𓃫 𓃫 𓃫

l1lxth​:

              Hisako showed up on zero hours of sleep and zero food since sometime yesterday when she inhaled a cup of noodles,    so she’s as dazed as someone can be without the help of drugs.   She takes a seat in one of the chairs Yousef pulls out–    shoulders hunched,   hands in pockets,   staring at their surroundings like it all makes her head hurt–    the opposite image of Yousef’s sprawl. 

     “Huh?”    She glances at him when she hears her name,    then nods quickly.    “Oh,   yeah,    no one’s paying attention,”     she replies and abruptly looks away again.    They would’ve been recognized by now,    but no one batted an eyelash when they stepped into the cafe–    Lilith likes to go by undetected wherever she goes,    and even moreso with Yousef next to her today.    He’s gotten better,    but the event still has her nerves on edge.    It wasn’t exactly pleasant to watch him get shot.

     Just to be sure,    it suddenly seems darker in their little corner of the cafe.    “So,     what’d you want?”

It was unnerving, to say the least, seeing the shadows close in around her. Unnatural, was what she’d call it, but Aruna remembers that she was in close proximity to gods, and was trying not to freak out about everything. If only she had cameras now—her manager was going to have her head if he ever found out, but at the moment, she really didn’t care.

“The attempts at your life, Set. Few journalists are going for the conspiracy angle, trying to find out what’s happening,” she says, simply. Her hand holds the coffee, the heat grounding her to the moment. In, out, report. “I asked around, got some—some guy in the deep web to get police records, CCTV footage. Probably broke a few laws, if they found out, but I—”

She produces a phone, which plays a soundless scene. A woman, fighting with someone off-screen, shouting and glowing, power radiating off her, until a hand is shown snapping their fingers. At once, the body loses its head in a burst of light, the rest of it crumpling down. As inching darkness roils from the corner, the walls start to catch flame. “That was Katherine Sato, day of her—her murder. I thought you might want to,” she continues, “I don’t know. I just thought you all might want to see it.”

Yousef watches, and though he never shifts from his belligerent sprawl, his expression tightens as the video continues. He hadn’t thought he’d be witnessing the recording of a fellow god’s murder this morning, but there it is. No doubt about it.

“Well,” he says steadily. The video has ended; Yousef’s left staring at the freeze-frame of creeping fire and Katherine’s headless body. “That’s interesting, isn’t it?” And he holds his hand out to his left, just in time for someone in too much of a hurry to drop their box of donuts into his waiting grip. Yousef tosses the box on the table, selects the donut that looks like it has the most sugar content, and tucks in.

@svtekh​ and @l1lxth​

She had been waiting in the coffee shop for a good couple of minutes, and Aruna felt cold, even under several layers. Maybe it was nerves, or maybe it was what she knew—either way, she had to tell someone. “I was afraid you might not show. Is there anywhere we can… talk?”

“Oh, I’m sure Lilith can do something fun to ensure we won’t be overheard,” Yousef drawls, pulling two chairs out.

He seats himself at one, a long, indolent sprawl, clearly no intention of moving from this cafe. Fortunately for them all, he’s heroically restrained himself from wearing what he wanted to (a tribute to Carmen Sandiago) and has instead gone with a camo scarf. You know. For camouflage when being sneaky.

“Do whatever. I’m not stopping you.” Percy’s sitting next to him, putting a hand on the shoulder that wasn’t profusely bleeding onto an expensive whatever that was around it. His heart is pounding, and if he’d had his wings out, he assumed they would puff up the way birds are when they were threatened. There wasn’t much he could do as Eros to help, except stand still and look pretty. Maybe lob some pink arrows at the shooters, but what good with neon arrows do against sniper rounds?

“Could you just do it when your shoulder’s healed up,” he continues, poorly trying to mask the worry in his voice. He hears the storms overhead, between the beating of his heart, and it all feels so exhausting, practically seeping into the marrow. Maybe now, he understands how the Fates feel. Somewhat. “Please, Yousef. I’m so… tired of funerals.”

