#music to write fanfic to

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[winxanity-ii]

could i request hermes headcanons with a male lover?

of course! sorry if not the best, just the concept of hermes taking one of apollos followers 😩

THAT BOY IS MINE

ship: hermes x male!apollo devotee!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 861 a/n: my first male reader request hehhehe; i lowkey wanna make a full one-shot..

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

Trickster god Hermes, who first noticed you during one of Apollo's grand performances, as you stood in the crowd, bright laughter escaping your lips.

He didn't think much of it until he saw how you looked at Apollo—admiration clear in your eyes—and suddenly, the idea of getting your attention and challenging your admiration for Apollo was too irresistible for him to pass up.

Trickster god Hermes, who slips beside you during festivals, the kind of presence that catches you off guard.

He'd grin, that troublemaker smile of his, leaning in to whisper something sly about Apollo's radiance. "You think he's the only god worthy of your gaze?" he'd murmur, his eyes glinting with mischief as your cheeks warmed under his gaze.

Trickster god Hermes, who made sure you couldn't ignore him.

At first, it was harmless jokes, a teasing smile from across the temple grounds, or a comment as he materialized at your side, seemingly out of nowhere. But soon, he was there more often, lingering in your shadow. He loved the way you stiffened when he appeared, as if he had found a crack in your composure—and he intended to widen it.

Trickster god Hermes, who brushed his fingers against yours when you were organizing offerings in Apollo's temple, just to see the way you startled, your eyes meeting his in confusion.

He grinned, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "How devoted you are makes me envious, little muse. Would you give the same amount of devotion to me?" His words held a challenge, and for a moment, you wondered if there was more than jest in his eyes.

Trickster god Hermes, who knew how to make life an adventure, began slipping into your routines with ease.

He whisked you away from your duties, convincing you to join him on escapades across hills, through rivers, and into places you were not supposed to go. He showed you joy beyond Apollo’s measured perfection—the kind found in laughter that left you breathless, in the thrill of racing the wind, in moments stolen away just for yourselves. He made the divine feel real, imperfect, and you couldn't help but love that.

Trickster god Hermes, who was unpredictable, daring, and somehow made you feel seen.

He didn't look at you as merely another worshipper. He looked at you as someone he wanted. It unsettled you, the way he lingered too close, the intensity of his gaze following you as if you were the only one that mattered in a room full of people.

Trickster god Hermes, who found you alone in a grove, your shoulders slumped in loneliness as Apollo was too busy for you.

Instead of his usual antics, Hermes simply sat beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. He didn't say anything—he was just there—and for once, his presence wasn’t meant to charm or impress; it was just... real. It was the first time you saw something other than playful mischief in his eyes—it was care, and it unraveled something inside you.

Trickster god Hermes, who watched you with a longing that was hard to ignore.

He'd catch you glancing at Apollo from a distance, and his jaw would tense, that smile dropping for a heartbeat before it returned, sharper. He'd then make his presence known—his fingers skimming your waist, or his lips brushing your ear as he whispered something that made your pulse quicken. You were never just a follower to him, and he needed you to understand that.

Trickster god Hermes, who, for all his confidence, had waited for you to come to him.

He bided his time and made sure you knew he was always there. He listened when you spoke, his gaze never leaving your face, as though everything you said was the most important thing in the world. It wasn't Apollo's grandness, but it was real—and you found yourself seeking out Hermes more and more, your heart pulling toward the trickster who seemed to understand you in ways others didn't.

Trickster god Hermes, who watched with a soft smile the day you gave in.

When you leaned in to kiss him, he wrapped his arms around you as you kissed him, his lips curving against yours, the playful grin giving way to something deeper. Hermes held you close, as if you were the greatest treasure he had ever stolen, and he had no intention of letting go.

Trickster god Hermes, who made no secret of your connection afterward.

He'd drape himself over you in the presence of Apollo, his arm snug around your waist, whispering something teasingly possessive just loud enough for the sun god to hear with a knowing grin, as if to say, "He's mine now." There was no malice in it, only pride—pride that he had managed to steal your heart and that you had given it willingly.

Trickster god Hermes, who stole your heart in the most unexpected way, not by charm alone but through his laughter, his warmth, and his genuine affection.

He saw you not as someone worshipping from the shadows but as someone deserving of the spotlight, deserving of a love that was wild and unrestrained, just like the wind.

[sigillite]

music (fanfiction) writing challenge!!

use your music taste to write a fanfiction or any story in this challenge!

first open your music app of choice and make sure your playlist is on shuffle -- then the first 5 songs that pop up will determine your:

Premise -- What your story is going to be about in the first place. What is going to be the main "selling point" of the story that sets it apart from the rest.

Main character -- Your main character's personality or inner struggle.

Main conflict -- The main conflict that drives your story and becomes an obstacle for your main character.

Vibes -- Is this going to be a light-hearted story? Angsty? Romantic? Whatever matches the vibe of the song.

Ending -- How this story is going to end.

yes, this is very vague, but that is the point! this can give you some ideas of what to write while also leaving plenty of room to be creative. feel free to switch up what songs represent what or even shuffle them a couple more times!

[gwenpoolsaesthetic]

Hey you! Yes, you!

Would you like your creation on display in a museum?

Would you like to help a super awesome PhD candidate complete her dissertation?

Would you like a great excuse to further procrastinate that thing you've been procrastinating?

All of these and more are great reasons to participate in Affirmation/Transformation: Fandom Created, an exhibition at Marquette University's Haggerty Museum of Art. (You do NOT need to be an artist, or even someone who creates art to participate!) Write a story, write a song, design a cosplay, create a fancy manicure, make a meme, make a stop-motion video, choreograph a dance, make a SuperWhoLock gif fic, or anything else your heart can dream up.

Your creation must follow only one rule: It must be inspired by a fusion of 1. any fandom of your choice, and 2. one of the featured Haggerty pieces (click the link to see them!)

Completed works are due July 1, 2024. The exhibition will run August 23rd-December 22nd, 2024, and will be available to view in person and online.

To see the Haggerty pieces, and to sign up to receive email reminders about the fan event, visit https://epublications.marquette.edu/fandom/Affirmationtransformation

[fishbonex]

Flower crowns and you all

Elphaba Thropp x fem!reader x Glinda Upland

Summary: A peaceful attempt at making flower crowns with Glinda and Elphaba.

Word Count: 0,5K

Warnings: none 🤍

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE.

"You keep copying mine." Glinda's overly sweet voice grumbled, earning a snort from Elphaba, who was sitting next to you.

"I don't know if you noticed but we're in a field of flowers, all the flowers here look alike." Elphaba said, not bothering to lift her head to look at the blonde girl, who had an annoyed pout on her lips.

"I'm not talking about that, you know. You're braiding in the same pattern as me." Glinda held up the flower braid in production to prove it.

You frowned and shrugged your shoulders even more. The two of them had been arguing since they arrived. Uninvited. You were making flower crowns alone, enjoying the cool breeze of the late afternoon. A moment of peace, away from the typical chaos of Shiz.

But Galinda seemed to have a radar that pointed straight at you, because it wasn't long before she appeared, dragging Elphaba by the hand.

She blinked her big eyes at you and you gave her permission to sit down and join in your activity. Everything was fine, but soon Glinda began to get annoyed with Elphaba's crown.

"That's nonsense! I'm braiding them so they stay firmly attached." the green girl argued, starting to work harder with her hands.

"That's envy." Glinda hummed, pursing her lips so that her dimples were visible.

"Why would I be jealous of the way you weave flowers, Galinda?" Elphaba finally lifted her face to look at her.

"There are many reasons for this. You don't have the ability-"

With a loud huff, you stood up from the grass, dropping your flowers and brushing the dirt off your uniform. Grabbing your bag, you began walking away from the pair.

"Look what you did! You pissed her off," Glinda's voice whispered.

"Be quiet." Elphaba ordered, and turned to you. "Hey, where are you going?"

