#song: Lamb Boy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wordsofwhimsy · 1 month ago

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❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Part Five ～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, slice-of-life, reader living like a real country song, first kiss feels

Word Count: 2,965

Synopsis: Mark joins you for dinner at your home deep in the heart of southern charm—and quickly learns he’s wildly unprepared for the full experience: sweet tea strong enough to stop time, a Meemaw with more sass than mercy, and chicken and dumplings that might just change his life.

a/n: i am sooo caught up in these two it’s not even funny at this point lord help meee

read part four ❀ꗥ～Here! ～ꗥ❀

Mark wasn’t ready. He thought he was, but then the door opened… and there you were.

Apron dusted with flour, a smudge of something sweet on your cheek, hair pulled back in a soft ribbon like you were born to play house in a country song.

“Well hey, sugar,” you said, smile warm enough to melt butter. “Right on time.”

You led him inside with a soft “make yourself at home”, like he hadn’t just stepped into an actual southern fairytale. The house smelled like something sweet and slow-cooked, and there was faint music playing from a little radio on the windowsill—twangy, nostalgic, full of soul.

Mark stood stiffly near the entryway, awkwardly holding the flowers until you noticed and gave a little gasp.

“For me?” you asked, voice all fluttery and touched.

He nodded, suddenly shy. “I didn’t know what kind you liked, but…”

You took them like he’d handed you gold. “They’re perfect, darlin’. Thank you.”

His brain stalled at “darlin’.” Again.

"You lettin’ strange men in my house now, darlin’, or should I grab the shotgun?" a sharp voice called from the next room.

Mark stiffened like he’d just been caught sneaking out a window. “Was that—did she say shotgun?”

You turned your head just enough to holler back, “That boy I told you about, Meemaw!”

A moment later, a short and stout figure rounded the corner—a silver-haired woman in fuzzy slippers and a housecoat, eyes sharp as a hawk’s and presence like she could command an army and win a pie contest in the same afternoon.

Mark stood up straighter like he was meeting a general.

You motioned between them. “Mark, this is my Meemaw. Meemaw, this is Mark Grayson.”

Meemaw looked him up and down, slow and deliberate. Then she sniffed. “Hmm. You look like you’ve never dug a ditch in your life.”

Mark blinked. “I—uh, that’s true.”

Meemaw nodded once. “At least you’re honest.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Meemaw.”

“What? I didn’t say I didn’t like him. I’m just saying he’s got the kind of hands that wouldn’t know a hoe from a hairbrush.”

Mark was ninety percent sure he was being roasted. But also? Kind of honored.

He cleared his throat. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

She squinted at him. “Hmph. Polite. You feed him yet?”

“Workin’ on it,” you replied, already drifting toward the kitchen.

As Mark followed you, Meemaw called after him, “You like sweet tea, city boy?”

Mark nodded quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Well good. I made it strong enough to stop your heart, so sip slow.”

Mark turned to you, slightly terrified. “She’s… intense.”

“She’s a lamb,” you said easily. “Just gotta let her sass you first. It’s how she shows love.”

While you put the finishing touches on dinner, Mark hovered in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets as he watched you float from stove to counter like you’d been born in a kitchen. Flour on your wrists, barefoot on the hard wood floors, humming some old country song under your breath.

“So,” he said, voice softer than usual, “is it just you and Meemaw out here?”

You nodded. “Moved up a couple months ago. Meemaw needed to be near the hospital for her treatments, and the one back home wasn’t cuttin’ it. Mama and Daddy stayed back with my brothers to keep the farm runnin’.”

Mark leaned a little closer. “That must’ve been hard.”

You gave him a small, crooked smile. “It was. But Meemaw’s tough. Stubborn as a mule in a rainstorm. She’s not goin’ down without a fight.”

There was a quiet pride in your voice when you said it, and Mark felt something shift in his chest.

“She’s lucky to have you,” he said.

You glanced over your shoulder, surprised by the sincerity. “Well I’ll be. That might be the nicest thing anybody’s said to me all week.”

You slid a casserole dish out of the oven, wiped your hands on a floral dish towel, and turned to face him fully. “Mark?”

“Yeah?”

You tilted your head. “You ever had chicken and dumplin’s made from scratch?”

“…No?”

You grinned. “Then you better buckle up, sug.”

You disappeared into the dining room for a moment, and Mark heard the soft clatter of serving spoons and cabinet doors, the muted clink of glassware. Then your voice floated back in.

“Go on and sit, sugar! Table’s all set!”

He followed the smell of heaven into the room and nearly stopped dead again.

The table looked like a magazine spread: quilted placemats, butter dish shaped like a chicken, a tall pitcher of Meemaw’s allegedly-lethal sweet tea dripping condensation down the sides. There were actual cloth napkins. Like… folded.

And at the center of it all: you, setting down a steaming bowl of chicken and dumplings with a little flourish, cheeks pink from the heat.

“I hope you’re hungry,” you said, brushing a loose curl back from your forehead. “I made enough to feed a football team.”

“I’ll try to eat like one, then,” Mark replied, pulling out his chair, “pretty sure my soul left my body the second I caught a whiff.”

Meemaw cackled from her seat at the head of the table. “You sure that wasn’t just the tea hittin’ your arteries?”

Mark tried to laugh casually, but he’d already taken one sip and yeah—his heart might actually be fighting for its life.

You just grinned and served him a full plate like you’d done it a hundred times before. Fluffy dumplings. A hearty scoop of collard greens that smelled like they’d been simmering all day in something sacred.

And oh God—was that homemade peach cobbler off to the side?

He took one bite and nearly blacked out.

Warm, rich, a little peppery, perfectly soft dumplings floating in a broth that tasted like home, even though he’d never had anything like it.

Mark blinked at his plate, then at you, then back again.

Oh, he thought, dazed. This is what love tastes like.

—

Dinner was… warm. Not just the food, though it was the best meal of his entire life (sorry mom!). But the atmosphere. The laughter. The way you kept topping off his tea like it was instinct. The way Meemaw told story after story with that mischievous glint in her eye, cutting into her food like she was holding court.

“You shoulda seen [y/n] try to wrangle a rooster when she was seven,” she said, pointing a fork in your direction. “Feathers flyin’, her tiny self yellin’ ‘you come back here, you nasty little buzzard!’”

“Meemaw!” you yelped, laughing so hard you nearly dropped your fork.

Mark choked on a bite of biscuit. “A buzzard?”

You groaned. “I didn’t know what else to call him! He was evil! I still think he had a vendetta.”

“Oh, he did,” Meemaw said. “He hated everyone, but he especially hated you.”

“He bit me!”

“More than once.”

Mark was losing it. “Okay but now I need to meet this rooster.”

“Oh, he’s dead,” you said sweetly, like you were announcing a weather update. “Daddy made him into dumplin’s.”

Mark stared at his bowl in silence.

“…Not these dumplings, though. Right?”

You winked. “Guess you’ll never know.”

—

After dinner, Mark insisted on helping clear the dishes—even though Meemaw barked “he ain’t gonna break my plates, is he?” from the living room. You shooed her off with a playful “go rest your bones, old woman,” and led Mark into the kitchen with an armful of empty bowls.

“You really don’t have to help,” you said, bumping his shoulder lightly.

“I want to,” Mark replied, grabbing a towel.

The two of you worked quietly, elbow to elbow, hands brushing now and then, until the sink was full of warm suds and the air smelled like soap and vanilla.

At some point, you glanced over and found him just… staring. At you.

“What?” you asked, brows raised, smiling.

Mark blinked. “Nothing. I just—” He cleared his throat, looking down at the dish towel in his hands. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

You paused, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the sink.

“Well look at you,” you said, voice quiet now, like it belonged in the soft glow of lamplight. “Keep talkin’ like that and I might start thinkin’ you mean it.”

“I do,” he said. No hesitation. “I mean it.”

And then you smiled at him again, small and radiant and real, like you hadn’t just knocked the air clean out of his lungs.

And Mark—heart racing, fingers damp, head full of biscuits and buzzards and you—could only stare and think: she would look so good in white.

—

After the last dish was rinsed and stacked to dry, you patted your hands on that same floral towel, then looked up at Mark with a mischievous glint in your eye.

“Okay,” you said, voice low and conspiratorial. “Wanna try somethin’ a lil bad?”

Mark froze like you’d just handed him a live wire. “Bad?”

You ducked into the pantry without another word, rummaging for a second before emerging with a squat mason jar full of a liquid that looked… suspiciously clear.

His eyes widened. “Is that—”

You nodded solemnly. “Moonshine. The real stuff. My uncle makes it back home in Georgia.”

Mark’s brain short-circuited for a full second. “That’s illegal.”

You shrugged, already unscrewing the lid. “So’s jaywalking. Don’t be a coward.”

You poured him the tiniest bit into a mismatched teacup and passed it over like it was communion.

He took a small sip, and immediately looked like he’d aged ten years.

“Holy—” he coughed, eyes watering. “I think I just saw God.”

You grinned, wicked and delighted. “Means it’s workin’.”

“Is this what your uncle drinks for fun?”

“Nah,” you said cheerfully. “This is his light batch. The good stuff’ll peel the paint off your truck.”