Yousef is not in the business of being reassuring. He does not Share Emotions, he does not pat people on the shoulder and tell them it’s all going to be okay. (Ignore the times he has in fact done these things.)

But at the slump in Percy’s shoulders, the worry and exhaustion he’s practically fucking radiating, Yousef softens. The thunder quietens -- for now, at least. Because Thoth’s funeral was-- it was awful. And right now, the others are probably thinking about just what they’d do at Set’s funeral. Half of them would probably be expecting it to be a prank.

“can’t say i know the feeling, but it doesn’t sound too fun. though, the flair isn’t lost, not even with the–” the brunet gestured at the patched-up wound under the stained dior scarf– “… does that make you feel better?” tiago offered, as if poorly-timed half-assed cautious comedy were to help a friend in any way. he hadn’t reacted as quickly as the others at the sound of the shattering glass and the bullet shots, still somewhat absorbed by hecate’s warning. now, however, his radial artery grazed the cuff of his jacket, his pulse quick due to the surprise. a god bleeding was a rare (and somewhat unnerving) sight to witness, even to someone so used to seeing crimson spouting from fractures and wounds on a nightly basis. 

 “not up to me to decide that. if it had been that easy to see their faces, don’t you think half of the city wouldn’t be tracking their asses down already?” 

Does the fact that his bleeding gunshot wound is wrapped in a Dior scarf help?

“It does. A little,” Yousef admits at length, reluctant. “It makes me look good, and it’s funny that I’m bleeding all over something that cost one of these assholes a few hundred bucks.” So yeah, it cheers him up somewhat. Helps keep his mind off the fact that he’s a god and he’s leaking blood like some kind of fucking mortal.

Tiago’s right, of course. The shooter’s identity has to be unknown. The second it’s known, Set’s fans are going to swarm them and kill them, if at all possible. Mob justice at its most obsessive.

                    “Not legally,”     Hisako is crouching next to Yousef with a big deal of gloominess about the whole situation.   Her head is hung in his direction and there’s not much else she can do besides make them harder to spot in case the shooters are still watching from somewhere.    Her face seems to be casted in shadow.    Lilith might be making the atmosphere all that more unbearable;    making feelings overflow within the surrounding human’s chests,     but it’s not like she’s trying to tap into the power of influence.    She’s pissed off and it’s bleeding out on its own. 

           “But you still have revenge going for you,   maybe you should just approach it from that one angle.”    Hisako suggests and quietly pulls on loose threads from the carpet.    She’s wondering if they targeted Set and Inanna,   or if they were just looking for any god they could get.     “I don’t assume that was the FBI putting you on their shit list,”   she mumbles with a small chuckle,   turning to glance at Inanna from across the room,    “since they got her too.”

         It’s not like Yousef actually cares about the legality of shooting someone in revenge, but it’s good to have it confirmed that it’s not. He does forget, sometimes. Humans and their rules. Humans and their ethics.

         It may not be a good thing that Hisako and Yousef are in the same space right now. He can feel her influence like clawing shadow, digging into the hearts and heads of the humans around -- his own isn’t making things much better, people tripping over and dropping glasses and accidentally sending regrettable texts to their exes. Maybe that last one is Hisako’s fault, actually. It’s hard to tell.

“Turns out getting shot is the worst,” Yousef moans, radiating pure melodrama not just in tone but in the way he’s sprawled out on the ground. There’s no clever outfit on display -- there had been, but after the first shot, Yousef had acted on instinct, turning himself into a much smaller target. It hadn’t helped; the second bullet had ripped through the meat of his shoulder, and now he’s not sure he should turn back in case, you know, he makes the bullet hole bigger.

So here he is, on the ground like one of those sulky husky videos, all ambiguous and sort-of-canine shaped and paws in the air, long ears mashed awkwardly into the carpet. Just draped out, dramatic Hollywood starlet style.

Also, he’s bleeding. At least it’s mostly stopped since someone haphazardly wrapped a Dior scarf around his shoulder, which was very thoughtful of them.