You stopped in your tracks and turned to them, "To my dorm."

"Don't you want to go study with me?" She stood up, her expression embarrassed.

Glinda hurriedly stood up and stood in front of her, "Don't you want to go try on dresses with me? Or watch me practice with my wand-"

"No, thank you." you turned around and continued walking towards campus with heavy steps.

A few days later, you buried your face even deeper into the book you were reading when you heard Glinda's melodious voice approaching. You squinted your eyes as she let out a happy little squeal upon spotting you.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, then turned to Elphaba. "I told you she'd be here."

"I'm reading." you grumbled.

"Oh, we see." Glinda continued to act excited, pulling Elphaba closer to her. "We just want to give you something."

Elphaba opened her bag and took out a wreath, making you look up from your book, "We finished yours for you, you left it lying there."

You closed the book and stood up, taking the crown in your hands delicately, it was sloppy and had some flaws, but it was closed and someone had placed extra flowers on top.

"Which one of you did it?" you asked, not wanting to cause another fight.

"Both of us! Did you like it?" Glinda asked, looking at you expectantly.

You sighed in relief, finally. They did something without fighting.

"I- yes, I love it, it's beautiful." you replied and Glinda quickly took the crown and put it on you, Elphaba adjusted it slightly so it wouldn't be crooked.

"Oh, you look like a princess." Glinda said, pretending to wipe away tears.

"It suits you very much." Elphaba said, pressing her lips together in a smile.

Oh, how you loved those two idiots.

[httpiastri]

lando norris x reader, 18+

"i'm bored."

lando's head shoots up from below you. your head is tilted to the side, gazing out the window as if you can't be bothered to care about the man between your legs; as if anything, even the gray skies outside, is more interesting than this.

but you're just pretending, of course.

there's no doubt in the way that your body always trembles under his touch, or the way that your cheeks grow hot when he just looks at you. he may be slow and careful, taking his time with his touches instead of rushing into things, but he's never been boring to you before, and he sure isn't now.

"what?" lando asks, frowning. he's a bit confused – after all, you were the one who called him up half an hour ago, begging him to come over – but he's not completely sure he believes you. he knows the effect he has on you. "you're talking nonsense."

you shake your head slightly. "no, this is boring..." you mutter, letting out an exaggerated sigh. his kisses still linger where he left them on the inside of your thighs just moments ago, and you already regret making him halt his actions.

"god, you're so bratty."

your eyes dart back at him. there's a teasing grin on his lips, and his fingers on your thighs suddenly make themselves known again. one thumb draws circles into your skin, as the other hand moves up to swipe just along the edge of your slit. "i- i'm not." the instability of your voice is clear to lando, and it's easy for him to take notice of how your legs have tensed up in just a moment. "i just... want you to..."

your eyes flutter closed when one of his fingers makes contact with your clit. "hm? what do you want me to do to you?" he increases the pressure, casually circling your bud as your hips buck up slightly. "for you to feel less bored?"

"you- you've said that-" a whine escapes from your mouth, not able to form your sentences when he's teasing you like this. he notices and slows down his movements to let you speak. "you said that you like to make my eyes roll," your eyes find his the moment you open your eyelids. "do it."

he cocks an eyebrow at you. "alright, then." his lips trace down from your stomach to right above your core, kisses still feathery yet carrying more purpose than before. "your wish is my command."

[jay-avian]

Hermes x Tiresias (pt. 2)

Part 1 here (I went a bit long with this one, but it needed to feel conclusive)

Hermes swooped down into the dark lands once more. He hummed to himself, breezing past the moans of the souls beneath him. The bright colors he wore made him shine against the the shadows. He flew and looked all around. The prophet, however, could not be found. Hermes stopped for a moment. "Now where could that little recluse be?" Off in the distance, he saw the banks of a small pool of water and a figure sitting there. "Ah, there we go!"

As he got closer, Hermes saw Tiresias kneeling. His staff sat on the ground beside him. Tiresias faced out towards the water as if he was looking at the pool. His hands rested in his lap. Hermes didn't want to go farther at first. It would have been wise to leave the prophet to his sombre reflections. Tiresias always looked so peaceful like this. But Hermes spoke anyways.

"Heyy there, darling!" Hemers exclaimed. He laid on the air on his stomach with his legs up, kicking as he talked. His head rested on his folded hands. "How's it going? Did you miss me? I bet you missed me."

"You've been gone for six months' time," Tiresias said.

"Yeah, well I was busy, you know how humans are," Hermes said, with his hands waving about. "Always running around, all like 'Help us please, Hermes, we need your guidance', and you know I can't say no to people like that."

Tiresias sighed, his shoulders dropping. He tilted his head towards the god. "You don't have to lie to save your hubris. I understand why you were gone. I saw your true self that day."

Hermes scoffed. He thought about how quickly he left. He probably thinks I couldn't care less, that I'm just some pretentious prick. I mean I know I am, but… if that's all he's going to see… He crossed his arms and leaned on the rocks beside him. "And what gave that away, do you think?" Hermes asked.

"Your eyes," said Tiresias, turning to face him. He paused. He found it hard to find his breath. "I looked to the past and saw them."

The god's face dropped. His eyes fell frozen over his friend. "I- I didn't think-"

"You spoke of compassion, of bringing down hope in a place where none seems to grow. And in your hopes, you found a cold requital. Y-" He went to say more, but found his words failing. He looked straight on past Hermes. "You spoke of love… romance everlasting…" Tiresias turned his head down to the pool, gripping his robe. He grimaced though he did not see his reflection. "I hope you will forgive my ignorance, my god," he said softly.

Hermes placed his hand over his mouth. The shadow over the god's eyes had brightened some. Devastated sympathy washed over his face. "Oh," he sighed. He flew in lower and closer. "Oh dear, of course I would forgive you."

He floated down, gently stepping onto the ground, kneeling by Tiresias. There they sat without speaking. All they heard were the low hums of the wind whisking by. There they sat, still as the stones that surrounded them. At times, the god went to console his worshipper. At times, his words found no sound. When he saw how tense the prohpet was, he remembered what other gods had done. Tiresias had faced punishment before. And though he could see the future, there were many paths it could take. Hermes looked down at his hands as he rubbed them together.

"Listen," he said at last, "I may not be the best god, or the most perfect in any light. But I want you to know that I would never, ever, do anything to hurt you. I… I care about you a lot, and I was wrong to hide that from you." As the god spoke, Tiresias loosed his shoulders. Hermes gave a short laugh. "I'm not even sure you like me at all in that regard. But, at least you can know I mean well, and…"

Hermes trailed off, his words falling short. Tiresias let go of his robe and faced the god. He sat silent for a moment.

"What I would give to see your eyes right now," Tiresias said. Hermes looked up with his brow raised. The prophet smiled. "Though I'm sure they're just as beautiful now as they were then."

The god's face grew flushed. But before he could refute the compliment, he watched Tiresias raise his hands towards his hood.

"So at the very least," he said. "I'll show you mine." He let the hood fall from his head. White curls of hair were revealed, bright against the dark that surrounded them. His hands moved to untie the band around his eyes. But instead of letting it fall, he froze.

Hermes tilted his head. "Would you like some help d- Tiresias?"

The prophet said nothing, but gave a slow nod. Hermes reached over and gently held his hands. Tiresias let out a short breath he had been holding. The god guided his hands lower, going slow. As the band fell, they revealed eyes of grey with a thin ring of amber in the center, as sunlight peering over storm clouds. Hermes paused. The shadows over his face fell in full. He stared and sighed in awe.

"Gods, you're gorgeous," he said softly.

Tiresias frowned. "Why must you taunt me like this?"

"I'm not, honest. I do really think you're wonderful and beautiful and…" In a lower whisper, he said, "Gods, I want to kiss you."

"What?" Tiresias took his hands back.