Mark clutched at his abdomen. “I think my stomach lining just evaporated.”

You patted his arm. “Builds character.” Then you gave him a quick wink that almost made him forget the terrible burn in his throat.

“C’mon,” you said, already heading for the back door. “Let’s go sit out on the porch a spell. You need fresh air before that shine eats through your insides.”

Mark followed, still coughing faintly, setting the teacup swiftly down on the counter like it might bite him again. The screen door creaked open and slapped shut behind him, and suddenly the world was quiet.

Warm night air wrapped around you both, thick with jasmine and the lazy buzz of cicadas. The porch light cast a soft glow across the steps, and in the distance, fireflies blinked like tiny stars being born in the grass.

You handed Mark a mason jar of sweet tea—blessedly non-lethal this time—and sat down on the porch swing like you’d done it a hundred times. He joined you, the swing groaning a little as it shifted under your combined weight.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Just the creak of the swing. The flicker of fireflies. The soft hum of a far-off train. You sipped your tea and leaned back, the ribbon in your hair fluttering gently in the breeze.

Mark glanced over at you. Lit by porch and star light, you looked like something out of a dream—like every love song he’d never believed in until now.

“Is it always this quiet out here?” he asked after a while.

You nodded. “Mmhm. Town goes to bed early. It’s just us and the lightnin’ bugs now.”

Mark smiled faintly, gaze fixed on the curve of your fingers wrapped around the jar. “It’s nice.”

You look over, catching him in that open, unguarded moment. “You’re real sweet, you know that?”

He laughed under his breath, startled. “Sweet?”

“Yeah.” You nudged his shoulder gently. “Sweet. In a ‘makes me wanna bake you a pie just ‘cause’ kind of way.”

Mark swallowed. The porch swing felt a little too small now.

“Most people don’t call me sweet,” he said.

“Well, most people don’t know what they’re lookin’ at.”

That shut him right up.

You looked away, back out at the yard, watching the fireflies drift like stars that’d gotten a little lost. And then—like it was nothing—you let your hand slide over the swing’s wooden slats until your pinky brushed his.

Mark’s breath caught.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t say a word. Just left your hand there, soft and warm and sure, like you were giving him the option to take it—or not.

He did.

Carefully, reverently, like it was something sacred, Mark slid his fingers between yours.

His heart clenched in his chest. He wanted to hold your hand forever.

It was perfect. It fit in his like it had been made just for him. For a heartbeat, he let himself imagine that—imagine you, beside him like this, for the rest of his life—holding hands on a front porch, watching fireflies dance beneath the stars.

“God,” he whispered, barely realizing he’d spoken aloud. “You’re so... perfect.”

You tilted your head at him, eyes catching the light. “What was that?”

Mark swallowed, shaking his head, trying to clear the soft, heady feeling from his chest. “Nothing. Just... this. Just you.” His hand tightened around yours instinctively, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I can’t think of a place I’d rather be.”

You smiled, soft and steady, your other hand brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. For a moment, the two of you simply swayed together in silence, your hands held gently between you, neither of you wanting to break it.

And then—

“[Y/n]! Where you at?! I need my ‘tussin!” Meemaw’s voice cracked through the night like a sharp clap of thunder, breaking the spell.

You sighed, reluctantly pulling your hand from Mark’s, though the warmth lingered. “S’pose that’s my cue to get goin’.”

Mark blinked, momentarily stunned by how quickly the night had passed. He stood just behind you, as if trying to savor the last few moments, trailing in your wake until you both stopped just shy of the porch steps. You turned to him, all soft and sweet like a summer peach, and Mark didn’t know how much more his heart could take.

“Thanks for dinner,” he said, voice hushed but genuine.

You waved him off with a grin. “Ah, it’s nothin’. Just a little country cookin’.”

But it wasn’t nothing, and Mark wasn’t about to let it go. His heart didn’t have the luxury of pretending things were nothing anymore. He was standing there, in front of you – in front of everything he never even knew he wanted – and knew he couldn’t let it go.

So he reached for you, gently taking your hand—your palm down, fingers outstretched—and brought it slowly up to his face. You didn’t protest, instead watched through the fullness of your lashes with bated breath.

He tilted his head, gaze locking onto yours, and for a heartbeat he thought maybe he could just be a gentleman, maybe just kiss your knuckles and let it be enough.

With a soft exhale he pressed a kiss to the top of your hand, his lips warm and gentle against your skin. It was sweet. Polite. It could’ve been enough, in another world, in another life.

But when he pulled back and saw the way your eyes flickered up to meet his, the way your lips parted just slightly, he felt something stir in him—a desperate need to push past the politeness, to push past everything that had held him back up until this moment.

Without thinking, he tugged gently on your hand, drawing you a little closer, until there was barely any space between you.

Your breath hitched, your eyes dropping to his lips for the briefest of seconds.

And that was all he needed.

He leaned in, slowly, softly, and kissed you.

It wasn’t urgent or desperate. It was slow and tender, like he was savoring every second, as if it could stretch on forever and he wouldn’t mind. All the anxiety, all the nervousness, the constant whirlwind of thoughts he'd been battling—they all fell away, gone, like they'd never existed.

As he kissed you, he could see it all—the quiet mornings, the summer nights, the life he never thought he could have was now so plainly in front of him, contained in your lips.

When he pulled away, his breath still catching in the space between you, the world seemed to pause. The porch swing groaned faintly, the crickets kept their steady rhythm, but everything else felt suspended—like the night itself was waiting.

Mark’s gaze was fixed on you, desperately seeking some kind of reaction. He searched your eyes for a sign, anything to show him what you were feeling. And then you smiled—a soft, radiant thing that lit up your whole face. Your eyes sparkled like moonlight on water, warm and full of something he couldn’t quite name.

You let out a breath, gentle and sweet. Then, in that familiar, honeyed voice of yours, you whispered, “Well, shoot. I didn’t know we were makin' memories tonight.”

Mark’s heart thudded in his chest. Your words were simple, but the way you said them—the sincerity, the warmth—it made him feel like he'd found his home in you.

He couldn’t help but smile, a little overwhelmed by how right everything felt, how utterly perfect it was to be standing there with you, surrounded by the soft glow of the stars.

Mark had no idea what he’d done right in life to earn this moment, but he vowed, then and there, to never deserve it less.

read part six ❀ꗥ～Here! ～ꗥ❀

#invincible fanfic #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson fanfic

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the-sleepydragon · 2 months ago

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It might not be much, but as a small way to honour River Boy and his music, I'm gonna share some of my favourite songs from the Cult of The Lamb OST.

If you would like to share your favourite songs, feel free to reblog and share them below (or make your own post!!).

__________________

#Spotify #ask #mod message #River Boy #cultofthelamb #cotl #post

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hidekomoon · 1 year ago

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BRAND NEW EYES songs as movie posters:

Playing God: The Silence of the Lambs (1991) Careful: Memento (2000) Ignorance: A Quiet Place (2018) The Only Exception: To All the Boys I've Loved Before (2018)

DON'T REPOST - originals under the cut

#paramore #paramoreedit #brand new eyes #buildyourfences #useriselin #usernine #usercellphonehippie #usersar #usercaro #userangelic #userzal #userrobin #userspacey #userdanewhitman #mine #paramovies!

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theonottsbxtch · 14 days ago

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ARABIAN NIGHTS | IH6

an: okay so this was “requested” by my friend but i lowkey miss algeria rn so we’re writing something set in algeria to my algerian love, isack hadjar. enjoy, although algeria is not the most visited country in north africa, it stands to me as the prettiest.

summary: desert dusk, a woman wrapped in smoke and knives. he follows her through gold-drenched streets, not knowing if it’s want or worship. she gives nothing, except a blade and a silence heavy with meaning. he stays. not for her. for the wind that smells like her name he never learned.

wc: 3.1k

The wind had shifted again, soft and dry, carrying with it the scent of cumin, old leather, and something sweeter, perhaps dates warmed by the sun or rosewater spilled on stone. Isack stood at the edge of the market square, the collar of his linen shirt loose at the throat, eyes narrowed against the gold-washed light that bled across the dunes beyond the walls of El-Hadir.

He had always known the desert to be a fickle mistress, blistering and brutal one day, velvet and forgiving the next. Today, she purred.

Men called out in a tangle of tongues, haggling over bolts of dyed cotton, carved trinkets, tiny pyramids of spices whose colours outshone even the painted sky. Drummers thudded slow rhythms near the well, while smoke from a dozen open grills curled lazily upwards, thick with lamb fat and saffron. Amid it all, she moved, unhurried, unbothered, unseen by most.

But Isack saw her. He had seen her every day for a week now. Always at dusk. Always alone.

He didn’t know her name. She never spoke.

Yet when she passed, something stirred beneath his ribs, not quite desire, not yet, but the beginning of a pull. Like the first whisper of a storm across the sand, long before the sky turned.

She wore the veil as many did, a soft length of gauze the colour of desert smoke, wrapped with practiced grace around her head and drawn low across her face. It was not modesty that cloaked her, it was intention. The fabric hinted at a finer weave beneath, like the silence before a song begins.

