#songs of salt and suffering

[vvabbitt]

if any of his songs ended up on my spotify wrapped i might freak it

[comatosebunny09]

hurts so good | sylus

— summary: “be honest,” he husks, drawing you from the inner mechanisms of your mind. he takes some of your hair between his slender fingers, tender as he tugs it in a way that feels good, luring a barely-there sound from your throat, eyes hooded. “it’s not him you wanted to be with tonight, is it?”  — cw: reader is not mc, female reader, p-in-v, bodily fluids, other woman vibes, toxic relationship, praise kink, angst, jealousy, possessive behavior, oocness, language, mentions of blood, minor character death, alcohol, mdni — wc: 2.4k — notes: hey, man. if this isn’t your jam, don’t interact with it. i’m here for a fun time, not a long time. — tracklist: the killa - tomorrow x together loco - 3ye jade - monsune

You just wanted to dance. Have some fun. Let your hair down. Forget.

—which is why the three of you find yourselves at a swanky little outdoor tiki bar, laughter, music, and the clink of glasses staining the inky night.

You finished your mission earlier that day. Retrieved a rare artifact intercepted on its way into Onychinus’ possession. You survived—you all did. Not like you doubted you wouldn’t. Not with the big baddie himself accompanying you, ensuring his two diamonds left without a hair out of place. 

You aren’t leaving until tomorrow afternoon. So, you want to take full advantage of your surroundings. Celebrate another successful mission. Enjoy this pretty, balmy, hidden island before returning to the cold embrace of the N109. 

The music’s good. You’re a little tipsy. Smiling and laughing like your knuckles weren’t stained red hours ago. Gyrating your hips, throwing your hands skyward, your hair falling into your face just right, and your outfit baring enough skin to tease. You turn a few heads, earn a few whispers of how sexy you are. You’re used to this. You’re good at this. 

Sylus and Emcee sit catercorner to the dance floor in rattan chairs, nursing their cocktails. Talk like two friends—or two lovers—leaning in every so often to murmur things into each other’s ears. You don’t miss her hand on his thigh, or his lips brushing the outskirts of her ear. 

You don’t want to impede, which is why you’re on the dance floor, warm bodies crowding around you, desperate to feel something. You wanted to shake off the nerves—those green-eyed thoughts threatening to bear themselves, seeing your boss and partner so close. 

You barely register when someone grabs your waist until you’re lured back into a rigid pane of muscle. A glance over your shoulder reveals a fine, tall thing with ink spread over his skin. Nice smile. Handsome face. Fuck it. 

You want to enjoy yourself. Maybe have a little fun when the party’s over, sate the desire spooling in your gut. So, you let him guide you into a slow, sultry wind against him, driven by the music and less-than-pure thoughts spilling like ink into the folds of your mind. 

He smells good. Feels even better. Expensive, like cured leather and oud. Your fingers clasp around the back of his neck, drawing him close until he slots his chin in the hollow of your shoulder. 

Maybe you’re playing too much, swiveling your hips against his girth like you’re trying to fuck. But the song calls for it. The soft croon of afrobeats, something to salt the air with lust. The kind of music that calls for you to dance close, to tangle your limbs together, your bodies moving as one unit. 

Your dance partner releases a soft grunt into your ear of how beautiful you are, how good you feel, hands molding to your waist to keep you fastened to him.

Maybe you’re laying it on a little too thick because maybe you’re trying to get a rise out of someone you’re pretending not to notice eyeing you. Someone who’s gripping his glass a little too tight, jaw set in a rigid line. Red eyes gleaming with murder, nose slightly scrunched up. Good. 

You want him to watch. Want him to burn much like you’ve suffered throughout your stay in this quiet paradise, watching him and Emcee cozy up like you didn’t exist. 

The song ends much too soon. Slides into something with a slightly faster tempo, and your dance partner slips away, leaving you remiss of his body heat. He reluctantly releases your hand, gracing you with a flirtatious, dimpled smile. You catalog his face into your mind—a potential lay for later on to sate the dull throb awakening between your legs.

You’ve barely time to catch your breath, a bewitching laugh in your throat, a demure hand held to your chest before another set of hands slip around your waist. This time, they draw you forward into a more petite body. Her familiar, delicate scent floods your senses. Her smile is wide. Tipsy like yours as she pulls you close until your bodies smoosh together, guiding your hips into a wind to match hers.

“Goofball,” you chuckle at Emcee, snaking your arms about her small shoulders. 