Probably prepare. As if he hasn’t already—Percy was intimately aware of how his fans were, and how fearsome and passionate about him they can be. The tabloids call it idol worship, he just calls it the fact that he can’t find any peace in public. Potato, tomato.

“That’s sweet of you,” he comments, hands fidgeting with his cuff-link, “Thank the gods I have wings then—not easy to outrun the lot of them. At least you don’t have the same problem, right? Or you might. Maybe they’ll get you for shacking up with me.”

         “I’m anticipating at least three murder attempts,” Yousef replies drolly, but he’s not really joking. Percy’s fans -- like any of them -- can get rabid. He’s already seen a torrent of threats and insults on his social media. “Apparently I’ve defiled you.”

         Which, hah. He’s the god of desire! As if he needed to be defiled!

Aruna blinks, and there are four people accosting a mogul, talking and screaming, over the pushback that the admittedly surprised security team is giving. He was right—there was going to be five minutes before this turned ugly, and the cameraman was going to cut this short. “That’s definitely one way to get your voice heard.”

“How long have you planned this—” Stunt? No, it’d be insulting. She pauses, and continues smiling, “Forward protest! I see that the gods care about the world, and as they should! I’d hate to be him right about now!” Aruna points to the man, alarmed by the shouting and flustered by all the cameras. “Are you the god of planning too?”

         He has to hand it to her: Aruna is excellent at her job. She skips right over her surprise and gets straight into chirpingly positive framing. Yousef has had this planned for a week, but he’s hardly going to explain shit -- every magician knows that ruins the magic.

              Hisako gives one nod in solidarity before she looks towards the cameras.   The paps behind them continue in their attempts of getting good shots even now,   and she shrugs.    ❛   A mixture of fucking with settings.   These next few pictures are gonna to be taken with contrast and noise all the way up,   ❜     she says and focuses for a brief pause.   Upon checking their camera rolls,    the paparazzi seem even more confused.    

               ❛   Anyway,   I wanna give someone a near death experience tonight,   ❜     she sighs,    giving it some thought,    ❛  should I do limo accident,    or fell off stage the wrong way ?   ❜

         Yousef makes a pleased little noise, because watching the paparazzi stare at their cameras in panic and confusion is right up his alley. Lilith does do chaos so very well.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓,  unforgiving. he would almost prefer the clash and clang of steel, the steady drums of war, to the ceaseless droning of chattering voices and the sound of car horns. it momentarily causes his vision to shiver and blur, and he is endlessly thankful for the arm that snakes around his waist. that, he feels, is at least secure. the sound of his boot heels clicking against pavement is steadying, and he feels stratified with the guiding hand that holds him ;  the feeling of yousef’s skin burning through the layers that separate them, like a brand pulled from embers on frigid winter. he finds he would not have protested even if he had an inclination to.

“ no, but i’m sure you do.”    the words are not unkind, though they are stilted, even in his teasing ;  still unsure of how they might land. at times, he found himself feeling almost coltish in the other man’s presence, still hesitant as he leant into the warmth of his embrace. as old as he was, there were things that never quite stopped feeling new.    “ geri and freki could do with the exercise, though i doubt they’ll enjoy the noise,”    he says. whether truly speaking of the wolves or himself was uncertain.

         Yousef doesn’t bother feigning offense at the teasing -- he just grins wide, because he does, in fact, have some ideas. Oh, the picture Hrafn could make if he allowed Yousef to drape him in some of his bolder ideas. But no, the nordic god favors capes and cloaks, mysterious and made for hiding. At this point, Yousef has resigned himself to simply dealing.

         “Nobody enjoys the noise of those horrible events,” Yousef hums. He passes the poor fallen UberEats driver a couple of fifties as they walk past, finishes off the hotdog. He hooks Hrafn closer as they walk, and if it’s somewhat awkward to continue moving while plastered so firmly against his side, it’s worth the minor bother.