Only her eyes remained, and they were enough. Almond-shaped, rimmed in kohl, steady as stars above a still oasis. They gave nothing away, but Isack felt the weight of them all the same, lingering on him, or perhaps through him, as though searching for something beneath his skin.

No one else seemed to notice her, or if they did, they looked away too quickly. There was something in the quiet way she walked—anklets whispering beneath her robes, hands folded just so, that unsettled the ordinary rhythm of the street.

She drifted past the date seller, past the boy grinding cinnamon with a brass pestle. Her fingers brushed a string of amber prayer beads, lingered on the hem of a crimson shawl, but she bought nothing. The merchants didn’t call to her. They knew better.

Isack had asked once, casually, with a feigned carelessness he didn’t quite believe himself, who she was.

The old man with the mint tea stall had chuckled and shrugged.

“Some things, my boy,” he’d said, “aren’t meant to be named. They’re meant to be followed.”

And so he watched her now, from his place beside the spice jars, arms crossed, the late sun laying a bronze halo along the bridge of his nose. Somewhere in the distance, a ney flute moaned its long, aching note, low and winding, like smoke in the lungs.

And beneath it all, the whisper of sand shifting, as if the desert itself was listening.

He waited until she turned down a narrower street, one of those shadowed veins that bled out from the market’s heart and into the older parts of the city, where the stone was worn smooth and the air tasted of dust and secrets.

He followed.

Not hurried. Not close. Just enough to keep her in sight, that scrap of grey silk bobbing like a ghost through the haze. His boots scuffed along the sandstone path, the sounds of the bazaar falling away behind him until there was only the echo of his own steps and the occasional creak of a wooden shutter overhead.

And then—nothing.

She was gone.

He stopped, frowning, turning in place. The alley was empty. No doors had opened. No sound. No shadow flinched.

“Shit,” he muttered, glancing upward, as if she might’ve climbed a wall and vanished into the sun.

A breath later, he felt it. The cool press of metal. No, gold, judging by the weight and the warmth, at his throat. Not a hard push. Not yet. Just a whisper’s edge. A warning.

“Shnu bghit, ya weld l-qahba?” What do you want, son of a whore?

The voice was low. Feminine. Firm.

It curled around his ear, warm with threat, cool with control. She was behind him, the blade at his neck, one hand pressed to his chest to hold him still. Close enough to smell the saffron and smoke in her scarf. Close enough to feel the heat of her breath.

Isack’s heart kicked up in his ribs, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak right away. When he did, it was with a small smile, crooked, maddeningly calm.

“Just a walk,” he said. “Didn’t know I needed permission.”

The knife shifted—not away. Just enough to let him feel its edge, to remind him how thin the line was between flirtation and foolishness.

“Khdemt m3ak shaytan, wla ghira fadi?” she asked. Are you working with the devil, or just bored?

He tilted his head, just slightly, like a man flirting with danger for sport. “Little of both, maybe.”

There was silence, so thick he could taste it, before the blade disappeared and the pressure on his chest eased.

When he turned, she was already walking away, veil fluttering behind her like smoke off a fire not yet out. Not a word. Not a look.

But she knew he would follow.

And he would.

He followed again. He didn’t call out, didn’t run. That would’ve been too easy. No, this time, he kept his distance, watched the way she moved through the old city like someone born from it, not just living in it.

The alleyways narrowed. Stone walls rose higher. Here, the shadows came sooner, curling into doorways and under balconies where vines wilted in the heat. She led him through twists he didn’t know, and Isack knew this city better than most. That alone should’ve warned him.

Still, he followed.

She stopped before a low, carved door set in an arched frame. No markings. Just a brass handle dulled by time and touch. She didn’t knock. Just looked at him once over her shoulder, eyes dark as honey in shade.

“Dakhul.” Come in.

He hesitated, just a heartbeat. Then pushed the door open.

Inside, it was cooler. The walls were lined in old mosaic, cracked in places but still gleaming where the light touched. A single oil lamp flickered on a table, casting soft amber shadows across the room. It smelled of oud and oranges, something deeper beneath, musk, maybe. Her.

She was already by the far wall, removing her scarf. Not the veil entirely, just the top layer. Enough to let her hair breathe. Enough to make his own breath catch.

“You’ve got a habit of playing with fire,” she said, voice smooth now, no knife in it, but no softness either.

“Maybe I like the heat,” he replied, leaning against the closed door, arms folded. “You always greet strangers with a blade to the throat?”

Her mouth curved beneath the veil, not quite a smile. Something sharper.

“Ma shoufteksh qalaq. Sme3ni. Kont n9der nqta3lk halkak w nta kayt'dhak.” Didn’t see you panic. You smiled. I could’ve slit your throat and you’d have grinned.

He shrugged, stepping closer. “Might’ve been worth it. Not every day you get held up by a goddess with a gold blade.”

She laughed, low, unexpected. Then turned, slowly, and pulled a cushion to the floor. Sat with one knee bent, the other leg extended slightly. Relaxed, but not unguarded.

“You talk too much,” she said. “That’s dangerous here.”

“So’s silence.”

They were closer now. The space between them felt charged, like the air before a desert storm. He could feel the heat radiating off her, see the gleam of sweat at her hairline. The lamp flickered.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She tilted her head. “L’asma dyali ma kayhammksh.” My name’s not your concern.

“And if I wanted to make it my concern?”

She reached slowly to her hip, drawing the knife again, just enough for him to see it. Gold, curved, with a handle etched in an old Berber pattern. She set it on the floor between them, deliberate.

“Then you’ll have to earn it.”

The gold blade lay like a promise between them. Isack eyed it, then her, the smile still playing at the corner of his mouth, but softer now, like he’d tasted something sacred and wasn’t quite ready to speak of it.

“You always set your rules with steel?” he asked, crouching across from her. He didn’t sit fully, not yet, as if he might need to move. To run. Or pounce.

She didn’t answer right away. Just watched him with those maddening, unreadable eyes.

“F l’sahra, kayn li kaymchi b l-kelma… w kayn li kaymchi b s-sayf.” In the desert, some walk with words… and some with the sword.

Isack’s gaze flicked down to the blade. “And you?”

“I walk alone.”

A beat of silence. The kind that hummed against skin, too thick to be comfort, too thin to ignore.

He sank down onto the cushion at last, one arm draped over a knee. Relaxed, but only in the way a panther rests beneath a tree: coiled beneath the surface, ready to strike or submit, depending on the direction of the wind.

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Ma tkhallatnish f wahed. W ma bghitch chi wahed ydir daba.” No one’s ever kept up. And I don’t want anyone trying now.

“That a threat?” he asked, tilting his head.

“A truth.”

He reached out, slow enough not to provoke, and let his fingers touch the very tip of the blade between them. It was cool, smooth. Real.

“Then here’s mine,” he said, voice low. “I didn’t follow you to play games. You turned a corner, and I couldn’t look away. Now here I am.”

Her eyes softened, barely. Just enough to shift from stone to smoke.

“Hadchi howa l’khatra dyalk.” That’s your danger, then.

He leaned forward, closing a finger and thumb around the flat of the knife, then turned it gently, so the gold caught the light. “I’m used to danger. I grew up with it at my table.”

“You’ve never sat at mine.”

Another silence stretched, but it was different now, heavier, intimate. Even the oil lamp seemed to dim as if it, too, was listening.

He set the knife down again, gently, with care, then looked at her and said, without irony, without grin: “Then let me earn a seat.”

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t look away.

And in the stillness between breath and blade, he knew this: the desert had finally looked back at himm, and it had eyes lined in kohl.

It had been three days since the knife. Three days since he’d followed her into that mosaic room of half-light and oud-scented air,and she hadn’t let him back since.

Not fully.

She came to him now. Never at the same hour, never through the same street. Like a mirage with memory, just real enough to haunt, never long enough to hold.

She would appear at the edge of a rooftop, fingers trailing the breeze. Or slip between stall awnings in the market, veiled and moving like smoke through fingers. Once, she had left a single pomegranate on the stone beside where he slept, split open, the seeds gleaming like garnets in the dark.

He’d tasted one. It had bled across his tongue sweet and sharp.

Now it was night, and he sat by a fire just outside the city, the stars so thick above they seemed to hum. The dunes stretched around him in every direction, vast, golden even in moonlight, like the skin of something ancient and breathing.

She came without sound, her arrival noticed only when the fire shifted with the stir of her presence. She didn’t sit. She didn’t speak.

Just stood at the edge of the flame’s reach, wrapped in indigo cloth that caught the wind like wings.

He didn’t look up right away. Just poured tea into two small cups from the dented brass pot between them.

“I was starting to think you’d vanished,” he said softly.

“Ma ghadi n’mshi hata y’mchi l’rrih.” I won’t leave until the wind does.

She stepped closer. Just enough for her shadow to kiss his boots. Her veil was drawn low again, but the flicker of firelight caught the curve of her cheekbone, the edge of her jaw, the soft threat of beauty honed like a blade.

He offered her the tea.

She took it with both hands, never touching him.

For a while, they sat in silence, save for the crack of wood and the low murmur of desert wind, dragging across the dunes like a whispered secret.

Then she asked, without looking at him, “Why do you stay?”

Isack let the silence linger. Let the tea cool between his hands.