“You love it,” she says, so close, you smell the cocktails on her breath. 

She takes your hand and spins you. You laugh, the world shifting on its axis when she tugs you back in to dip you. The string lights overhead blur against the night sky, the Earth rotating in slow motion like one of those scenes of clarity in a film. You forget that she’s your competition. That you’re living in her shadow where she once struggled to stand in yours.

And for a moment, you forget about the scarlet eyes drilling into your soul, and the vexation rolling off him in currents from behind the rim of his glass.

—

You’re past the point of caring, past the point of regrets. 

Your dance partner from earlier—Mr. Tats and Dimples—trails behind you from a safe distance. You coyly peer at him from your shoulder, drunkenly leading him over the winding boardwalk, far from the rock of the music and the scent of roasted meat.

You duck behind thick pillars, playing a childish game of hide-and-seek. He entertains you. Thinks you’re his prey. Little does he know, he’s yours.

You dip into the shadows, shrouded beneath a shoddy awning, the moonlight casting long stripes along the ground and walls. The corner you’re in is hidden away from prying eyes, from drunk partygoers stumbling about. It’ll do for now, you think, propping yourself against the concrete wall, your cheeks sore from smiling so much.

Boats rock in the calm waters of the pier, framing you on either side. You lost him on the way. Strain your ears for his footsteps and his chuckling echoing off the walls. For a moment, silence embraces you, giving you too much time to think.

It’s short-lived, however, when footfalls near you. Your body forms a salacious line against the wall. The straps of your top fall down your shoulders just right. Honey thigh shines something tempting, peering through the devastating slit of your wrap skirt. 

A silhouette stalks through the shadows, soundless as a panther lurking through the jungle. Hulking. Recognizable. You squint, figuring you’re more drunk than you thought. Seeing things, until the darkness slowly recedes from a warm ivory face. Scarlet eyes shine like gems held to the moonlight, followed by a thatch of white. 

“Sylus?” you caution, your throat scratchy from the drinks. 

It is him, pacing towards you like a calm beast cornering a wounded animal. He doesn’t take his eyes off you, bleeding smugness and sin. There’s a streak of red dappling his cheek—blood—the moonlight lighting up the sharp edges of his features. 

You straighten when he stops, so close, heat radiates off his skin, and you strain your neck to scrutinize him. That familiar scent and unbearable pressure swaddle you like a blanket, scattering your wits until gravity seeps in.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” you interrogate with a scowl, crossing your arms like you’re scolding a child. 

You know very well what he could’ve done. A part of you selfishly hopes he didn’t snuff out your potential lay like a candle’s flame. But he’s a jealous man beneath those layers of bravado, and you have no one to blame but yourself for stoking the flames of his ire. 

Sylus is wordless for a moment. Considerate, dragging the backs of two fingers down your arm like you’re made of glass. You shiver, hating how goosebumps flare in their aftermath. How warmth puddles between your legs, and how your mind threatens to disconnect itself from your body. 

“He won’t be joining you tonight,” he says. His voice is thick with something unmistakable. Lips pull upwards in one corner. “He got a little…hung up on the way here.”

You scoff, shrugging away from his touch. “What is your problem? Do you really have to kill everyone who gets close to me?” Your voice peters at the end of your sentence, dipping into something forlorn and exasperated as you cast your gaze to the side.

You don’t understand how he can be so selfish. So possessive of you when you’re not allowed to feel the same. 

He isn’t yours, and maybe he never can be. And every attempt you make to cope with that fact, to carry on with your life as if your heart doesn’t fracture every time you’re forced to watch him fall into the arms of another woman, he squashes them. Flexes his power over you, reminding you that you are very much his no matter how hard you try to fight it. 

It’ll always be like this—you’ll always fall prey to him. Always limp back to him like something wounded for him to kiss the pain away. It isn’t right. And you hate yourself more and more each day for sneaking around like this. Holding his hand in the shadows, surrendering his name to the darkness like a sweet supplication offered to a god.

“Be honest,” he husks, drawing you from the inner mechanisms of your mind. He takes some of your hair between his fingers, tender as he tugs it in a way that feels good, luring a barely-there sound from your throat, eyes hooded. “It’s not him you wanted to be with tonight, is it?” 

You turn a haughty look at him. He ingests you with deceptively soft eyes, though you don’t miss the arrogance swimming below the surface. He coyly cocks his head to one side, lips twitching up. You despise him—how he reads you like a book. 