@svtekh​

“Personally, I blame you for the ten reporters asking if we were a thing and the last fifteen people congratulating me on whatever that was.” Percy shoves him a little, shaking his head. “Is this everything you could’ve dreamed for?”

         Yousef takes the shove, chuckling, lets himself stagger a step. Not too far, of course -- he doesn’t want to crumple his cape or render it unreadable. “Oh, don’t fuss, Percival,” he sniffs. “It was just your turn.”

         Last month it had been Clothos, and boy had that been entertaining.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆,  possessed by light as it is, causing yousef’s form to swim in his vision, and he finds himself tripping to keep pace with the younger man. he bites his tongue and pushes his dignity aside: something he is getting alarmingly used to in yousef’s presence. but the prospect of stumbling out into daylight brings a strange sort of anxiety, even as the sounds of L.A. remain muffled behind thick glass ;  sounds and sun, the heat of which remains unfamiliar to him ;  that seeps in through the entrance as the door opens and shuts, the clack of heels clicking as a woman passes. it all makes him shy away from the door.

what comes next, however, is warmth: a press of lips that leaves ghosted breath in its wake, hot against chilled skin, causing an uncharacteristic flush to rise up the column of a pale neck. hrafn is unsure if he’s ever supposed to grow accustomed to yousef’s easy and uncaring affection, if such a thing could ever be described as such.    “ lackadaisical,”    he murmurs, seemingly out of the blue in his distraction ;  eyes keen to follow and trace the lines of yousef’s face ––– having come close enough for hrafn to see, he wishes to savor such clarity. it never lasts for very long.    “ i feel neither which way about shopping. ”    presumably for the event they’re set to attend, he gathers without question.

         That’s Hrafn-speak for it’s not my first choice for what I could be doing right now, but I don’t mind, even if it sounds downright dismissive. Yousef has become an excellent translator. “Great! You’re coming with me, then. Shops to see, people to annoy, you know the drill.”

         He throws an arm around Hrafn’s waist to keep him close, and tugs him out into the mass of humanity. The sun is warm, real beyond the hated barrier of glass; the chatter of mortal-noise is at once both grating and soothing.

         Five feet away, an UberEats driver on a bike goes careening wildly, hitting a lampost. His intended delivery goes flying. A bag tears, a cardboard box flaps open. A Beyond Meat hotdog does a perfect backflip right into Yousef’s outstretched hand.

There’s a headline everywhere, a hook if she looks close enough, and Set is ready and willing to feed it to her. “Oh, of course,” she replies, looking to the camera with a pout. Poor Set, though he doesn’t look the least bit sad about it after all. “Anyone who doesn’t stick with the morning cuddles is bad news, folks!” There’s a smile again, a little easier to keep with Set around.

“I have to tell you that the cape’s always a crowd pleaser, and I think the people at the back over there.” Aruna waves to the… cape attendants, she supposes, and flashes them a blinding white smile. “Are they any fans of yours, or are they people who just signed up to hold your cape? Because I think I would take that gig if it paid well.”

         “Mm, no, they have a much more pointed purpose,” Yousef hums, tilting his sunglasses down so he can scan his fellow red carpet attendees. The cape attendants cheerily wave back at Aruna, but they too are starting to look around in an exceedingly deliberate fashion. Still doing an excellent job of keeping his cape extravagantly displayed, though.

         There’s a man just getting out of a limo at the end of the red carpet -- a man who invests in the Starlight Theater and runs an oil company who recently destroyed some sacred caves in Fiji. Yousef’s gaze goes distant; predatory. A seagull starts going apeshit, swooping the man and the coffee he’s holding. The cape attendees throw off their own (shorter, sadly less magnificent) capes, revealing t-shirts with the logo of a Fijian historical preservation society, and start moving like sharks, with great intent, toward the oil exec.

              The mixture of Yousef’s cape and Hisako’s dead glare must be a sight to behold.   The two gods are being spotted together in public for the first time,   and while the contrast between them is steep,   the words on Yousef’s cape bind them together.    When Hisako first caught sight of it,   she was genuinely impressed.