“Because I haven’t figured you out yet,” he said. “And I want to.”

She turned to him, eyes steady. “And when you do?”

“I won’t,” he said simply. “But I’ll die trying.”

She said nothing.

But she didn’t leave.

The wind changed on the fourth day.

It wasn’t loud, not yet, just a shift in its breath, a different note to its whisper. The kind of thing most people wouldn’t notice. But Isack did.

The way the palm fronds leaned. The new bite in the air. The grains of sand that lingered in the corners of his eyes.

She’d told him. “I won’t leave until the wind does.”

And now it had.

He waited on the rooftop above the old bazaar, the one where the tiles cracked underfoot and the air carried cardamom, cumin, and dusk. The city glowed beneath him, alive with oil lamps and shouting, silver trays clattering, footsteps echoing on stone.

She came as the call to prayer melted into the night.

Her scarf was wrapped looser this time, just enough to see her lips, soft and unsmiling. Her steps were soundless. Always. She joined him at the edge of the rooftop, looking down over the lantern-lit chaos like it belonged to someone else.

He didn’t greet her. Just passed her a fig he’d picked from the cart below. She took it without a word.

“Wind��s picking up,” he said.

She nodded. “Kanbda n’hs biha f’dmi.” I feel it in my blood.

He turned toward her, the city curling below them like a living thing. “Where will you go?”

She hesitated. Then: “Algiers. Or Tigzirt. Wherever the wind takes me.”

Silence stretched between them, soft and brittle. He reached up, not for her hand, but her scarf. Touched it gently, as if asking without speaking. She let him.

Slowly, he pulled it down, baring her face fully for the first time since the knife. Moonlight caught the edge of her cheek, the curve of her mouth, and the expression there nearly undid him.

Not fear. Not sorrow.

Something worse.

Acceptance.

“You don’t have to leave,” he said, voice rougher than it should’ve been.

She met his eyes. “Yes, I do.”

He stepped closer, barely a breath between them. His hand found her jaw, thumb brushing the spot where her pulse beat, steady and sure.

“Why do you always move with the wind?” he asked.

She looked away for a moment, just long enough for him to feel the weight of what she wouldn’t say.

Then, “Because if I stop, I’ll become part of something that can claim me. And I’ve never belonged to anyone.”

Her voice was a hush. A confession, not an invitation.

He let that settle. Then sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder, as the wind moved through her veil and across his collar.

She turned, finally, and asked him, softer now:

“W nta? Waine hiya l-‘a’ila dyalk?” And you? Where’s your family?

He looked out over the rooftops, jaw tight. “Scattered. Buried. Broken.” A pause. “Some days, I think I carry them in my back. Other days, I feel like they were never mine to start with.”

She didn’t respond. Just reached for his hand, no ceremony, no meaning beyond this: I see you.

And they sat like that, skin warm against skin, two wandering things poised in a moment that might never come again.

Above them, the stars blinked slow and low.

Below, the bazaar burned with light.

And somewhere far beyond the dunes, the wind began to howl.

The stars had thinned by the time she rose.

The rooftop was colder now, the city softened by the hush that comes just before dawn. Below, the bazaar slept. Even the wind had stilled, like it, too, was listening.

She stood slowly, the scarf drawn across her shoulder again, the desert already calling in the line of her spine. He stayed seated, eyes on her, not reaching, not yet.

Then she turned to him, and without a word, pulled the blade from her hip.

It gleamed in the soft dark, the curve of its gold handle catching the first whisper of morning light. She held it in both hands, reverent. Then, slowly, she brought it to her lips and kissed it.

Not dramatically. Not for show.

Like a farewell.

Then she bent, and placed it in his hands.

His fingers curled around it before he even realised they’d moved.

She looked at him. Unblinking. Eternal.

“It’s yours,” she said, voice low. “For now.”

He looked down at the blade. Then up at her, something hollow and bright burning in his chest. “Will you be back to get it?”

A pause.

Then, the smallest smile — the kind you could miss if you blinked. “Ghadi nshouf… ila r-je3t r-rih.” We’ll see… if the wind comes back.

And just like that, she turned.

She didn’t look over her shoulder. She didn’t need to. Her scent still clung to the air — warm spices and sun. Her shadow slipped across the rooftop tiles like a memory already fading.

He didn’t follow.

He sat with the blade in his lap, thumb brushing its edge, still warm from her hand. The city stirred around him, merchants waking, shutters opening, birds flitting like ash over clay roofs.

He stayed.

And when the wind returned, days or months or years from now, he would know it by the way it tasted: like cardamom, and gold, and the kiss of a woman who never promised to stay.

So he did what only a fool, or someone in love, would do.

He prayed for the wind to return.

taglist: @dying-inside-but-its-classy @n0vazsq @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @dozyisdead @number-0-iz @curseofhecate @lilorose25 @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @carlossainzapologist @amyelevenn @oikarma @obxstiles

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cillians-sweetheart · 6 months ago

Text

The Marriage - Cillian Murphy

Cillian Murphy!Husband (34) x Virgin!Fem!Reader (18)

Plot: During the Middle-bronze age (The era of the bible's setting), a young girl reaches womanhood and is now marriageable and ripe to conceive.

(Story is based off the novel, The Red Tent by Anita Diamant)

Contents: Religious themes/rituals, speak of menstruation, arranged marriage, slight submission/praise (f receiving), smut, age-gap, oral (f receiving), unprotected pv, and breeding in a semi-public setting.

Let's just say for this scenario that she was a late bloomer and is 18. To prevent controversy.

My sisters gathered around me, with their blessings and songs of prayer. I cried of relief, as they each kissed the delicate skin on my hands and face. After the several, devastating years of being seen as nothing more than an unripe child who cannot marry, I woke to bleed my first blood.

Circled around me within the red tent, my sisters praised my ripening of womanhood. With great love they sang the song of the seventy gods, announcing the birth of my womb, “Whose fairness is like Anath’s fairness, Whose beauty like Astarte’s beauty. Astarte is now in your womb, You bear the power of Elath.”

I was fed sweet bread by the hands of the women, and drank fruity wine. Henna was rubbed onto my fingernails, and my eyelids were painted yellow. Every sacred jewel and gem owned by my mothers and sisters, coated my fingers and toes, and my wrists and ankles. Their voices sang with an aura of a goddess. Enchanting my sacred womb with the magic of fertility, and coming birth.

Aromatic oils were messaged on my belly, and my feet by my oldest sister Leah; a loving mother of eight. She was one of the most blessed amongst the four of my sisters. The rest have from only one to two boys due to an almost fatal labor lasting them days and days on of bleeding and suffering.

I slept through the night with my sisters laying on my sides, their arms interlaced around me as they each whispered to me with worship of my wedding and birthing to come. “A husband is the only man to take the robes from your body, to give you life to grow.” Leah’s gentle fingers ran through the strands of my hair. “That was my fathers teaching about husbands and wives… Until you rise from your monthly bleed, you shall become a bride.” Those were the last words I heard from Leah before I had fallen asleep.

The day of the new moon, and the ending of the week, I was brought to the wedding feast, surrounded by my sisters, and my mothers and aunties. A mother of mine knelt down to me, holding my hands in hers. “On my wedding night, my love, I was happier than I had ever been.” Her tone was wise as she gazed up into my shivering, virgin eyes. “But I was filled with dread. Fearing my husband would turn away from me in disgust.” She spoke to give me comfort but also a warning as any mother would do. Coming to my side, Leah said over my mother, “I thought the day would never end,” She added, laying the veil over my frightened face. “I could not be seen through my veil, nor could I see out clearly, but my husband Jacob stood to help me to my feet, leading me to the tent where we spent the seven days.”

As a young girl I always heard the gossiping stories from my sisters and aunties of the days with their husbands. Those first seven nights they’d spend together with lust and the temporary love of a first marriage. And soon after the swelling of their bellies and ankles, to the deathly, bloody birth of a beautiful baby.

After the feast of bread and lamb, I was brought to a man. His eyes shone down to me through my veil with a bright blue, and his skin was pale, and freckled. He wasn’t much so like the rest of the man. Not smelling of goats, and with good health.

The man introduced himself as Cillian. A man who was well spoken of throughout the site by my aunts and mothers. His large, but gentle hands lifted mine to where he kissed both lovingly.

“My angel… I take you as my wife, and as the beautiful mother to our children.” His voice was low and silky to my ears. From there he had led me to the tent where my sisters gathered and blessed me with their kisses and words of prayer. I felt hardly able to breath but excited about my marriage, and womanhood. I followed Cillian into the tent where I’d lay with him for the next lustful seven days.

My mother told me my husband would only lift up my robes and enter me still wearing his. From there his large but delicate hands ran over my shoulders and down my chest. His warm body came closer to me. The heat from his chest radiating between us. My eyes closed and my mind melted to his touch along my chest, slowly tearing away my robe.

The land around us began to quieten, and darken as the sun grew red along the horizon. My veil was not to be removed until darkness occurred. And when it did his eyes held pure love to my face as he lifted the veil. His gentle hands took my face. Holding my cheeks.