He crowds you against the wall, so infuriatingly rigid and hot and too far away despite only a sliver of space keeping your bodies apart. You hate the hold he has on you. Hate how he makes you dizzy, how everything in you screams for you to push him away, yet that little voice inside beseeches you. Begs you to draw him closer, to pour all your frustrations into him via your mouth.

So, you snatch him to you with a snarl, and he stumbles forward, catching himself on his hands splayed on either side of your head. You kiss the surprised sound from his throat, and your fingers are greedy. So greedy as they gather his cheeks in your palms, tear through his hair, pull at his shirt, scramble for anything to hold onto.

He twines your tongues together, pressing up all hot and needy and possessive against you as if to selfishly shield your body from the moonlight. His hands are equally as fervent, raking up and down your sides, your hips, bunching up the soft silk of your skirt to your waist. He groans something anguished as his fingers curl around the backs of your thighs, and he pries them apart, rucking you up without any effort, your heels digging into the divots at the small of his back, arms snaking about his shoulders.

Your teeth knock, a sigh tearing past your lips between the fusion of your mouths as he tugs your panties to one side, stroking the seam of your cunt with his fingers. You’re so incredibly wet and swollen. So pliable and good for him as he unzips his slacks, relieved when his intimidating girth springs free to knock against your swollen cunt.

Your mouths part with a gasp when he eases into you, and you throw your head back until it collides painfully with the wall behind. But you don’t care about the pain, too focused on the delicious pressure pushing into you. Splitting you in two, the slick sounds of your union, of your bodies sliding together, coloring the atmosphere.

He takes you hard and deep and slow, pushing you further up the wall with each snap of his hips. Sinks his teeth into your neck, breathing hot and ragged things of filth into your skin. He’s lost in the feel of you—how the gummy webbing of your cunt swallows him up, how your lips part with his name, and how you mewl so beautifully for him, taking him so well.

He’s spilling a litany of praise into your shoulder. Thrusts growing choppy, breaths shaky. 

“Pretty girl. Feel so good. So sweet for me. Take me so deep. Taking me like a big girl.”

His voice is your undoing, his praise, his tenderness. And you hate how easily he robs you of an orgasm, how your voice corks in your throat, eyes rolling back, thighs quaking, a crazed smile twisting up your lips. Your walls hiccup around him, dragging his own release from him, a strained, guttural sound growled into the hollow of your shoulder. 

You hate how full he makes you feel. How molten spurts of cum paint the warm channel of your sex a sticky white. How it scorches down the inner cut of your thigh, intermingled with your own slick, to stain the ground below in a steady drip. 

He doesn’t pull out of you right away. Content with holding you in his hands like this, kissing you with teeth and tongue and passion as if he’ll never see you again. Only when he stops twitching inside you—when he’s fully satisfied he’s stuffed you full of cum—does he let your feet fall back to the ground, and he draws out of you with a sharp hiss. 

You’re a love-drunk fool as he fixes your dress, smooths over your hair, your cheeks. There’s a softness to his eyes, a reverence that makes your stomach twist as he peppers your lips with kisses, ensuring you’re good to stand on your own before drawing away.

He bends to replace your sandal on your foot, so fucking gentle, it hurts. Makes you feel sick. He takes your hand once you’ve both smoothed your clothes into some semblance of neat, tugging you away from the wall to lead you back to the bar.

And when you confront Emcee with a wide, knowing smile, throwing your arms around her to draw her into a hug, you try to ignore how you clench down, selfishly trying to keep as much of Sylus’ cum inside you as possible. 

[burningcheese-merchant]

"You and I... We are meant to be together." okay everyone pack it up. go home. it doesn't get worse than this. I fear all other ancient x beast is #cancelled forever because how the utter fuck do you compete with that. My god. Dark Cacao would die on the spot, his old fucking heart would give out processing a sentence that romantic. Golden Cheese would choke and die from the physical manifestation of her own pride and ego before she could ever utter a sentence that open and honest. Hollyberry is choosing to laugh it all off and pray she can drink away and not think about it. White Lily would fall into another witch pot of bubbling goo before confronting said feelings. Only Pure Motherfucking Vanilla is that clincally batshit and unburdened to spout his feelings 1000% unfiltered to a guy who just killed his friends and got his rocks off psychologically torturing him.