"I'm sorry!" Hermes said, his face flushed. "I didn't mean to startle you like that. I just- I was looking at you and I just kinda said that out loud and I didn't mean to, it just came out and I, well…" He rubbed his hands together with a nervous look. "I won't if you don't want me to and I understand! If you don't want to, I mean. But… may I?"

Tiresias simply stared at first. He sat frozen, hands coiled back. Apprehension filled the air about them. After a moment, Tiresias took a deep breath and let it go just as slow. "…Do as you wish."

"A-are you sure? I don't want you doing this for me. I want to make sure you want this too."

The prophet's hands clutched his robe once more. He looked to the ground. "I do want this."

Hermes sat up, his face raised with delight. He inched closer. Reaching his hand out, he lifted the prophet's face to meet his. Tiresias looked at him with nervousness, yet did not move. Hermes leaned in, closed his eyes, and gently kissed him. In that moment, the prophet saw not time nor space, but felt the world in his heart. In that moment, the god heard not a prayer, but praised the soul before him. And in that moment, the only thing that mattered was the sacred touch upon their lips.

The two parted. They stayed just inches away. Hermes looked down with care at his love. Tiresias sighed, looking up at the god with reverence. He said in a whisper, "I haven't felt such bliss in ages."

Hermes gave a soft smile. "Well then," he said, "would you like some more?"

Tiresias nodded and Hermes graced his lips again. The god raised his hands to hold the prophet's face with gentleness. Tiresias reached out to hold the god in return. There they knelt before each other in this act of worship. By the pool of water in a far off nook in the Underworld, they could be found. And it was there in that dark cave they found hope in each other. They found hope in the world of gods.

@nothing-impt hope you don't mind the tag, finished the one part I reblogged from you

[o3o-lapd-o3o]

'friends in higher places' au masterlist

tumblr posts:

the thread that started it all - part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

dinner scene - part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 (is planned)

poseidon snippets (not chronological) - part 1 | part 2 | part 3 (i have an idea)

other bits - potential future thoughts | a potential angsty idea |

ao3:

chapter 1 | chapter 2 (coming soon?) |

[chippedshake]

Ponyboy, eight years old, meeting Sodapop's new friend Johnny from school, who has bright, black eyes and a bruise on his cheek, and has just as much trouble reading as Sodapop.

Ponyboy, eight years old, going to the movies with his parents, his brothers, and Johnny, who his parents insist on inviting everywhere, and talking everyone’s ear off about what he liked about it. Johnny, just shy of ten years old, being the only one to respond as excitedly.

Ponyboy, eight years old, walking home with Darry, Steve, Soda, and Johnny, making quiet conversation with him about the kids at school and trying to convince Johnny that Darry isn't as scary as he seems, just older and trying to be intimidating.

Ponyboy, nine years old, glued at the hip to Johnny, hardly spending a minute without him despite the age difference.

Ponyboy, nine years old, waking up to a knock on the door in the middle of the night and finding Johnny, barely able to hold himself up, face swelling, blood pouring out of his nose. Mrs Curtis coming out and patching Johnny up and telling Ponyboy to go back to sleep, but Ponyboy refusing because Johnny's his friend, so he stays with him for hours, whispering assurances, telling him he's going to be fine as he tries to ignore his shaking hands and the tremble in his voice. Rage sweltering in his chest and realising that at that moment he could kill someone.

Ponyboy, nine years old, falling asleep at Johnny's side, curled up against him in his room, Johnny's arms wrapped around him, tissues and gauze and medicine bottles littered around them.

Ponyboy, ten years old, reading the books Johnny's been assigned at school out loud because "they seem interesting, Johnny, it has nothing to do with you". Johnny pretending like he believes him when Ponyboy says he's just in the mood to read the chapters Johnny has for homework.

Ponyboy, almost eleven, telling Johnny over and over that he isn't stupid, school just isn't made for him and it doesn't matter that he's being held back, but knowing that none of it is getting through to Johnny.

Ponyboy, eleven years old, spending hours upon hours alone with Johnny in silence, doing their homework or drawing or reading or just thinking, living in a bubble where words aren't necessary to talk. Walking away with a greater understanding of each other than anyone else has.

Ponyboy, eleven years old, showing Johnny his drawings of the gang, trying to ignore how Johnny's face is appearing twice as often as everyone else's, and Johnny stopping on one drawing in particular, his breath caught in his throat. The drawing being one that had taken Ponyboy days to finish, Johnny's face as he watched the sunset, calm and awed by the beauty. The drawing matching Johnny's face at that moment exactly. Johnny asking to keep that one and Ponyboy not doubting it for a minute and ripping the page out.

Ponyboy, twelve years old, going to his first official fight against the Shepard gang and teaming up with Johnny against a medium-sized guy, working together seamlessly and practically reading each other's minds

Ponyboy, thirteen years old, finding out his parents are dead and going numb, unfeeling, not knowing what's happening. Not coming out of it until late at night, when he wanders downstairs and finds Johnny patching himself up and wonders why his mom isn't there, helping him. Holding back tears – for himself, his parents, his brothers, for Johnny – as he cleans Johnny's wounds and promises everything will get better.

Ponyboy, thirteen years old, falling asleep in Johnny's arms again, but they've done it so many times it's second nature to readjust themselves so they both feel protected.

Ponyboy, thirteen years old, finding Johnny in the lot with the rest of the gang and being beyond horrified, frozen with shock, unable to do anything but stare as Soda holds Johnny and they get him back to their house. Johnny asking him, in a croaky voice just before they fall asleep, to go get his jeans jacket. Ponyboy finding his drawing of Johnny, folded into neat quarters in the pocket and Johnny smiling softly when he sees it and whispering "thank you" and both of them knowing it's for so much more than bringing him the drawing.

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, blond and quietly crying himself to sleep in a church far away from home. Johnny waking up and comforting him like Pony's done for him so many times. Both of them pretending it's too cold so they have to sleep huddled up, acting like it has nothing to do with comfort

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, screaming, pleading for Johnny to come out because all the kids are out already, come out, please, Johnny, it's not safe

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, visiting Johnny in the hospital and knowing he won't make it, but shoving it down because he can't imagine a world without him.

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, sending Two-Bit to go get a book so he can have alone time with Johnny, and not needing to say anything for both of them to know this is probably the last time they'll be together.

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, pouring all his frustration and rage into the rumble.

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, not being able to break down next to the hospital bed because if he doesn't go get his brothers, Dally might do something stupid.

(It doesn’t make a difference.)

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, sick with grief and not knowing how to tell people that Johnny wasn't just his buddy, they had something different.

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, opening a letter and finding another sheet of paper that falls out. Knowing what it is before he opens it. Tear drops staining the drawing, making Johnny cry as he watches the sunset at twelve years old.

Ponyboy, fifteen years old, forced to pretend like nothing happened and dating a girl – Cathy – even though he knows he doesn't feel the way he should towards her.

Ponyboy, seventeen years old, realising he was now older than Johnny would ever be.

Ponyboy, eighteen years old, getting married to a girl he definitely doesn't feel the way he should towards.

Ponyboy, twenty years old, running to the hospital because Soda was in the wrong place at the wrong time in a rally in New York of all places and now they don't know if he’s going to make it and oh god, not another one.

Ponyboy, twenty years old, holding his breath until his brother answers him and tells him to stop worrying with a forced smile.

Ponyboy, twenty-two years old and realising that he's never loved anyone the way Sodapop loves Steve and loved Sandy, not Johnny, not Cathy, not anyone else, realising he's broken.

Ponyboy, twenty-five, having his second child but first son and not doubting for a moment as he calls him Johnny despite the fact that he can't remember his voice and needs the drawing to remember his face.

Ponyboy, thirty years old, sitting his wife down because this isn't fair to her, telling her he doesn't love her like that, but he does love her. He loves her but the same way he loves his brothers and Steve and Two-Bit and–... and all of them. Her, breaking in front of him, but putting up a strong front and telling him they'll stay together for Johnny and Kristen.