My hands reached out to his waist, reaching up and down his slim torso. He reached my face to his lips, kissing my cheeks, my lips, and the tip of my nose. With my hands I pulled myself closer against his body. I felt something I’ve never had before feeling his body. It was a real man, who would bless me with many sons. Sons as handsome, and gentle as their dear father.

My robe in slow, controlled motion, rolled down my shoulders and over my chest. I was revealed before my husband in the darkening tent. A hand from my cheek came down to my breast. He messages the squishy flesh while his kiss continues to seduce my lips.

His sex -as my sisters always told me- hardened against my stomach. The heat through his robe filled my belly with sensitivity, and caused my thighs to pulse.

Cillian began to lead me to the bed, where he laid back. His lips barely parted from mine as he gently lowered me. From there his plump lips slid and pecked at my soft neck. His kiss was tender, and with great passion as they traveled down my chest and over my hardened nipples. My hands ran up his back as I watched his sweet lips kiss lustfully down my bare torso. His hands explored my thighs, rubbing and spreading them between his head.

My tingling hips and thighs shivered as he kissed with his tongue deep between my legs. My core tightened and I inhaled deeply. I felt things through every nerve of my little body; new, pleasurable things.

He praised my virgin sex with his delicate kisses. Between his lips, he called me his angel, his beloved, his precious wife. He kissed, and licked me until the tightness beneath his robe became too much to handle.

Cillian lifted himself from between my shivering thighs and quickly pulled at the tent in his robe. I laid on my back looking up at his godly, handsome face. Then to his hands as he eagerly revealed his pulsing cock. Cut and cleaned so perfectly. The kind my sisters would giggle and praise about.

He held my legs open and rubbed with his cock between them over my soft, wet flesh. His hands messaged at my thighs, while teasing himself along my smooth folds. My heart pounded through my chest with nervousness, and anticipation to feel what my sisters and mothers would crave from a man; their husbands.

With a slow, easy thrust of his hips, I was opened for the first time. My womb filled with the wet pleasure of a man. His hips sunk deep against mine. Although it stung as he pushed his cock deeper and deeper, the pleasure in my stomach, and womb ached. I felt the breath in my chest get heavy, my exhales coming out as a high pitched moan of pleasure.

He continued to thrust against me, his pace increasing as he gave in to his dominant urges. My hips lifted and my legs wrapped tightly around his torso. I reached, and held onto him. Burying my moans into his muscular shoulder.

His breath was heavy, and made low, sensual groans. I reached his face, and kissed deeply on his lips. My sex flexed against his, causing him to moan, and shiver from on top of me. My legs began to twitch, and clenched tightly around Cillian. Our lips were moaning between one another's. Becoming increasingly loud and pleasurable to those who listen from outside.

My sisters, and mothers gathered within their tents and prayed for the fertilization of a healthy baby boy. And as one of my mothers once said, "The woman's orgasm is essential for a happy, healthy birth." Which was exactly what I was trying to do, and though I've never felt sexual release, I could tell by my immense pleasure that it was coming. Deep, internal tickles caused my legs to quiver around Cillian's slim torso, and my tight walls to squeeze his cock with a loving force.

He groaned deeply and his hips thrusted harder into me. The increased pleasure made our love making able to be heard through many tents. With the sweet sounds of pleasurable whispers and moans.

Wetness spread along both of our heated bodies. I felt myself leaking -as if I had been peeing myself- on the bed below us and onto his enlarged, pulsing cock. My back lifted, and again he quickened his beating to my soft flesh. More of my fluids continued to push against him and leak from my aroused entrance. I bit onto my tongue as the feelings, and my uncontrollable moans became too much. My sex, legs, and arms squeezed tightly around him. Shaking and whimpering my way through the sensitive pleasure.

With his last few forceful trusts, He groaned such a sexy sound and twitched from within my womb. I held onto his hot, sweaty body. His lips kissed lovingly on my neck, and I kissed onto his head.

We laid in ones another's arms, praying with our love that a son will be born. Before we were to sleep, Cillian laid gentle kisses along my womb through my belly. His touch was praising as he rubbed and kissed my body. Again kissing the sweet arousal from my wet sex.

In the blackened tent, we slept in the warmth and love between our bodies. Behind my bare back he laid, his arm over my torso, lovingly stroking my cheek and shoulder until I had fallen asleep.

In my sleep I made great prayers to have a full, rounded womb. Filled with life, and love of an infant. A boy, with the beautiful sex of his father, and the handsome looks to gain many, many wives and children.

#cillian x fem!reader #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x reader #cillian x reader #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian fanfic #cillian fic #cillian murphy x you #thomas shelby #robert fischer #religious #smut #the red tent

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lunette-png · 2 months ago

Text

Not Just a Name

in celebration of waves of ithaca reaching 10k reads on wattpad

art used: mine! :DD

dividers by: @thecutestgrotto

Ithaca shimmered beneath a rare golden sky. The sea lay still, the wind carried warmth, and for a brief moment, the weight of worry lifted from the island’s shoulders. Banners unfurled from every archway, dyed in deep ocean blues and the burnished orange of fading embers—hues steeped in history and hard-won glory.

It began as a celebration meant to welcome those returning from Troy: fires lit along the shore, songs rehearsed on wind-chapped lips, hearths prepared for the weary. But not all found their way home. In time, the festivity changed. What once was waiting became remembrance; what once was hope, now reverence.

Now, the day belongs to heroes—no matter their legend, their legacy, or whether they still draw breath.

Y/N stood in her room, one hand resting on the windowsill, watching as Ithaca readied itself. The courtyard below bustled with movement—flowers being strung into garlands, linen banners raised along sun-bleached stone walls, a slow rhythm of drums marking the start of remembrance.

The sea breeze tugged at the edges of the curtains, carrying with it the scent of salt and thyme. She stayed quiet, letting it wash over her.

Something shifted in the corner of her eye. There, draped on the old chest beside her bed, was her grandmother’s shawl. The dye had long faded from deep ocean blue to a soft, smoky azure, and the fabric smelled faintly of lavender, though it hadn’t been worn in years.

Her feet carried her to it before she could think. She lifted it gently and wrapped it around her shoulders, the weave snug and warm like an embrace across time.

The door creaked open.

“You’re not ready,” came Penelope’s voice, fond but unimpressed.

Y/N turned slightly, an eyebrow raised. “I am, actually.”

Penelope stepped in, graceful as ever. She paused, then smiled at the soft blue shawl. “Your grandmother would’ve liked that,” she said, brushing a bit of lint from Y/N’s shoulder. “It always suited you better than red.”

She reached up, starting to fix Y/N’s hair with deft, familiar fingers. “Honestly, you’ve had servants dressing you for years, and still—nothing beats a mother’s touch.”

Y/N said nothing, but didn’t pull away. The quiet gesture said enough.

Later, as they passed through the hall, Penelope reached up to adjust the laurel wreath slipping sideways on Telemachus’s head. He huffed out a long-suffering sigh.

“I’m not a boy anymore,” he muttered.

“No,” Penelope agreed, her voice warm. “You’re taller and older—but still can’t figure out how to wear a laurel without it tilting.”

Y/N smirked, and Penelope glanced between the two of them. “At least you still match,” she added. “Same earrings. And those braids—you always had to have them the same.”

“They look better on me,” Y/N said, voice dry as dust.

Penelope laughed, and even Telemachus cracked a reluctant smile.

The moment lingered, warm and light, like a breath before ceremony.

“You’re both grown,” Penelope said softly, her hand lingering just a heartbeat longer on each of them. “But you’ll always be my children. That’s one of the things no war, god, or time will ever take from me.”

The palace gates opened to the public square, already filled with people. Dancers spun in spirals, their anklets ringing in rhythm. Merchants handed out fresh figs and olives to passing children. The smell of roasted lamb and honeycakes filled the air. Laughter echoed alongside the bards' first verses.

Bards and poets took turns in the circle, their voices rising with pride and passion. Names were sung—Achilles, Hector, Ajax, Odysseus—each legend a chorus passed down. Odysseus, king of Ithaca, master of guile, man of the horse. The Trojan Horse tale was recounted like a mythic hymn, the war that made men into stories.

Penelope’s face tightened. She didn’t look away, but her fingers curled into her palms, an instinctual defense. Y/N’s gaze shifted to her mother, and for a moment, she saw her as she had been years ago—fragile, holding pieces of herself together.

Without turning her head, Y/N said in a low, dry voice, “At this rate, they’ll say he was born from Zeus’s knee and weaned on ambrosia.”

Penelope’s lips twitched. It was a subtle thing, barely a motion—but it was enough. A breath of quiet amusement broke through her tension, her shoulders easing just slightly.

Telemachus, beside them, chuckled under his breath. “Careful. Say that too loud and someone will put it in a song.”

Y/N arched a brow. “Let them. I look forward to hearing about how he tamed Cerberus in his spare time.”

They sat together, quietly watching as the crowd cheered the stories.

But the crowd, ever eager, moved on. And so too did their praises.

“Odysseus’s daughter,” someone declared mid-recital. “A sailor, they say. Bold as her father. Though far too stormy, some whisper.”

Another laughed, “Or perhaps just desperate to be remembered. Can’t hold a candle to her father’s cunning.”

The suitors nearby sneered. Antinous clapped mockingly as another added, “She thinks herself Poseidon’s chosen. But what is a wave to a storm like Troy?”