Mystic Flour being utterly repulsed by such naïve, meaningless sentimentality, still clinging to the remains of the apathy she so cherishes and champions even as it slips through her fingers like flour through a sieve; hating herself to her very core because somewhere within it, she KNOWS her heart beats and aches for that ridiculous man, but she would end her own suffering before she allowed the truth to poke its head out from the shadows of her subconscious for even a single second

Burning Spice knowing how he feels for Golden Cheese, reveling in it, LIVING for the way his heart thunders in his chest and his breath hitches at the mere thought of his little bird. Never being afraid to tell her so, to pour out the contents of his dark heart without any filter (and Witches know he needs one at times...), either through his mouth or through the blade of his axe. But... still knowing that it isn't quite enough. Not for her. Because there's still something missing from his confessions. That soft, sugary sweetness that took away enough of the edge to his overwhelming spice that even he himself noticed it. That raw honesty - a different kind than he's used to, not quite what he employs. The kind that well and truly leaves him vulnerable and open to judgment; things he hates himself for fearing, even if it's only in relation to her and no one else. The kind he simply cannot have, that he cannot carry out. He tells Golden Cheese how he feels for her the way he WANTS to, not the way he NEEDS to. For that, he must change. And damn it, he can't handle any more change. It'll kill him, and he doesn't want to die anymore. Not while she's there to make his life fun again

Eternal Sugar sighing, rolling her eyes before letting them flutter shut again, because she knows this song and dance. She once helped countless others perform it; such was her lot as Happiness. And she chooses to ignore it, tuck herself back into bed and retreat into the world of dreams once more. Letting laziness govern her actions, like always. Running away from everything again - including her feelings for Hollyberry, and the fears and doubts that shroud them. Choosing to do nothing with the fact that Hollyberry is a runner and a quitter just like her, instead of taking initiative with her life and emotions for the first time in ages and telling Hollyberry point-blank that they could run away from the world together if she truly wanted

Silent Salt secretly lamenting his condition more than ever before, for now more than ever can he truly say that it is a hindrance, a curse, a stain on the tapestry of his life. Because no matter how well he's trained himself to express his thoughts and feelings through his actions, he knows that there are times where words really DO speak louder - and he can't speak them at all. He can never look White Lily in the eye and open his mouth and allow his praise and adoration to leap freely from his tongue. She will never feel the warmth of his tone as his words embraced her. She will never shiver and swoon at the joy and passion that dripped from every single letter - and there would've been many, there would've been more than could ever have been recorded, for he would've sung his feelings from every rooftop on earth until his lungs gave out. But he can't. He never will. Does he try to pretend it's better this way? Does he try and fail to cope with his lovesickness like his comrades do with theirs? Or does he accept the bitter reality for what it is, no ifs, ands, or buts, only hiding the gloom and doom he knows is written all over his face behind his helm just so he doesn't have to see it for himself?

And, above all of these things, bundling up the other 4 Beasts' feelings and tucking them away... Above all else, they are angry. They are angry at Shadow Milk. Because he achieved what none of them could. He got everything he wanted. His Ancient admitted his love for him, with all of the raw sincerity one could possibly afford another. The other Beasts would do ANYTHING to hear their Ancients speak to them in such a way. To acknowledge and embrace their connection, to confess to loving and longing for them; for their countenance, for their voice, for their touch, for their very souls. Shadow Milk got to reunite with his other half - who chose him willingly, wholeheartedly.

And Shadow Milk chose to throw it all away in the end. Let it all go to waste.

If any of them ever see him again, they're going to let him know EXACTLY how they feel about it all. Maybe it can count as practice towards crafting a proper heartfelt confession.

[latanyalove]

Sick Day

Summary: You're sick but you don't want to disturb your busy captain and the crew.

Song: Coming Down by The Weeknd

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

The salt spray stung your face as you clung to the railing of the submarine, Polar Tang. The familiar rocking of the vessel usually soothed you, but today, it churned your stomach with a vengeance. Each swell sent a wave of nausea crashing over you, and the lump in your throat threatened to betray the secret you’d been desperately trying to keep.

“Another beautiful day at sea, eh, Y/N?” Shachi called out, his ever-present grin plastered on his face. He approached, a length of rope slung over his shoulder, and threw an arm around your shoulders.

His touch, normally comforting, felt like a brand on your feverish skin.

“Gorgeous,” you managed, forcing a smile and leaning away slightly. “Just taking in the fresh air.”

Shachi, bless his oblivious heart, seemed to buy it. “That’s the spirit! Captain’s in the library, buried in some ancient medical text again. Probably trying to find a cure for boredom.” He chuckled. “Don’t think he’s slept in days. You should see the bags under his eyes.”

