes that were easily traced back as natural consequences. Respected in his field, but divorced; a full itinerary, but nothing and no one waiting for him at home.
On the island, little had changed. Bronte was fond of reminding Oliver as such, though from his own vantage point their footing wasn't entirely dissimilar – though perhaps for entirely different reasons. This wasn't the first time the demigods had been metaphorically unleashed upon a community, though Tokyo would likely never be the same after whatever trains of debauchery were presently running rampant… Oliver had resolved, to some degree, to make attempts at being social… To get out into the city and enjoy what there was to see.
Though, what he saw was a familiar face – one that was likely trying to appear inconspicuous for whatever nefarious purpose – and Oliver didn't clock in the slightest. “Scout!” He called out, strolling up toward the other without any thought toward what repercussions announcing the demigod's presence may yield. “Are you cold – why is your hood up?”