The words stung like brine in a fresh wound. Y/N stood stiff, eyes glazed. Her jaw clenched. Was this how the world saw her? Was this all that would remain when her sails stopped catching wind?

Behind the crowd, older sailors and grizzled merchants murmured. “They don’t know her,” one said. “She’s navigated waters half those boys couldn't name.”

“Aye,” said another. “Saw her reroute a storm without blinking. They only speak of what they think a hero should be.”

Then, a new voice entered the bard’s circle—a traveler, face half-shadowed, steps so light it seemed he walked on air. No one noticed where he’d come from, only that suddenly, he was there.

He flipped a small coin between his fingers, smooth and practiced. It caught the firelight—a flash of gold. Y/N blinked once. She knew that coin. It had been hers.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“They speak loudest of what they understand least,” he said. “They recite names and victories, as if legacy were louder than truth. But I’ve seen a different kind of strength—one that doesn’t ask for attention.”

He stepped into the firelight, still toying with the coin.

“She is not her father’s shadow. She is the lantern lit in the wake of his passing. She doesn’t echo—she endures.”

Each word landed softly, like something sacred.

“Most never notice the kind of hero who stays after the storm, who cleans the deck in silence, who steadies hands that aren’t her own. They think loudness makes a story true. But there’s courage in the quiet. In kindness when it’s easier not to be. In keeping promises no one asked her to make.”

The coin shimmered again. His gaze flicked toward Y/N—unreadable.

“She bears loneliness like others wield swords. Wears it light, so no one else has to feel its weight. That’s a strength bards forget to sing about. But I see it.”

A hush had fallen. Even the fire burned gentler.

“She’s walked through rooms that never learned how to hold her. Laughed where no laughter was meant. Learned how to leave before she was dismissed. People like her aren’t remembered in statues. But they’re the reason others survive.”

Then softer—just for her:

“She moves like a storm at sea—not sent by gods, not summoned by fate. Just wind, and grit, and the knowing she was never meant to stay still.”

The coin spun once more. “Little storm,” he murmured.

No lightning split the sky. No wave crashed. But the wind stirred.

Not to mark divinity—but to echo something quieter. A girl who sailed both with and against the tide. Who shaped her blessing not into a crown, but a compass. Her strength was never what she carried—it was how she moved forward.

He lingered a moment, then turned to go, his step as quiet as his arrival.

Just before the dark swallowed him, he glanced back.

The coin gleamed between his fingers—a lazy twirl, half a wave.

Their eyes met. Mischief, yes—but beneath it, something gentler. Deeper. An understanding.

That he saw how fiercely she fought—not with force, but with fire. That he admired how she carried loneliness—not as a wound, but as unsharpened armor. That her refusal to bow to any god, even him, made her radiant.

That she trusted him—not blindly, but deliberately. And that trust meant more than awe ever could.

That she challenged him—not with defiance, but with presence. That maybe, for the first time in his immortal life, he didn’t want to win.

Because she didn’t just impress him.

She moved him.

And for a god who had walked through centuries of hollow praise, that was the rarest thing of all.

Her breath caught.

And for the first time all evening, her jaw loosened. Not in surrender—but in recognition.

The royal family sat on their platform, silent observers. Until Telemachus stood. A hush fell.

He walked to the center, unsure but steady. People stared. It had been years—perhaps decades—since anyone from the royal family had taken part in the performances. And now, Telemachus would be the first.

He cleared his throat, then spoke:

“I’ve never met Odysseus,” he said. “Not truly. I’ve heard his name more than I’ve heard his voice. I’ve grown up with stories—of his cunning, his bravery, his victories. But that’s all I’ve known. Stories.”

He paused. “But standing here, I realize… I’ve grown up alongside two people far greater than any tale.”

He turned toward the raised platform, where Penelope and Y/N stood together.

"My mother—she is the reason Ithaca still breathes. While others raised swords, she raised a kingdom. She has held this palace together through nearly twenty years of doubt and silence. She protected my future when the rest of the world tried to take it from us. People call her patient. They forget that patience is not passive—it’s power. Every day she chose to believe in something greater, and that belief kept this island from falling apart.”

Penelope looked away, tears threatening, but Y/N nudged her gently with her elbow, as if to say take the praise, mother. Penelope gave a half-laugh through her emotion.

"And my sister,” Telemachus continued, “is the fiercest soul I know. Not because she’s my sister, but because she’s dared to live boldly while carrying a name too heavy for anyone. She’s fought storms, led fleets, outwitted traders and nobles alike. But more than that—she’s shown me that being a hero isn’t about being remembered. It’s about showing up, again and again, even when no one sings about it.”

“She was my shield when I didn’t know how to hold one. She made sure I survived long enough to learn how to stand on my own. And whether the world remembers her or not—I do.”

He took a breath, words slow and deliberate now:

“So no, I don’t know Odysseus. I know Penelope. And I know Y/N. And if the stories forget them—then the stories are wrong.”

Silence followed. For a heartbeat, the entire square stilled. Then, slowly, applause began—not wild or performative, but genuine. Like rain falling gently on parched earth.

Penelope turned to Y/N and gripped her hand. “You both make me proud,” she said, voice tight. “You carry pieces of him, but… you are yourselves.”

As the festivities dimmed with dusk, Y/N wandered. She found herself near the quieter corners of the city. Lamps flickered. Music softened.

She turned a corner and collided gently into a man.

He smiled. Eyes the color of shadowed olive branches. Hair tied back. Simple robes, but not plain. There was something about him—something sun-warmed, and yet hidden in half-light.

“My apologies,” he said. “I tend to walk where stories linger.”

Y/N tilted her head. There was something in the way he spoke.

“And yours,” he continued, “is one I’ve watched from afar. A tale still being written.”

She studied him. “You speak like a poet.”

“Only when moved,” he answered with a soft smile. Then, more softly: “You don’t shine like others,” he said.

She glanced at him, uncertain if it was meant as praise or something else.

He didn’t smile, but his voice held something soft. “You glow like twilight. The kind that lingers. The kind sailors look for when they’re lost.”

“Twilight?” she asked, caught off guard by the image.

His gaze flicked over her—not possessive, not even admiring, but quiet. As if he were watching the last light before night and trying to remember its shape.

“That’s what you are.”

The words hung between them, gentle as breath.

She tilted her head. “Why?”

He looked at her then—really looked. And for a moment, the world seemed to still.

He saw the way her fingers curled slightly, always ready to brace for something no one else noticed. He saw how she listened when others spoke, not just to reply, but to understand. How she never interrupted, even when her silence left her underestimated. He saw how she carried grief not like a chain, but like a compass. How she folded her fears into quiet acts of courage—standing when others turned away, holding firm even when no one was watching.

“Because there’s a kind of light that doesn’t shout to be seen. It just… stays. Steady. Familiar. You carry that. You show people the way without asking for thanks. You hold space for others without losing yourself.”

He hesitated, voice gentler now. “Twilight doesn’t try to be day or night. It just is. And somehow, it’s enough. More than enough.”

A pause passed between them like the hush before stars appear.

“You remind people they’re not alone. Even when you feel like you are.”

Y/N didn’t speak. Something in her chest pulled tight—like a string tuned just right. She wasn’t sure what part of her he had seen, only that he had seen it. And hadn’t turned away.

And she didn’t look away either.

He smiled again, gentler this time, almost apologetic. “Forgive me. Sometimes I speak too freely.”

But she didn’t ask him to take it back.

They parted ways slowly, with glances over shoulders.

As night blanketed Ithaca, Y/N stepped into the throne room. The torches were low, flickering gently. She paused before the empty throne—Odysseus’s.

From her pocket, she pulled a small wooden compass. The one she had carved as a child, clumsy but full of hope. She placed it on the seat.

She lingered before the empty throne, the carved compass resting quietly at its center. It looked small there—just wood and memory—but it had been hers, once, and his too, in a way. A thing made of hope.

Suddenly, she was a child again. The throne room, silent and empty then, had been a place of quiet warmth. Odysseus sat beside her, the carving knife in his hand, guiding her small fingers on the piece of wood.

"You don’t need to be perfect," he had said softly, eyes flicking between her and the compass they were shaping together. "Just carve what you need."

She had looked at him, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Like you did with your plans?"

He smiled faintly, as though the thought amused him, and gave her a brief nod. "Exactly. Survive, think ahead. It's not always about strength, but knowing when to bend the rules."

The faintest flicker of memory passed through her. They had worked in silence for a while, carving the compass slowly, shaping it into something useful—imperfect, but strong in its own way.

"Do you think it’ll help me find you?" she had asked softly, eyes wide with hope.

"Not everything needs to be found. Just follow it when you need it," he had answered, his voice steady as always, but there was something in his gaze—something fleeting.

Her fingers brushed the throne’s edge, a quiet gesture, almost reverent.

“To the man who outwitted kings and nearly got away with staying home,” she said softly, a half-smile playing on her lips. “Until someone put my baby brother in front of a plow and ruined the act.”

Her voice held no bitterness—only affection, threaded with something older and fonder.

“You taught me that wit can be a weapon. That survival is its own kind of valor. That there’s more courage in cleverness than most will ever admit.”