Ponyboy, forty-two years old, finally getting a divorce now that their kids don't live with them anymore.

Ponyboy, fifty years old, happier than he's ever been, living with a group of friends and calling his children regularly.

Ponyboy, sixty-five years old, watching his brother legally marry Steve and shoving down the familiar twinge of not being able to feel any of that.

Ponyboy, seventy-three years old, with a grandchild coming out to him with these words he's never heard before and his mind is swimming with aromantic and asexual and queer-platonic.

Ponyboy, seventy-three years old, talking to his grandchild about something that isn't platonic and isn't romantic, but something different, not less, not more, but different. A bond that runs deep and doesn't fall into these easy categories and Ponyboy holding back tears as he remembers painstakingly drawn pictures and night spent wrapped around each other.

Ponyboy, seventy-three years old and breaking down in his room because he finally found the words to say what he felt and Johnny wasn't here to find them with him, and he would never know that was what it was.

Ponyboy, seventy-three years old, being found by his brothers as he sobs with the drawing in his hands. Soda and Darry sitting down on either side of him and wrapping their arms around him and Steve rubbing circles on the back of his hand and Two-Bit telling him stories about Johnny because even if he didn’t say why he was crying they all knew.

Ponyboy, seventy-five years old, meeting his grandchild's partner and damn near crying but holding back the tears and wishing the two of them the best before pretending to need to take his heart medicine.

Ponyboy, eighty-three years old, going in his sleep, dreaming of tending to wounds and carefully drawing soft faces.

I'll see you soon, Johnny

[whatcannotbesaid-shallbewept]

Guys. Can we talk about how insane Mercy is for a second.

Even just the way she's introduced. The Orphans are letting the Warriors are pass through peacefully, but Mercy comes in and says "Hmm, No."

Calls all the boys bitches and chickens. Says they're idiots for falling for a pretty face. Demands Swann to undress. Forces the Orphans to have fight the Warriors.

But then The Warriors start an explosion, possibly maiming and killing every boys she's ever known. And Mercy's reaction is. "Oh I'm going to completely uproot my life to follow this girl"

Barely two minutes have passed. What happened to not falling for a pretty face? Her only interaction with these people is demanding their clothes, and starting a fight.

She doesn't ask either. She just starts chasing them, no questions asked. Completely convinced they'll just let her come. Doesn't know where they're going, doesn't even know their names.

Spends the rest of the plot she takes the role of starting fights with strangers and insisting shes part of the gang.

Even when she finds out that thousands of people are trying to murder them, she doesn't seem discouraged from joining. Doesn't even question it. Says "oh yeah, guess we're wanted dead for murder"

Chooses to risk her life for people she barely even knows. Doesnt seem to have experience fighting - starts beating people up anyway.

Swann asks if she's loyal. Mercy says I'm loyal to you ;). She met this woman five hours ago. Then she asks her why aren't you kissing me yet,??

I'm pretty sure she's the best character in all of media?

[mer-acle]

Imagine this.

Hera never saw Athena as her own. She's at least not a bastard child technically but it's not her biological child so who cares about her.

And now she's hurt. Athena is lying on the floor of the arena and she's bleeding.

Hera is staying because it's what Zeus expects and she manages to calm him down some.

Athena wakes and Zeus bows down to her and Hera sees that she's terrified. Breaths hitching as she tries not to cry. And Hera sees the way Athena looks away, how she flinches when he gets close and she sees Ares gripping his chiton because he's nervous, and Hephaestus struggling to meet his father's eyes. She sees, for the first time, that Athena, too, was a child who needed protection. Who needed a mother.

That Athena should have been a part of the family she is supposed to protect. That all of his kids should have been.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 07 Chapter 07 | renewal⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

The echoes of screams and steel still seemed to bounce off the walls of your mind, yet here, in the dimness of your small room, there was nothing but silence.

Your eyes stayed fixed on your hands, fingers slightly trembling, stained with sweat, dust, and the faint impression of lyre strings.

You didn't move when the knock sounded—gentle but deliberate. A pause, then another knock, more insistent.

You drew in a slow breath, closing your eyes for a brief moment before forcing yourself to rise, your legs heavy, as though the floor might swallow you whole.

The effort it took to cross the room felt monumental, each step echoing the weight of everything that had transpired.

You paused, your hand hovering over the door handle for a moment longer than necessary, your mind briefly drifting back to the sight of the great hall—blood pooling across the marble, the scent of death thick and metallic, bodies strewn in the grotesque aftermath.

The image was there for only a second before you pushed it away, burying it somewhere deep, somewhere you wouldn't have to face right now.

When you finally opened the door, Telemachus stood there, his silhouette almost blending into the dim hallway behind him.

He was covered in dried blood, dark streaks marring his skin and tunic. His face was a mask of exhaustion, shadows deepening under his eyes, yet his gaze was still sharp, still searching, as though even now he was ready to act.

His hair was disheveled, the curls sticking to his forehead, and the tightness around his mouth spoke of the strain he was under, the burden of what he had done.

You looked at him, your eyes meeting his, the question slipping out in a whisper, softer than you intended. "Is it done?"

For a moment, his gaze flickered, the exhaustion in his eyes softening to something else—something like regret or maybe understanding. He sighed, the sound heavy, like it came from the deepest part of him. "It's done," he said, his voice low, almost reverent.

A sigh of relief escaped your lips before you could stop it, your shoulders loosening slightly as the tension began to ebb away.

Though you understood this was the way things had to go, that this was the consequence of the suitors' actions, you couldn't help but feel the fragility of it all—how fleeting human life truly was.

One moment these men had been laughing, feasting, vying for a throne they did not deserve, and the next... nothing.

The silence of the great hall, the emptiness of death—it was stark, final.

You blinked, focusing back on Telemachus, and the memory of his actions flashed in your mind—the way, as soon as the massacre had ended, he had found you.

The hall had still been filled with death, the scent of blood thick in the air, yet he had been at your side, his hands gentle as he guided you away.

You remembered the way his voice had dropped to a whisper, his lips brushing against your ear as he urged you to close your eyes. "Don't look," he had said, his tone soft, a stark contrast to the lethal determination he had shown only moments before.

He had shielded you, turned your head away from the sight of the fallen, ushering you from that room of death with a tenderness that felt almost out of place, but deeply needed.

The memory lingered, his presence a stark contrast to the carnage left behind. His hand had been warm, steady, a lifeline amidst the chaos.

The blood on his skin had smeared onto yours, a reminder of what had happened, but in that moment, all you could feel was his warmth, his reassurance.

He had spoken to you softly, his breath brushing against your temple as he murmured that it was over, that you were safe now.

Safe.

It was such a fragile word, yet in that moment, with Telemachus by your side, you almost believed it.

"____," Telemachus said softly, your name pulling you out of your thoughts. Your eyes snapped up, meeting his, and you saw the concern etched into his features, the way his brow furrowed slightly as he watched you.

"I wanted to let you know what's happened since... since you left the hall," he began, his voice still carrying that edge of exhaustion, but also something warmer, a gentleness reserved just for you. "Father's first priority was to cleanse the palace. Both spiritually and physically." His eyes darkened slightly, his gaze drifting for a moment, as if recalling the grim work. "He commanded that the hall be purified, that the bodies of the suitors be cleared. He wanted everything cleansed—the stench, the memory. He demanded that it be done immediately."

He paused, his eyes searching yours, and you could see the weight of his next words in the way he hesitated. "He ordered the disloyal maidservants to do it. The ones who... entertained the suitors. It was their punishment." He swallowed, his jaw tightening. "They carried out the task, clearing the bodies, scrubbing the blood. It was... not easy to watch."

You nodded slowly, your heart sinking. A part of you felt for them, for the horror of what they had been forced to witness and do.

Yet, you understood. Their betrayal had run deep, and the punishment, harsh as it was, felt just.

Balance had to be restored, even if it came at a heavy cost.