Your heart clenched. That was precisely the reason you were out here, battling the waves and the growing weakness in your limbs. Trafalgar Law, your…everything, was already overworked.

He dedicated his life to the well-being of his crew, pushing himself relentlessly. The last thing he needed was you adding to his burden with a simple cold.

“Maybe I will,” you said, your voice a little too high-pitched. “Catch up on some reading myself.” You detached yourself from Shachi’s grip and hurried below deck, hoping he didn’t notice the tremor in your hands.

The air inside the submarine was thick and humid, doing little to alleviate the chill that had settled deep in your bones. You bypassed the library – Law’s sanctuary – and stumbled toward your shared cabin.

Collapsing onto the bunk, you pulled the threadbare blanket over yourself, trying to ignore the throbbing in your head and the scratchiness in your throat.

“Y/N? Are you alright?”

Bepo’s anxious voice cut through the fog in your brain. You peeked out from under the blanket to see the massive polar bear crouched in the doorway, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Fine, Bepo, fine,” you mumbled, pulling the blanket higher. “Just a little tired.”

Bepo wasn’t stupid. He knew you better than anyone, barring Law himself. He padded closer, his large paws silent on the metal floor.

“Your face is flushed,” he said, his voice laced with worry. “And you’re shivering. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Just a little seasick,” you insisted, turning your face to the wall. “It’ll pass.”

Bepo hesitated, his ears twitching. “Maybe…maybe I should tell Captain.”

Panic flared in your chest. “No! Bepo, please don’t. He’s so busy. It’s nothing, I promise. Just let me rest.”

You knew you were being unreasonable, but desperation lent your voice a sharp edge. Bepo, always sensitive to your feelings, retreated slightly.

“Okay, Y/N,” he said softly. “But…but if you need anything, anything, you promise you’ll tell me?”

“I promise,” you whispered, closing your eyes.

Days blurred into a miserable cycle of stolen naps, forced smiles, and growing weakness. You avoided Law as much as possible, knowing he’d see through your charade in an instant.

You choked down your meals, forcing yourself to socialize with the crew, all the while battling a fever that threatened to consume you.

The hardest part was keeping your distance from Law. You craved his touch, his presence, his unwavering gaze. He was your anchor, your safe harbor in a turbulent world.

But you couldn't risk him seeing you like this, a pathetic, sniffling mess. You’d rather suffer in silence than burden him with your trivial illness.

One evening, as you were attempting to sneak a cup of herbal tea – Penguin’s well-intentioned remedy, despite your protests – Law’s voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Y/N.”

You froze, your back to him. The sound of his voice sent a shiver down your spine, a different kind of shiver than the one that racked your body with fever.

“Captain,” you said, turning around slowly. You tried to appear nonchalant, leaning against the counter as if you weren’t desperately trying to keep from collapsing.

He stood in the doorway to the galley, his dark eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. He was even more tired than Shachi had described, the lines around his mouth etched deeper, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he stated, his voice flat.

You forced a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Captain. I’ve just been…busy.”

He raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge. “Busy doing what, exactly? Trying to master the art of disappearing?”

You swallowed, your throat burning. “I…I just wanted to give you space. You’ve been working so hard.”

He stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. “And you think hiding from me is helping?” He reached out, his fingers brushing against your forehead. You flinched, but he didn’t pull away.

“You’re burning up,” he said, his voice laced with concern. “How long have you been sick?”

The fight drained out of you. There was no point in denying it any longer. He knew. He always knew.

“A few days,” you mumbled, looking down at your feet.

His grip on your forehead tightened slightly. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

You looked up at him, your eyes pleading. “I didn’t want to bother you. You have so much to worry about.”

He sighed, a sound of weary exasperation. “Y/N…" He took your hand in his, his thumb stroking the back of your palm. "You are never a bother. Ever. Do you understand?”

Tears welled up in your eyes. “But…”

“No buts,” he interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. “Come with me.”

He led you back to your cabin, carefully helping you onto the bunk. He didn’t say anything as he peeled off your clammy clothes and wrapped you in a fresh blanket. He worked with a practiced efficiency, his movements precise and gentle.

He summoned Bepo, who scurried off to fetch a basin of cool water and some clean cloths. Law sat beside you, dipping the cloth in the water and gently dabbing your forehead.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked again, his voice softer this time.

Your voice was hoarse. “I was scared.”

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and something else, something that made your heart flutter despite the throbbing in your head.