She paused, glancing toward the open doors, the sea just barely visible beyond the courtyard.

“To the man who made the sea feel smaller just by promising he’d return.”

The words hung in the air. Y/N’s shoulders lifted slightly, as if to brace herself—but something faltered. Her throat tightened. One tear slipped down, trailing silent and slow along her cheek.

Just one.

She didn’t wipe it away.

“You never wanted to be a legend. Just a man trying to get home.”

Her voice caught on the last word, not enough to break—but enough to show the crack beneath all that strength.

“You’re still late, Father,” she murmured, and then, with a faint, dry smile: “Try not to make us wait another ten years, alright?”

She turned and walked away, leaving the little compass behind—quiet, steady, and facing home.

The halls were hushed now. The laughter of the festival had softened to murmurs and harp strings. Lamps flickered like fireflies along the stone walls as Y/N made her way upward, step by step, shawl gathered loosely around her shoulders. Her throat still ached from holding that one tear in place for so long.

At the top of the stairs, she paused.

Penelope and Telemachus stood by the upper balcony, silhouettes bathed in starlight. The sky above Ithaca stretched endless and dark, scattered with constellations the sailors used, the ones the sailors and merchants had taught her to name long ago.

They didn’t speak when she approached. They only shifted slightly—just enough to make space.

Y/N stepped between them, resting her hands on the cool stone railing. For a while, they said nothing at all. The silence wasn’t heavy; it was shared. Comfortable in its quiet ache.

Then Penelope reached over, wordlessly adjusting the edge of the shawl at Y/N’s shoulder, the same way she used to fix loose braids when Y/N was a child. It was barely a touch, but Y/N leaned into it, eyes still fixed on the sky.

Telemachus exhaled softly beside her, arms crossed, gaze distant. “Do you think he’s looking at the same stars?”

Y/N’s lips curved faintly. “Probably cursing them for not pointing the way home faster.”

Penelope gave a breath of laughter. A quiet, watery sound.

They stood there, the three of them, beneath the open sky—no longer waiting in silence, but remembering together. Not just the man they had lost to the sea, but the parts of him that had stayed behind: a compass, a story, a stubborn spark in each of them.

Far across the sea, beneath those same stars, Odysseus sat beside a low fire on a quiet stretch of foreign shore. His beard was thicker now, salted with time, his hands roughened by years of salt and war. In them, he held a piece of driftwood, carving slowly by firelight.

Scattered beside him were small figures—rough-hewn, each one shaped by memory. Polites, with his easy grin. Eurylochus, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, ever questioning, ever cautious. And others—his crew, his brothers-in-arms—each reduced now to worn wood and remembrance.

He had carved them over the years, when silence stretched too long or the guilt pressed too close. He couldn’t save them. But he could remember them.

Tonight, he carved something new.

A woman—steadfast and radiant in her quiet strength. A boy with a lion’s heart. A girl with wind in her eyes and the stubborn look of someone who never let go.

He didn’t know what they looked like now. The years had blurred the lines of their faces. But he remembered how they felt.

The gentle steadiness of Penelope’s presence, like harbor light on a storm-wracked night. The weight of Telemachus asleep against his chest, dreaming without worry. The sharp laughter of his daughter as she tried to best him in riddles, always reaching.

He ran his thumb over the carved faces, rough but real.

There were nights he feared they wouldn’t recognize him. That whatever was left of him—after Troy, after gods, after storms and blood and the sound of screaming men—might not be enough.

That he might come home a stranger.

He placed the new figures—his family—among the old. Not above. Not apart. Together.

A silent promise.

Then he looked up to the stars—steady, distant, unchanged.

And in a voice too low for the sea to steal, he whispered: “I’m still coming. Just… stay who you are. Stay bright for me.”

As if their light could guide him back to the man he used to be.

He leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the fire crackle and pop. The ocean stretched before him, endless and waiting.

Ithaca waited, and so did they.

AN: hi- surprise, i am very sleep deprived rn but here's a lil celebration interlude?? idk words rn🎊

"is this canon to waves of ithaca?" honestly, it's up to you. i just wanted to write some good ol' angst (and hermes and apollo interactions) idk if i succeeded with it being able to stand on its own, but i wanted to explore ideas i honestly scrapped. aaaa i might edit this because i am genuinely sleep deprived, i wrote this while outside as soon as i saw the milestone so it's kinda rushed. i'll upload this later on wattpad(it's 12 am) soo, yeah

i decided not to include Ctimene and Argos because there's enough angst already (i might for future chapters maybe???)

CAN YOU TELL I WAS LOWKEY PROJECTING

#epic the musical #epic the musical x reader #🌊 waves of ithaca #epic apollo #epic hermes #epic telemachus #epic odysseus #epic penelope #x reader #hermes x reader #apollo x reader

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 8 months ago

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Hello, Gidel. What do you think of the dorm leaders?

I thought this would read a little better as headcanons, so that’s the format I went with.

Curiouser and Curiouser...

Riddle

He's just like me! ... Is what Gidel thought at first. Honestly, he mistook Riddle for a kid like him on account of his small stature.

He quickly learns that Riddle isn’t a kid at all. He acts like an adult! All these big words and manners. It’s impressive. Gidel can try all he likes to try and imitate him, but never come close.

Gidel doesn't like it when Riddle raises his voice. It makes him skittish, dredging up bad memories. Scams gone wrong, angry mobs, times when their bosses are upset with them and shouting over the phone. He cowers behind Fellow whenever Riddle’s mad, waiting for the fallout to settle.

But there’s a softness to Riddle too. Gidel is one of the few able to sense it--how Riddle is kind to the animals, how he longs for that childhood he never had. Gidel tries to get him to open up, tugging Riddle by the hand and pointing to the little things in the garden he might not notice right away. The colorful mushrooms by the base of that tree, how this rose is a late bloomer, the chrysalis that will one day become a butterfly. Gidel can also show him thumb wrestling and patty-cake, all the free games he and Fellow play on the road.

Leona

This onii-san looks a little scary. Gidel of course recognizes him from the events of Playful Land. He nervously watches Leona from a distance, wondering if he’s mad at him for what happened.

Gidel notices that Leona's very smart. After all, he's always reading these thick ancient texts and telling the other students what to do. Gidel wants to be tutored by him (so he can be big-brained too!!), but is too intimidated to even know how to approach. So he keeps watching Leona from a safe distance. (Gidel thinks he's being slick, but he isn't at all.)

At one point, Leona gets tired of pretending like he doesn't see Gidel and he strolls right up to the boy. Gidel worries that he'll be scolded, but instead he feels a hand on his head, ruffling his hair. Leona gruffly warns him to look out for himself, cuz no one else will. It's his way of wishing the kid luck and hope for his future--though when Gidel smiles at him, he'll shudder and balk away, insisting that he didn't intend on being kind to him.

Gidel feels okay coming up to him after that, though Leona continues to gripe about how annoying he is and how he wish he'd leave him alone. Gidel's starting to feel like a second Cheka, always following him around like a lost lamb and staring at him as if inviting Leona to play.

Azul

Gidel’s immediate thought is that this guy reminds him a lot of Fellow. They just have similar vibes of being scammers! Because of that, it's easy for Gidel to follow along with what Azul says (much to Fellow's chagrin).

Gidel loves listening to Azul perform, be it singing or piano. It takes him away for a moment and to a new festive world full of song and delight, makes him want to get on his feet and clumsily join on that seafloor stage.

Being a gullible little child, Gidel doesn't realize that Azul is playing him for everything he has. Azul will give him a bunch of food and drinks (which he puts on a tab), then demands that Fellow foot the bill when he comes to pick up Gidel. (They dine and dash.)

Azul reminds Gidel of Fellow in other ways too. Sometimes there are nights when he's down on himself and unsure. In those instances, Gidel silently goes up to Azul and pats the back of his hand--as if to say, There, there. It'll be alright, hang in there.

Kalim

Probably his favorite person of the dorm leaders, since Kalim's immediately amicable and never held any ill will toward him or Fellow, even all the way back in Playful Land. His friendly demeanor make him a great buddy for Gidel.

Kalim treats Gidel like his own little brother! … That is to say, he spoils the absolute crap out of him. Tons of food, gifts, games—you name it, and Kalim provides it by the truckload. It actually starts to make Fellow jealous at some point; he has to check in with Gidel to make sure he’s still “his number on big bro” (which Gidel reassures Fellow he is).

He shows Gidel so many new things. Here are some of Kalim’s favorite dishes from his hometown. Oh, and these are animals from all over Twisted Wonderland. Gidel’s always been curious about these things, but never had the resources to actually access them. He drinks it all in with his senses, then becomes curious to learn more.

What he likes the most about Kalim is his ability to listen and empathize with others. Being mute, Gidel sometimes finds it difficult to communicate with others. They tend to talk over him or assume things they shouldn’t—but Kalim is perfect, patient, and reads his bodily cues to the best his ability.

Vil

In his head, Gidel thinks of Vil as one of those fancy rich ladies Fellow flirts with to steal their valuables. Sometimes those women would come after Fellow, hollering about how he deceived them or how they never want to see him again. Hell have no wrath like a women scorned, as Gidel would come to learn—so he’s careful to walk on eggshells around Vil.