Telemachus must have seen the conflict in your eyes because he offered you a tired smile, a small attempt to lighten the mood. "But... not everything has been grim," he said, his voice softening, a spark of warmth returning to his gaze. "Father reunited with Mother."

Your breath caught, your eyes widening as a soft gasp escaped your lips. "Truly?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes shining with sudden hope. "The queen knows?"

Telemachus nodded, his smile growing. "Yes. She knows. It took some convincing, of course." He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "Mother was cautious, uncertain. After all that she endured—the lies, the suitors' deceptions—she needed proof. She tested him." He paused, his eyes meeting yours, his expression softening further. "She asked Eurycleia to move their bed out of the room. The bed that Father built himself. The one that can't be moved because one of its posts is a living olive tree."

You watched him, your heart swelling as warmth began to spread through your chest, pushing away the lingering shadows.

Telemachus continued, his voice filled with quiet pride. "Father's reaction was... passionate. He was indignant, even, that anyone would think the bed could be moved. That reaction was all the proof Mother needed. She knew then that it was truly him."

A smile tugged at your lips, and you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. The thought of your queen, finally at peace, her long years of waiting rewarded—it filled you with something close to joy.

After everything, after all the heartache and fear, she had her husband back.

Ithaca had its king, and Penelope had her Odysseus.

"I'm so glad," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly with emotion. "She deserves this. They both do."

Telemachus nodded, his gaze softening as he looked at you. "We all deserve a little peace," he said quietly, and for a moment, the weight of everything seemed to lift, the heaviness replaced by something gentler, something hopeful.

But then, his expression turned grave, and he looked away from you for a second, his eyes darkening as if he were gathering his thoughts. Telemachus drew in a slow breath before speaking, his voice lower, almost hesitant. "There's... another thing I wanted—needed to tell you," he began, his gaze flickering back to meet yours, the seriousness in his eyes unmistakable.

You felt your stomach tighten, the sense of foreboding settling like a stone in your chest.

"Father decided that cleaning the hall and purging the memory of the suitors wasn't enough," he continued, each word heavy, deliberate. "Those who were disloyal to our family had to face something harsher—a punishment fitting their betrayal."

You nodded slowly, understanding what he meant, your heart sinking further.

Your thoughts immediately went to Cleo—how she had seemed so certain of her choices, so defiant. You wondered how she would take it, if she had even expected this outcome.

Telemachus cleared his throat, his jaw clenching as he looked at you, his eyes searching for something—maybe understanding, maybe forgiveness. "At first, Father simply wanted them banned, expelled from Ithaca. He thought that was enough," he said, his voice carrying a hint of bitterness. "But I... I insisted that it wasn't." He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor, a flash of shame crossing his features. "Their betrayal was unforgivable. I felt that they needed to be held accountable in a way that truly reflected the gravity of what they had done. I... pushed for a harsher punishment."

He paused, his hands curling into fists at his sides, his face tightening with determination. "Father gave me the green light to decide. He let me take over."

You blinked, your heart suddenly racing in your chest, a cold dread washing over you.

Cleo.

Her face flashed through your mind—her smile, her laughter, the way she had nudged you with that teasing grin, the way she had spoken about living freely, without care for consequences.

Your voice came out shaky, barely above a whisper. "What... what happened to them? To Cleo?"

Telemachus' expression hardened, his gaze steady but filled with an emotion you couldn't quite name—regret, perhaps, or maybe a sense of duty fulfilled. "I ordered the disloyal women to be led outside the palace," he said, his voice devoid of any softness now. "They were executed by hanging—it was meant to reinforce the message that their betrayal had cost them their place in Ithaca." He paused, his eyes flickering away from yours, as though ashamed to meet your gaze.

Your legs suddenly felt weak, the strength draining from them as the full weight of his words hit you. You reached out, your hand grasping the doorframe for support, your knuckles turning white as you leaned into it.

Cleo... was dead?

The world seemed to blur for a moment, the edges of your vision darkening as you tried to steady your breathing. You swallowed hard, your mind reeling, unable to fully process the reality of it.

She was gone. Just like that. A life snuffed out, her laughter silenced... forever.

You closed your eyes, a shuddering breath escaping your lips as you tried to ground yourself, to find some sense of stability amidst the turmoil in your chest. The room felt as though it was closing in, the air too thick, too heavy.

Telemachus' voice broke through the haze, softer now, almost pleading. "I know it was harsh. I know. But I couldn't let it go unpunished. Not after everything." He paused, his gaze finally meeting yours again, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and conviction. "I had to do what I believed was right for Ithaca. For my family."

You nodded faintly, not trusting yourself to speak, your throat tight with emotion. You understood, on some level, why he had done it. But that understanding didn't make the pain any less real, any less sharp.

"I'm sorry, ____" Telemachus whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "I'm so sorry." he reached out, his hand gently brushing against your arm, but then he pulled away, as if unsure of whether he should offer comfort or remain distant.

You took a shaky breath, swallowing down the hurt that rose within you. It was painful, the realization that someone who had once laughed by your side, who had shared moments of friendship, was gone.

But still, you forced yourself to take a step toward the prince, your legs feeling heavy as though each movement took all of your strength.

A wobbly smile pulled at your lips as you looked up at him, tears swimming in your eyes, blurring your vision just a little.

Your hand shot out, quick and instinctive, wrapping around his before he could pull away entirely.

The warmth of his skin grounded you, your fingers trembling as they closed around his.

"It's... it's okay," you croaked out, the words shaky but sincere. You paused, clearing your throat, trying to steady your voice. "I understand why you did what you had to do. There is no excuse for the betrayal they committed... not after everything Queen Penelope endured, all the kindness she still showed even in her darkest times."

You watched as Telemachus' face slowly began to untighten, the tension in his features easing.

His shoulders sagged slightly, the weight he carried seeming to lessen, even if just for a moment. He fully grasped your hand now, his fingers interlocking with yours, and he stared at you, his eyes filled with both sorrow and gratitude.

You continued, your voice softening, trailing off with a sigh. "The only thing I am truly sad about... is Cleo. Her decisions, the way she chose to live—it wasn't supposed to end like this." You closed your eyes for a brief moment, shaking your head slowly, trying to push away the image of her face.

When you opened your eyes again, you squared your shoulders, squeezing Telemachus' hand a bit tighter. "But I understand, my prince. I do." You forced yourself to smile again, hoping that it might bring him some comfort, even if it couldn't heal the wounds entirely. "We move forward from here, as we must."

Telemachus' gaze softened, and he nodded, his eyes glistening with a mixture of emotions. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze in return, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you. I... I needed to hear that." His eyes searched your face, as if trying to gauge whether you were alright, whether you could handle what came next.

You swallowed, offering him a small nod, though the words you wanted to say felt caught in your throat, tangled with all the emotions you didn't know how to express.

He nodded back, a hint of a weary smile tugging at his lips. "We have much to do," he said, his voice a little stronger now, a little more like the Telemachus you knew—the one who had always looked forward, even when the weight of the world tried to hold him down.

And you knew he was right.

The massacre was over, but the real work was just beginning.

☆

☆

Side by side, you walked through the palace corridors, the silence between you both as heavy as the air that hung in the aftermath of all that had happened. The long hallway to the throne room seemed endless, each step echoing faintly against the cold stone floors.

The few servants who passed by moved with downcast eyes and hushed footsteps, their presence almost ghostly. You counted only one or two every other minute, each one looking tired and burdened by the knowledge of the events that had taken place.

Your eyes flickered to Telemachus, a worried frown pulling at your brows; you couldn't help but voice the fear gnawing at your chest as you stared up at him. "Were we truly betrayed by so many?"

Telemachus let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly, the weariness evident in the lines of his face. "Yes," he admitted, his tone thick with exhaustion. "There were more than we imagined... We'll have to find new servants, people we can trust, but until then... we'll manage."