“Scared of what?”

“That you’d be angry,” you whispered. “That I’d be a burden.”

He shook his head, his dark hair falling across his forehead. “You could never be a burden, Y/N. And I could never be angry at you for being sick.”

He continued to bathe your forehead in silence, his touch soothing and comforting. You closed your eyes, letting the cool water and his presence wash over you.

“From now on,” he said softly, after a long silence, “no more secrets. Not from me. Understand?”

You opened your eyes and looked at him, your heart overflowing with love and gratitude.

“I understand,” you whispered.

The next few days were a blur of fever dreams and Law’s unwavering care. He made you herbal teas, insisted on you resting, and even managed to coax a few bites of bland food past your protesting stomach.

The crew tiptoed around the cabin, whispering their well wishes and leaving small gifts – a rare orange, a hand-knitted scarf, a crudely drawn get-well card from Bepo.

Slowly, the fever began to break. The throbbing in your head subsided, and the nausea faded. You started to feel like yourself again, a little weak perhaps, but alive.

One evening, as you sat propped up in bed, reading a worn paperback, Law entered the cabin. He carried a tray with a steaming mug and a plate of crackers.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice gentle.

"Much better, thank you," you replied, offering a tentative smile. "I'm almost back to normal."

He placed the tray on the small table beside your bed. "Good. I was starting to miss your sharp wit and irritating questions."

You chuckled, a genuine sound this time. "Irritating questions? You're just jealous of my superior intellect."

He smirked, a rare and precious sight. "Of course. That must be it." He leaned back against the wall, watching you as you sipped your tea. The silence that followed was comfortable, a familiar rhythm between you.

"Law," you began hesitantly, "I wanted to thank you. For everything."

He raised an eyebrow. "There's no need. I just did what anyone would have done."

You shook your head. "No, you went above and beyond. You could have left it to the others, but you didn't. You took care of me. And I... I really appreciate it."

He pushed himself off the wall and took a step closer. "Y/N," he said, his voice low and serious, "you're important to me."

Your heart leaped in your chest. "I –"

He cut you off, continuing before you could overthink and ruin the moment. "You're smart, resourceful, and you have this infuriating way of always knowing exactly what to say to piss me off, but also... to make me laugh. You bring a unique perspective to the crew. You challenge me."

He paused, his eyes searching yours. "And," he swallowed hard, "you're… kind of… essential to me."

You stared at him, speechless. Essential? Was he… could he possibly…

He seemed to realize what he had said, the implications of his words hitting him like a tidal wave. His cheeks flushed a faint pink, and he looked away, running a hand through his hair.

"I… I didn’t mean to say that," he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

"You didn't?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly.

He looked back at you, his gaze intense. "Well, I mean… I did. But… I didn't mean to say it like that. It just sort of… came out." He was a mess, a far cry from the stoic, collected captain you knew him to be.

You couldn't help but laugh, a nervous, shaky sound. "So, you're saying you didn't intend to accidentally confess your… whatever this is, to me, while I'm still recovering from a fever?"

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. "This is a disaster."

You reached out and took his hand, your fingers intertwining with his. "Hey," you said softly, "it's okay. It's more than okay."

He looked up, his eyes filled with doubt and a glimmer of hope. "It is?"

You squeezed his hand. "Yes, Law. It is. Because… I feel the same way."

His eyes widened. "You… you do?"

You nodded, your heart soaring. "I do. I have for a long time."

A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features. It was the most genuine, unguarded smile you had ever seen. He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear.

"Then maybe," he whispered, "this accidental confession wasn't such a disaster after all."

He leaned in closer, and you closed your eyes, anticipation flooding your senses. His lips brushed against yours, a tentative, feather-light touch. It was a promise, a beginning.

The door to the cabin slid open with a bang, and Penguin's head popped in. "Captain! We've spotted–" He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening in surprise as he took in the scene. "Oh. Sorry. Am I interrupting something?"

Law pulled away, his cheeks flushing again. "Yes, Penguin. You are."

Penguin backed out of the cabin, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and amusement. "Right. Carry on, then. I'll just… tell the others to steer clear." He disappeared, leaving you and Law alone once more.

You both burst out laughing, the tension finally dissipating. The world outside your tiny cabin seemed to fade away, leaving only you and Law, the quiet hum of the Polar Tang, and the undeniable spark of something new, something real, igniting between you.

The fever might have been a curse, but it had inadvertently led to a cure for a different kind of ailment, one you had both been suffering from in silence for far too long.