Whenever Vil looks at him, Gidel feels as though he has done something wrong. He just has this aura about him that radiates harsh judgment, and Gidel can feel every last bit of that trained on him.

Vil fusses over Gidel’s appearance. His hair is a mess, his sleeves are too long, and his shoes are untied. However, Gidel realizes that Vil never outright insults the obvious patchwork incorporated into his clothes, only comments on the things he can feasibly change (combing the hair, rolling the sleeves up, tying the shoes). The stitching is masterful, Vil tells him—and besides, he’s just doing the best with what he has.

Gidel likes shiny things, so he’s naturally drawn to the baubles Vil wears. His hair clasp, his tiara, the golden threads on his uniform. When Vil catches him rooting around in his closet, Gidel for sure thought he was dead—but instead, Vil sighs, and, after a thorough lecture, lets Gidel pad around on his oversized dorm uniform and crown for an impromptu fashion show. Maybe he’s not as mean as Gidel thought he was?

Idia

Whoa! That's a person? Gidel thought it was a ghost haunting the school this entire time. He thinks Idia would be great at hide-and-seek (from the police, a game he and Fellow like to play) since he blends in so easily with the wallpaper.

He thinks Idia lives a fun life! He gets to play video games, guzzle soda/energy drinks, and eat candy + other junk food in his room all day? Cool! Gidel wants to do that, too! (Fellow begs him not to become a mega-geek.)

Gidel doesn’t really understand any of the technobabble Idia rambles on about, but he still thinks it’s cool. What’s this? What’s that? He pokes and prods at everything he sees, or sometimes trips and falls, activating machines he didn’t mean too. This often evokes panicked screams and sobs from Idia, which makes Gidel feel bad (but also makes Fellow laugh).

As soon as Gidel learns that Idia has a little brother, that makes him a lot more excitable. He approaches Idia with Fellow in tow, hoping he can play with Idia’s brother. That way, he can be friends with Ortho and Fellow and Idia can be friends! … Right? Right?

Malleus

Monster. That’s the first thing Gidel thinks of when he sees Malleus. The shape of him—the horns especially—remind Gidel of shadow hand puppets Fellow makes to amuse him before bedtime. Long, lanky shadows stretching in the darkness… It’s an image fitting for the Prince of Nocturnal Fae.

… But even if Malleus is a ‘monster’, Gidel feels a sense of loneliness about him too. He sees how others keep their distance, how they scream when he comes close. He pushes the boundary, one step at a time, inching closer and closer until he it able to reach out and nervously touch Malleus’s sleeve. “Hoh? Aren’t you a brave one.”

Really, Gidel learns, he’s not so bad. Just a really private guy. If he sticks around for long enough, Malleus might ramble to him about his special interests or even amuse him but pretending to strike him or disappearing and reappearing behind Gidel to see if he gets spooked. (He does, and it gives Malleus a good laugh.)

When he sulks, Gidel curls up with him. Malleus will insist he’s not upset, but Gidel knows better. He won’t say anything though (he can’t, even if he wanted to). He only hopes that his presence—and Malleus knowing that he’s there for him—helps, even if only a little.

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doyoulikethis-videogame-song · 2 months ago

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Song: Praise the Lamb Artist: River Boy From: Cult of the Lamb

Listen on Youtube:

youtube

#Cult of the Lamb #River Boy #archived song #closed vote #video games #video game music #music poll #audio poll #Youtube

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camibispace · 18 days ago

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I was considering how different the public opinion is from the fandom's view of which songs Paul and John wrote about each other What we might consider classics are still widely seen as just normal songs or songs about Linda/Yoko

For example I would say the ones I'm 100% convinced are about each other are:

the confirmed ones: Here today, Too many people, How Do You Sleep, Dear Friend

from the Beatles: If I fell, Two of Us, Oh!Darling, those few lines in Get Back about JoJo

from John: Jealous guy, I Know (I Know), (Just Like) Starting Over, Now and Then

from Paul: Best friend - live in Antwerp, This One, The Song We Were Singing, Early days

I have doubts/it's complicated/open interpetation/there's more to that/it bonds them but it's not about each other:

Here, There and Everywhere

Come and Get It

The Long and Winding Road

You've Got To Hide Your Love Away

Let Me Roll It

My Life

Nobody Knows

Tug of War

Something That Didn't Happen

The Lovers That Never Were

Anyway

Real love

Dear Boy

Hey Jude

Coming Up

Silly Love Songs

Arrow Through Me

Young Boy

New

Little Lamb Dragonfly

Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy)

I'm Losing You

I Want To Hold Your Hand

All My Loving

The Pound Is Sinking

Feel free to suggest more or argue on some, I'm curious what other people have incorporated into their belief system about these two lol

#there are many more songs from paul because of obvious reasons (and because I know his discography better sorry john)#this post is giving 'that one unemployed friend on a tuesday morning'#mclennon #paul mccartney #john lennon #I want it to be clear when I say this not all of these have to be read as romantic althoug some are kinda 'what'#two of us is 100% about john in my opinion but it doesn't confirm anything about them that we don't already know lol

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welp-back-on-my-bs · 1 year ago

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OM charicters and how they handle periods

Lucifer

- can and will fuck the shir outta ya if it helps-

- he will also baby you

- I mean- he literally sends the brothers out to gather sweets and other needs

- heated blanket on hand for you

- you can sleep in his bed

- he watches over you as you sleep of you get tired

- none will hurt his little lamb

Mammon

- he panicks

- you're BLEEDING WTFFFF

- especially worried and unprepared if you don't identify as a female

- thinks you're dieing and lucifer wil kill him

- when its explained he does good and gets everything he knows you need

- here, have literally all this expensive chocolate he knows you like

- have all the midol he could find

- have the products you need to survive this- and more♡

Levi

- he probably learned about periods trough anime/an online AFAB friend

- he wont mind if you stay with him, he can clean whatever gets blood on it, you chose to spend time with him, he is hapoy with that :>

- anime and video games to distract you

- you can sleep in his lap as he plays

- you get to share his anime themed snacks

Satan

- for those who get moody during hell, he is here to help

- cat Cafe is the haven for you both-

- he also gets his anger out with you in healthy ways

- you both write out everything, scream out your toughts into the Forrest, and sing along to songs that bring out that anger

- afterwards he will read to you until you fall asleep

- he takes good care of you

Asmo

- feeling extra ✨️horny✨️ he is here to help

- he fucks ya fore a few hours then you both have a nice hot bath, makeovers and stuff

- you get sugar coded fruits with him

- sleep like Royalty and wake up feeling refershed✨️

- literally a phone call away for anything

- period products are in his bathroom too

Beel

- this man has the comfort food

- he will allways share with you and Belphie

- he notices when you come to him more often for sweets and stuff, so he stocks more for you ^^

- om nom nom

- one of the best people to nap with

- he is also a good workout bud to help with the cramps n stuff too

- one of the best boys to go to tbh-

Belphie

- now- of you need sleep- he has ya

- he sees you being tired and d r a g s you to one of his spots, cuddles you, and falls asleep with you

- it's fuckin comfy so ofc you fall asleep too-

- you get only the best dreams by his side

- cuddle, sleep, it's done- he won't stop- help QwQ

Diavolo

- the me is that?

- he didn't know until you bleed trough your clothes sadly

- he helps by haveing teas with you and has barbatos find some thar help with cramping and just to make thibgs more comfortable

- sweets galore (you're allowed to take them home

- you can sit on his lap and cuddle him, he is warm

Barbatos

- he knows when your periods are, its not weird-

- he has products set up in the bathroom near the room you're staying in and the next fee over just in case

- he brings you tea and sweets that help you

- he has a change of clothes for you on the ready along with spare blankets/sheets/pillows

- he can take care of any and i mean ANY of your needs, just ask ^^

Simeon

- he isn't that exposed to them, so he dosent know what to do or if he can interfere

- he decides that he can if you beg him enough or he sees that you're suffering

- finds things that can calm the symptoms and help your body

- gentle massages

- he is a little cold but damn can he take care of you

Luke:

- also has no idea wtf to do

- he learns sweets help and bakes alot for you

- like- they all are get well things or if you like to celebrate it then the sweets are red and pink

- he'll tell off anyone who tries to bother you

Solosus

- he has a potion for that

- you just have to beg

- :>

Thirteen

- hasn't had one, but she likes to help you if you promise to help her on a trap

- or you can be the trap by surprising someone with your moodyness

- she gets the perfect things for you

- a damn good tradeoff

Rapael

- like the other angles VERY confused

- he does help tho

- number 2 for sleep spots, no cuddles tho

- gets you weird foods to try

- about 5/10 could be better

Mephistophlies

- bro dosent know anything about this, why should he?

- when he does learn, he sneaks some sweets into your locker, high quality ofc

- he would give you shit as he gives you some spare clothes

- this man, he finds good shit to help ya

#obey me #obey me lucifer #obey me diavolo #obey me headcanons #obey me nightbringer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me asmodeus #obey me belphegor #obey me beelzebub #obey me solomon #obey me simeon #obey me luke #obey me thirteen #obey me raphael #obey me barbatos #obey me mephistopheles

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