Your lips pressed together, your brow furrowing even further at his words. You could see the strain etched across his features, the weight of what lay ahead already pressing down on him.

Without thinking, you blurted out, "Maybe we can start by training some of the sheep to carry trays—at least they're loyal."

Telemachus blinked, a look of confusion crossing his face before he realized you were joking. A surprised laugh escaped him, sudden and unguarded, his eyes widening slightly as he shook his head. "That's horrible," he muttered, though the corner of his mouth lifted into a reluctant smile.

You giggled, a small sense of triumph bubbling up within you at the sight of his smile. There was a pep in your step now, pride welling up inside you for managing to lighten his burden, if only for a second. "Horrible, maybe," you said playfully, "but it made you laugh, didn't it?"

Telemachus shook his head again, the smile lingering on his lips as he glanced at you, the weariness in his eyes softening just a bit.

The two of you continued on, the throne room drawing nearer with each step.

As you rounded the corner, the grand doors to the throne room came into view. Telemachus paused, reaching out to push one of the heavy doors open, his other arm extending just slightly for you to slip through first.

You met his eyes, offering him a soft smile as you whispered, "Thank you." You slipped under his arm, stepping into the room, with Telemachus following close behind.

The moment you entered, both of you froze at the scene before you.

In the center of the throne room, instead of the two royal seats occupied by separate figures, there was a single, intimate silhouette—Odysseus and Penelope, wrapped in each other's arms, oblivious to the grandeur surrounding them.

They stood at the heart of the space, a quiet monument to love and endurance.

Penelope's arms rested around Odysseus' shoulders, her hands gently tracing the back of his neck, as if grounding herself, ensuring he was real.

She looked down at him with a softness in her gaze that betrayed years of longing, a gaze only two people who had known both separation and deep love could share.

Her dark hair cascaded down her back, catching hints of the sun's warmth, and her face, usually guarded and composed, was now tender, her lips parted in a silent reverence.

Odysseus, in turn, gazed up at her with an expression that was almost childlike in its vulnerability.

The lines of hardship and the sharpness of war softened in his face as he looked at his wife, his hand lifting to trace the curve of her cheek with a gentle reverence. His thumb brushed just below her eye, a touch so light it seemed almost as if he feared she might vanish if he pressed too hard.

There was a tenderness in his eyes, a deep, unwavering devotion that spoke of both gratitude and relief—relief that, against all odds, he had returned to her, that this moment, once only a distant hope, was finally real.

As he traced her face, his hand slid up to cup her cheek, and she leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed as if savoring the warmth of his palm. She tilted her head down, pressing her forehead to his, her lips curling in a gentle, almost shy smile, one that held years of love, longing, and relief

They didn't need words. The silence between them was rich and full, a communion that transcended speech, filled only by the gentle cadence of their breathing and the slow, rhythmic beat of their hearts.

Their love, once tested by time, loss, and separation, had returned to bloom, stronger and more resilient than ever.

The throne room itself seemed to share in their reunion.

The sunlight bathed the scene in a warm, golden hue, illuminating the lovers as if blessing them.

The once cold stone of the palace was now softened by the light, casting an ethereal glow that made everything feel otherworldly, almost enchanted.

The columns, the high vaulted ceiling, even the shadows themselves seemed to embrace the moment, framing the couple in a warm, protective cocoon.

You and Telemachus found yourselves hesitating at the threshold, not wanting to break the spell that enveloped them.

Telemachus' hand lingered on the door, his gaze fixed on his parents. His expression was a mixture of awe and deep, unspoken emotion.

His mother and father, finally reunited, had become more than parents or rulers in this moment—they were a testament to everything he had fought for, a symbol of everything that made this kingdom worth saving.

For a moment, the two of you simply watched, the light and peace of the room seeping into your souls.

The throne room was empty, yes, but it was fuller than it had ever been—filled with the presence of those who had returned, with the love that had endured, and with the hope of a new beginning.

The peace in the room seemed timeless, untouched by the world's sorrows, as though the gods themselves had blessed this moment, wrapping the long-awaited lovers in a warmth that was both eternal and fragile, like a dream finally brought to life.

Odysseus, sensing his son's presence, turned his head slightly, a soft smile forming on his lips as he said, "Hello, Telemachus. Hello to you as well. ____."

But even as he acknowledged his son and you, he didn't release Penelope. He held her closer, as though anchoring himself in her warmth, her solidity, as if reassuring himself that she was no figment of his imagination.

His other hand moved to the small of her back, drawing her just a fraction closer, and Penelope straightened to face you and Telemachus, her arm still wrapped around her love. Her gaze was tender, her eyes shimmering with both joy and a vulnerability rarely seen.

Penelope's lips curved into a smile, and she reached out with her free hand, her voice soft and filled with affection. "My son," she said.

Telemachus took a step forward, his movements almost hesitant, his steps jittery as though he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

When he finally reached his parents, both Odysseus and Penelope wrapped him up in their arms, pulling him close, holding him securely between them.

You watched, feeling your heart swell with warmth. Your eyes shimmered, tears blurring your vision as you placed your hands over your chest, as if to hold in the feeling of love and relief that threatened to overflow.

For a moment, it was as if Telemachus was a child again—sheltered between the two people who meant everything to him, the tensions of the past few days melting away as this family was finally reunited.

The sight brought a small smile to your face, and you could almost feel the weight of all the fears and worries lifting. The image before you was something sacred—something that spoke to hope, to love that could endure the worst of trials.

Penelope turned her head, her eyes catching yours as her smile widened. She waved at you gently, her voice inviting, "Come here, dear."

You blinked, a bit taken aback, your brows rising as you stuttered, "M-Me?"

A soft chuckle escaped both Penelope and Odysseus. Odysseus nodded, his gaze warm. "Of course. Penelope has told me all about you," he said, his voice full of appreciation. "You played a vital role in keeping our kingdom alive. You have our deepest gratitude."

Swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat, you nodded, feeling a rush of warmth and something akin to disbelief. Softly, you began to walk up the steps toward the royal family, your steps shaky, your heart racing.

When you reached them, Telemachus looked at you with that warm, familiar smile that never failed to calm your nerves. He gently reached out, grabbing your hand.

You let out a small yelp of surprise as he pulled you forward, drawing you into the embrace.

Suddenly, you were wrapped in warmth—surrounded by Penelope, Odysseus, and Telemachus.

It was overwhelming in the best possible way, the love and warmth pressing in on you from all sides.

You could feel Penelope's arm resting gently against your back, Odysseus' sturdy presence beside you, and Telemachus' hand squeezing yours.

Your heart raced in your chest, and you could feel tears stinging your eyes again, but this time, they were tears of happiness.

For a moment, everything felt perfect—like all the pain, the uncertainty, the fear, had been worth it just to be here, embraced by the people who had fought so hard for this peace.

Your chest tightened, filled with hope, warmth, and love.

It was a family reunited, and though you were not born into it, in this moment, you felt as though you belonged.

For once, there was no distance between you and those you stood beside—you were part of something larger, something enduring, and it filled your heart with a sense of quiet joy.

Slowly, the embrace broke.

Penelope and Odysseus still held each other, their arms wound tightly as though unwilling to let go even for a second, while you found yourself standing beside Telemachus, his presence comforting by your side.

Odysseus then turned, his gaze sweeping the room, pausing for a moment on each face—Penelope's steadfast gaze, Telemachus' thoughtful expression, and even your own, as if pulling strength from those who had stood beside him.

He drew in a breath, the tension in the air palpable. "My dear family, and you, who have been loyal to us through everything," he began, his voice rich with emotion, "our journey has been long and arduous, filled with trials I would not wish on anyone. Ithaca has suffered in my absence. Our people have faced uncertainty, hardship, and loss."

You saw Penelope's expression darken, her brow furrowing as those memories returned—the suitors, the constant manipulation, the feeling of being cornered.

Telemachus, too, looked down for a moment, his eyes clouding with thoughts of the years without his father, the struggles, the moments when hope had seemed lost.