And maybe, just maybe, accidental confessions were the best kind. . . .

[moviestarmartini]

trátame suavemente. — franco colapinto x gf!reader

no quiero soñar mil veces las mismas cosas / ni contemplarlas sabiamente / quiero que me trates suavemente.

summary: reuniting after spending months apart and having recently recovered from a fight feels bittersweet. however, you have to push all your feelings aside at the end of the weekend to treat your boyfriend softly. 

wc: 2.3k 

warnings: established relationship, hispanic!reader, sentences in spanish, bit of angst, long distance relationship mention, takes place after the são paulo gp, nsfw (18+ mdni), p in v, bathroom sex, oral (m!receiving), lowk edging, whiny!franco, sub!franco if you squint, unprotected sex (get on your pills or shots or SOMETHING don’t raw it), creampie, soft sex and ambiance overall. 

A/N: based on this request ! and yess, franco with soda stereo again hehe. please listen to the el último concierto (remastered) version of this song when reading, it's a whole different vibe than the og !! mil besitos as always and feedback is appreciated

now playing... trátame suavemente by soda stereo

“Vení.” 

Come here. Franco’s voice echoed the minute he noticed your hesitant footsteps filling up the once empty silence. 

You leaned against the bathroom door frame, head leaned to the side. The lights were dimmed— proper of a fancy hotel, where else would you be able to adjust the lighting anyway?— He soaked in the steamy water clouded with the relaxing bath salts, trying to find some relief in what had been his worst weekend yet. Both on and off the track. 

“Hi.” You greeted softly with a tiny wave of your hand before it retreated back to its post across your chest. 

“Sabés que no muerdo a menos que me lo pidas.” He sat up, back straightening. Humor was a natural addition to his words, even when he was at his lowest. It never seemed to impress you, and it was something you could sometimes hate. 

The scene was still vivid and bright behind your eyelids. Counting down the days for him to come home, getting the call he was in fact going to take longer— because he’d made it. He’d made it to Formula One. Your heart sped up when reliving the memory, unaware of how difficult it was going to be from then on. 

Your relationship wasn’t exactly public, something you’d chosen yourself in case occasions like these arose. Then you’ve come to realize it gave him a certain freedom, the one that allowed him to flirt openly with interviewers and not face repercussions to his public image. 

Behind closed doors, it was another story. 

You tried. With your whole chest, you tried to not complain to him directly. It was his personality, the way he’d pulled you in from day one. One day, you just couldn’t. His absence was palpable, and after a week or so without any communication he’d texted to sulk about his mediocre results during the Mexican Grand Prix, having the fast lap taken away from him. 

You couldn’t hold it in. From the fact he was inconsistent in the relationship that had you suffering through a rollercoaster of emotions, to his absence digitally and the lack of interest in your doings. He’d barely have the time to check in with you, not about you. 

The calls were frantic, tears were shed, and he promised to be more present. The fight was left in a stalemate, and you cursed yourself when the flight reminder popped on your notifications. You couldn’t help but wait another week to see him? 

The same word with four letters that broke the silence moments ago was texted by him that same day, and you couldn’t hold a grudge even if you wanted to. You were never truly mad at him, you just missed him. So much so it ached in your bones, both set your heart ablaze and cooled it at the same time. 

Painful could only begin to describe it. 

Your worries were pushed away once you clarified everything, after the Saturday session was canceled and all you had on your shared agenda was cuddle up in the hotel room, quiet promises being made. After all the grief he had to withstand in the midst of this storm— literally— the last thing in your priorities was to stay on your own petty agenda. 

At his request to be closer, you sat at the closed lid of the toilet, unable to take your eyes off of him. 

“You’re too far away.” His insistence only furthered, eliciting a quiet laugh out of your lips. Without further ado, you stood up, stripping off the simple lounging set and folding it aside before sinking opposite to him on the warm water, growing cold with each passing moment now that the faucet was off. 

“What is it?” You blinked, head leaned to the side. Franco looked at you profoundly, and you wondered if he had something he was trying to figure out about you. 

“I missed you so much.” 

The words hung in the steamy air while you processed them, your bottom lip puckering out while a mixture of emotions washed over you. A part of you didn’t believe him, while the other ached for those words, even if it wasn’t the first time he said them during the weekend. 

“Really?” You wondered out loud, not caring that the water could spill out of the tub while you carefully moved to rest by his side, an arm wrapped around you. 