               ❛   I estimate that the government’s putting you on their watch list right about now——   ❜   she pauses,    giving Yousef a suspecting look.   Knowing him,    she wouldn’t be surprised,    ❛   —— if you’re not already on it.   ❜     @svtekh

         “I’m pretty sure I was put on it last month when I threatened to eat Elon Musk,” Yousef replies with a world-weary sigh, and it’s a total lie, because he knows it was a whole lot earlier than that. He doesn’t bother to pose for a picture with her, because from what he’s heard, she’s doing something to the cameras.

         Good for her, honestly. Yousef kind of wishes he’d thought of it first. She looks amazing, it’s fucking genius nobody can capture her.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆  grasps his attention before words are ever uttered, head lilted ever so to the side as he listens. the gait is familiar, he finds, and he anticipates the voice before it sounds ;  the slight rasp around the edges never failing to cause dark lashes to flutter over black eyes. hrafn turns his face toward the sun, and sees the shimmering aura that surrounds him, low and warm like flickering candlelight. it stands in contrast to the ghosts that swim in his vision like wisps of memory that’s not yet passed just behind. he murmurs his greeting,    “ yousef––– ”    before he feels long fingers encircle his thin wrist. they take more solid form in his mind’s eye as his starry gaze falls to consider their grip. the tentative smile that plays at the corners of his lips betrays his amusement.    “ how much sun do you think the nordic lands get ? ”

         “Absolutely fucking none, going by the look of you,” Yousef replies, all fond mockery and beaming grin, and wastes no time in starting to drag Hrafn out of Olympus. He hasn’t been here long and he’s already starting to hate the place.

         He can’t decide if he hates it because it’s patronizing, because it’s so far above the masses, because it’s so ostentatious -- or if he loves it because it’s away from the seething mass of humanity, from the mess and the mortality and the shrieking noise. He’s teetering wildly between the two, and it’s giving him a goddamn headache. Hrafn, though. Hrafn is steady. Hrafn is fucking solid, an unwavering presence. So yes, he’s going to drag Hrafn clothes shopping, and hope that some of that steadiness rubs off.

@svtekh​

“Look at you, dressed to the nines! Not that I expected anything less—you manage to out-dress the rest of the Pantheon every time you come around!” She holds a mic towards Set, practiced smile on her face ready. “So, you took a piece out of the god of love recently, I hear! Is there going to be a collab soon, or did you, as the kids say, hit it and quit it?”

         “You’d have to ask him, I’m afraid,” Yousef replies, smooth and deadpan, unreadable underneath mirrored aviators. “He is, after all, the god of love. He’d know best.”

         He is, absolutely, dressed to the nines. It’s not obvious from the front, presenting as a sleek black suit and sunglasses. From the back, however -- a red velvet cape pinned to his shoulders and dragging out behind him, the lengthiest of wedding trains, bedecked with glittering letters spelling out I’M THE CAPTAIN OF ANTIFA.

“What would I even do with a horse?” There’s a smile there, in the words behind the mask, but it had to be said, if anyone wanted to make a statement, they went to Yousef. “I’ve got wings—the horse’s probably redundant.”

There’s a brief moment where Percy considers saying no to the request, letting them sit in one-sided silence, but he’s not that big of a spoilsport. He takes his mask off, and musses his hair up in the way that photographers like. It’s a practiced motion, and one that he’s begrudgingly comfortable with.

“Well, go on then,” he shoots back, holding the blue steel towards the phone. “Get your kicks in, I haven’t got all day.”

         Yousef takes a few photos of the provided blue steel, then seems to change his mind and hops up, wraps an arm around Percy’s shoulders, smacks a kiss against his temple, and takes another photo. Scene staged, he flops back down onto the couch, gaze fixed avidly on his phone as he types.

         “To nobody’s surprise, Eros wears the morning-after bedhead well,” Yousef narrates as he types. “Hashtag walk of shame, hashtag aka walk of pride. Hashtag Seros.”

         He hits post, and leans back to watch the ensuing chaos.