"But," Odysseus continued, his voice rising above the weight of the past, "we are here now. We have survived, and we will rebuild." He looked to Penelope, his gaze softening. "Together, we will heal these wounds. I will not let Ithaca remain broken, not when it has so much potential for prosperity."

There was a conviction in his voice, the kind that left no room for doubt. The people deserved a leader who not only defended them from threats but also ensured their prosperity.

And he wanted to give them that.

You could hear the weight of his words, each one resonating with a sense of duty. He was not merely concerned with power; Odysseus was a protector, a man who saw his kingdom not as territory, but as people who needed him.

He then turned to Telemachus, his gaze softening, the fire in his eyes shifting to something more paternal, more tender. "Telemachus," he addressed, "As the rightful heir to Ithaca, you have much to learn. The road won't be easy, but together we can restore Ithaca to what it should be," he added, his voice laced with both challenge and hope. "Are you ready for what lay ahead?"

You watched as Telemachus listened, his face serious, his eyes reflecting the weight of his father's expectations. There was no hesitation, no hint of the boy who had once doubted himself.

Instead, you saw a young man who had faced darkness, who had seen the price of weakness and betrayal, and who had emerged with a stronger will.

Telemachus seemed to stand a little taller before his father, his posture straightening, his eyes meeting Odysseus' with newfound strength and understanding. "I understand, Father. I am ready," he replied, his voice steady, a glimmer of something resolved in his eyes. "I have waited for this my whole life—to learn, to be worthy of this kingdom, and of you."

You could see the resolve in his eyes, the promise he silently made to both his father and himself.

The trials of the past days had forged him into someone who understood the cost of leadership—the sacrifices that must be made, the difficult choices that lay ahead, and the burden of carrying the hopes of others on his shoulders.

Odysseus smiled, a warmth crossing his features that was rare in the years of battle. He stepped forward, his free hand reaching out to rest on his son's shoulder. "Telemachus, you have already proven yourself worthy. What remains is for us to build this future, side by side. It will be hard—harder still than what we have faced—but I believe in you. I believe in us."

You watched as Penelope closed her eyes for a moment, as if to absorb the strength of Odysseus' words, her lips curving into a faint smile. She reached her hand out to her son, her fingers brushing against his arm. "Telemachus, Ithaca is as much yours as it is ours," she said, her voice filled with both love and a gentle seriousness. "This is your future too."

Telemachus nodded, his chest rising as he took in a deep breath. Then he turned, looking down at you standing beside him. His eyes were kind but tinged with uncertainty, and you could see the vulnerability beneath that mask of resolve. "We have all had to make sacrifices," he said softly, his words directed towards you. "And you—you've been with us, helped us more than you know."

You felt a warmth spread through your chest, your heart pounding at the sincerity in his voice.

The royal family—Odysseus, Penelope, and Telemachus—were not just rulers, not just legends. They were a family bound by love, by their trials, and by the quiet promise of better days ahead.

You gave Telemachus a small nod, your eyes meeting his. "I am honored to serve," you managed, though your voice was barely a whisper.

Penelope's eyes glistened with unshed tears, her hand tightening around her husband's arm. "We have waited so long for this day," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "And now that you are here, I know we can do it—together."

Then, Odysseus' eyes softened as he turned to his wife, his smile growing warmer. "Now, Penelope, prepare a feast—a gathering not for celebration, but for remembrance and hope. It is time to honor those who have been lost, those who fought for Ithaca, and to mark the beginning of a new era."

Penelope smiled, a soft, knowing expression crossing her face. "Of course, my love," she said, her voice gentle, filled with both relief and affection. She glanced towards Telemachus, who in turn looked towards you, his eyes lighting up with an idea.

"Perhaps you could play for us," Telemachus suggested, his gaze resting on you, a hint of encouragement in his expression. His mother immediately nodded, her eyes sparkling in agreement. "Yes, please do. It would bring such warmth to the gathering," Penelope added, her voice sincere.

You felt Odysseus' eyes cut to you, his gaze evaluating for a brief moment before softening. "I have encountered many in my travels," he began, his voice carrying the weight of experience, “but I do not think I have ever heard one play or sing a tune as sweetly as you." His compliment was genuine, his eyes holding yours as though to impress upon you the depth of his words.

Heat rose to your face, and you bowed your head slightly, a warm smile spreading across your lips. "Thank you, my king," you replied, your voice filled with pride. "I would be honored to play."

With that, the conversation shifted towards preparations, the room slowly filling with a sense of purpose.

You found yourself standing beside Telemachus once more, his hand briefly brushing against yours as you both turned to follow his parents. A small smile played on your lips as you looked towards the future—one that, for the first time in a long while, felt hopeful and bright.

A/N: alright, first arc done/building up the romance between telemachus, now onto two our nextn contestants. hm, should it be apollo or hermes? or should i leave apollo last to meet???; also, how do you guys like my newest fic, 'godly things?' i'm trying my hand at tackling a more softer mc, so i hope i make her empathetic/not too apathetic like makima from the kne one lololo.

[blooms-in-april]

Obsessed with the idea it's illegal in Oxenfurt to execute or arrest someone while there is a theatre performance going on. So when Jaskier is finally arrested for being the Sandpiper and an associate of the fugitive Geralt of Rivia, all his students band together to perform the longest musical the Continent has ever seen.

Yes, it's about his life. Yes, it's very personal. And yes, fugitive Geralt and Ciri end up in the audience, of course they do.

[spoofymcgee]

She feels Hermes arrive more than anything; the flutter of his wings against her skin. He's picked her bad side to appear on, and she's not sure whether it's forgetfulness–doubts it, as Hermes is shrewder than he likes to appear, but usually more considerate as well.

He doesn't say anything, though, content to be a presence sitting next to her and another pair of heels kicking off the side of the cliff.

Ithaca has become something of a hotspot for gods these days, and she doesn't know whether it's because of herself or Odysseus. Telemachus, perhaps, finding wayward deities off on his journey and sending them home for her to deal with. If it is, she might have to shake him next time he comes back.

*He'd have been better as your student," Athena says, finally, once they've watched Odysseus fleece two more sailors cocky enough to challenge the king, and sneak four coin pouches, six hats and nine knives off the spectators in the process. He'll give them all back at the end, but he seems like he's enjoying the challenge, and Penelope sits a polite distance away chatting with the captains' wives and occasionally glancing over to grin at him.

"Who?" Hermes says, like the answer isn't obvious. "Oh, Odysseus? Darling, where in the world did you get that conclusion from? Does Persephone have a new sort of flower she's growing, and if so, where can I get some?"

"Don't be an idiot," Athena tells him, but it doesn't come out half as annoyed as she'd meant. Damn, she really is going soft. "I mean it. Look, he's perfect for you, and you wouldn't have led him astray like I did."

"Do me a favor and don't try and foist your pupils off onto me," Hermes says, checking his nails in the sunlight. He's been down in the Levant again recently, she sees; they're colored a faint orange with darker, intricate designs twisting up his knuckles.

"I'm not," she says, feeling the feathers framing her face ruffle in indignation. "He's mine for as long as he'll have me. I'm only saying, if things were different..."

"But they're not," Hermes says flatly, looking up at her. "We live here and now, dear. Besides, if he was my student he would have been even sneakier, and no one would have taken that well. He wouldn't have made it past the age of twenty, and he wouldn't have been brave enough or good enough to protect his family."

"You can't know that," Athena protests, though her hand drifts absently to the edge of her scar.

"And neither can you," he points out, pulling one foot up to tuck under the opposite thigh. "So stop trying. Odysseus is home, Athena. By the looks of it, you are too. You're not doing anyone a favor by living in the past."

She looks down at her hands, twisting in her lap.

"You're a warrior," he says, voice softening. "You've never given up in your whole life. Don't let yourself lose this battle just because you're fighting your own brain."

The breeze is cool on her face, and she grits her teeth as matching tears slip off her chin and land on her chiton. "Alright."

"Good," Hermes says, and hits the cliff with his heel hard enough to send him twirling into the air, sandals fluttering. "Now, take me to where the olives are, I'm positively starving." He holds his hand out like a princess waiting to have it kissed, the other wrist pressed to his brow with his head thrown back, and she can't help but laugh. He's kind enough to ignore how wet it sounds.

"We can't have that, can we?" she says, and launches herself past him fast enough to send him spinning, and doesn't need to look back to tell he's chasing her–the playful outrage is loud enough even for her to hear.

[lambmotifz]

always thinking about the fact that eric kripke ethel cain and richard siken ship wincest

[awarnin]

I want to please you | DOM!DYLAN MINNETTE X FEM!READER

synopsis: you need to get the stress out of him...

warning: SMUT! p in v, unprotected sex, dom!dylan, thumb sucking.

author's note: FUCKKKK. a lot of people asked me for this and it took me way too long to develop it. i'm sorry because I know it's not my best piece of art, i'm still trying to improve. !!

wordcount: 10.8k

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The door closed softly behind Dylan, the sound echoing through the room, causing a quickening of the heartbeat in your chest. You knew what it meant: his day had been long, exhausting, and now he just wanted to get away from it all. You’d seen him arrive before, exhaustion etched on his face, but this time, the tension was palpable, as if all the stress of the week had been piled on his shoulders.

You watched him from the couch, your body already prepared for what was to come. He walked over to you, his blue eyes darker, heavy with silent need. Dylan let out a deep sigh, tossing his keys on the table without even looking at you. He plopped down on the corner of the couch, the leather of his jacket creaking as he slid it down his arms and tossed it aside.

“This week has been crazy,” he muttered, bringing a hand to his face. “I can’t keep going like this. Work is driving me crazy.”

His voice was low, and though he tried to sound calm, you could feel the weight of each word. There was something in his tone that turned you on, a mix of frustration and desire that was reflected in his tense posture. You wanted to relieve him, to make him forget about everything, even if it was just for tonight.

Your eyes followed him, and when he looked at you for the first time, you felt a rush of heat run through your body. You knew what he was asking for, and you bit your lip, trying to control the anticipation that was already taking over you.

“Come here,” he said softly, his hand coming up to brush your cheek.

You leaned into him, your heart racing as you moved closer. His thumb caressed your skin, and then, without another word, he brought it to your lips. You knew what he wanted. He didn’t need to ask out loud. You opened your mouth, allowing his thumb to slowly enter. The first touch of your tongue against his skin made you shiver. The taste of him, the heat, was exactly what you needed.

Your tongue ran slowly and deliberately over his thumb, tasting every inch as you sucked gently. Your lips closed around his finger, and the heat in your belly grew, a dull throb that echoed with every movement you made. Every time your tongue brushed his skin, you could feel his breathing getting a little heavier, though he tried to remain calm, watching the TV as if nothing was happening.

Dylan was relaxed, his head resting on the back of the couch, but his eyes followed you out of the corner of his eye. You knew that, although he seemed distracted, his attention was completely on you, on the way you sucked on his thumb, on how your lips slid wet and soft over his skin. You focused on the act, on the feeling of having something of his between your lips, on the way it made you feel more connected to him.

Time passed, and the heat in your body continued to grow. Every time you moved your tongue, a small moan escaped your lips, almost inaudible, but there, marking your surrender. Saliva began to pool in your mouth, and though you tried to control it, you soon felt it begin to drip, slipping down his thumb and onto the couch.

You didn’t care. You were completely absorbed in the moment, in the feeling of being at his mercy, in pleasing him. The world outside of that couch ceased to exist, and all that mattered was him, and the way he made you feel just by being so close to him.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Dylan moved his hand, removing his thumb from your mouth slowly. The wetness of your saliva glistened on his skin as he took in the mess you had made. His gaze lowered to the couch, where a small smear of saliva marked the spot where you had leaned in. You held your breath, knowing he had noticed.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice low but with clear intent behind it.

Your body tensed at his tone. You knew what was coming, and part of you was looking forward to it. Your cheeks heated, and your eyes dropped, following his gaze to the stain you had left behind. You didn’t know what to say, only that you had lost control, giving yourself over completely to this moment.

“I told you to be careful,” he murmured, his voice still soft, but firm. It wasn’t a real reprimand, but there was a clear warning in his tone.

Before you could respond, he took you by the waist and lifted you firmly, placing you on his lap. You felt the heat of his body beneath yours, and a shiver ran down your spine as he adjusted you, making sure you were completely under his control. You felt vulnerable, but that vulnerability only added to the intensity of the moment.

His hands slid to your hips, adjusting you on his lap as he held you still. His lips brushed your ear, his warm breath sending waves of desire through your body.

"You know what happens when you're not careful, right?" he whispered, his tone low, heavy with expectation.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice shaking slightly. You couldn’t hide the tremor in your words, a mix of nervousness and desire that ran from your stomach to the base of your spine.

“Sorry isn’t enough,” he said, a dangerous calm in his tone. His fingers slowly moved up your jaw, holding you gently but firmly, forcing you to look him straight in the eyes. “You have to learn to control yourself.”

You shivered under his gaze, feeling the control slipping completely from your hands. You were at his mercy, and that realization made you feel more alive, more aware of every little touch, every shared breath. Dylan leaned you in close, his lips so close to yours you could feel his hot breath, but he didn’t kiss you right away.

“Tell me what you need,” he said in a whisper, his low tone echoing in your ear like a soft command.

“I want to please you,” you replied, your voice shaking with desire. You knew that every word you said brought him closer to what you both wanted.

His lips finally found yours, deep, firm, and filled with all the control he had maintained up until that moment. The kiss left you breathless, and as his hands began to move over your body, you felt every inch of you respond to his touch, to his dominance.

Dylan stared at you intently, his blue eyes shining with a desire he could no longer contain. He held you firmly in his lap, his breathing heavy and his chest rising and falling with each quickening heartbeat. You knew what was going to happen, you felt it in the way his hands gripped your hips, controlling your every move. His control was absolute, but you also felt him vulnerable, given over to this moment as much as you were.

With a slow, determined movement, he guided you along, positioning you right above him. The heat between the two of you was almost overwhelming, and the air in the room seemed to charge with electricity. Your bodies aligned perfectly, and you could feel the tension building between the two of you about to explode.

“Relax,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, his voice low and full of promise.

You shuddered at the contact, closing your eyes as you focused on every sensation. The moment you connected with him was gentle, but full of intensity. You felt Dylan plunge into you with a mix of slowness and firmness, the heat of his body invading yours in a way that made you arch your back. A moan escaped your lips, as he let out a stifled growl, feeling how you two fit together perfectly.

Every movement of his was measured, controlled, but at the same time filled with a desire he couldn’t repress anymore. His hands on your hips kept you in place as you moved to the rhythm he set, each breath synchronized with his, each sensation intensifying as you sank deeper into the moment.

The rhythm between the two of you quickened, and the heat grew, enveloping you in a feeling of absolute fullness. You could feel every part of him, and the way you clung to his body made you lose yourself even more in the connection you shared. The room seemed to fade away, and the world narrowed to those moments, to the caresses, the whispers, and the moans that filled the air.

Finally, when the climax came, it was like a wave that swept the two of you away. You felt complete, vulnerable, and strong at the same time, as he held you tighter, as if he didn’t want to let you go. Both of your bodies shook, and the air around you filled with the heavy satisfaction of what you had just shared.

Dylan held you gently, his breathing slowly returning to normal. He let you fall against his chest, his arms wrapping around you as you both let yourself drift away in exhaustion and satisfaction.

“That was just what I needed,” he murmured, his lips brushing your forehead in a gesture of tenderness.

You smiled against his skin, feeling the ease he had finally found in you, and you in him.

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