“Yeah.” He insisted, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m exhausted now. This was supposed to be such a good weekend… by the red flag all I wanted to do was lay my head on your tits for hours.” 

“Baboso,” You splashed him with water, both of your laughs echoing in the room, the acoustics amplifying the sound. 

“I missed you too, by the way.” You spoke up after a while of silence, the shapeless shapes he drew on your skin with his index finger lulling your heart to a lower rate. 

“Por si no era obvio.” You added soon after, your laugh making your heart skip a beat. You didn’t feel like your claims from just a week and a few days ago were irrational, and you stood by them. He also did, acknowledging his lack of care. 

But you were there, by his side. When he most needed it. And you wouldn’t change that for anything in the entire world. 

Instead of getting an answer with words, you felt his fingers tenderly cupping your chin, guiding your gaze to his in order to receive his lips in yours warmly. 

Careful and complex. His lips moved with calculation, and a sigh inevitably left yours. This is what your body ached, what made the desperately cold layer dissolve off your heart and set it fully ablaze under his careful affections. 

You moved to straddle his hips, arms wrapped around his neck. You could’ve sworn you heard a whine while he straightened up, his hands holding onto your hips for dear life. 

Desperate and desirable. The kiss transitioned to match the steam in the room, his hands unable to find a place to stay put in, instead just roaming the soaked inches of skin he could get a hold off. 

“Me hizo muchísima falta tenerte así,” Franco let out in a pant, eager fingertips delving into the plush skin of your ass. Now it was your turn to answer with an action, leaning in to kiss down his neck, carefully placing affections on the prominent scar knowing it made him squirm. 

“Ay amor…” He let out a groan, unable to resist when your chest pressed against his torso. 

“¿Qué pasa?” You questioned quietly, fluttering your lashes up at him. You took his physical queues and understood them almost immediately. He couldn’t help but lean into his touch, shaky breath leaving his lips with each grazing of your fingers. 

You noticed how he swallowed hard, just shaking his head to signify nothing was going on— nothing was inherently wrong. 

“Sit up here.” You instructed quietly, patting the tiled edge before the tub began, seemingly used for people to sit and dry themselves. This once, you two were definitely not going to use it for that. 

He followed the command obediently, watchful eyes following your movements while you positioned yourself between his legs. 

“You’ve had such a rough week…” Your voice was hypnotizing, in the same way your hand stroking his length was. “Let me take care of you, mkay?” 

The words he planned on letting out found themselves choked back when you deposited a kiss on the skin edging between his inner and outer thigh. He melted into his spot almost literally, manspreading to give you more access to leave the warm affections that brought goosebumps to his skin. 

You batted your eyelashes innocently up at him while your flat tongue licked the underside of his hard cock, green eyes hyper-focused on your lips wrapping on the flushed tip. 

“Fuck…” He managed to groan out, his right hand reaching to clutch your hair while the other held onto the ceramic, preparing himself for what he’d been desiring for what felt to be years, when in fact it had only been a short couple months. 

You knew how to treat him, how to push his buttons just right without exceeding into a rougher context. All you wanted was for him to relax, at least for now. That didn’t mean you didn’t put in the effort, your hand encompassed what your mouth couldn’t take even when it almost hit the back of your throat.

“Que linda te ves con la boquita llena,” He caressed your cheek tenderly while you took a breather, his hips jerking upwards ever so slightly to thrust into your hand.

“Hm just for you,” You winked in agreement to the compliment before wrapping your lips around the now leaking tip, humming at the taste of the precum on your tongue and inevitably down your throat. 

“Así, así,” Franco whined the minute you started bobbing your head up and down his length with precision and speed. He threw his head back, allowing the moans to leave his mouth freely, mixing in a dangerous cocktail with his heavy breaths. 

The moment was perfect. You knew Franco was getting lost in it, nearing the edge with each desperate jerk of his hips matching up to your nose grazing his lower abdomen. He could still feel the warm water, but nothing could compare with the sensation of your throat. 

Unless… 

“Pará, pará,” He breathed out, his tone high pitched, containing himself into not bursting out the seams right then and there. 

“¿Qué pasó mi rey? Did I do something wrong?” You pulled away visibly concerned, straightening up still on your knees. 

His response was a weak shake of his head, chest rising up and down. He still rested his back against the tiled wall, regaining his composure. Your eyes traced every inch of his skin, every mole and freckle, subconsciously licking your lips. His laugh snapped you out of your shamelessly perverted ravaging, and you looked up at him with a smile. 

“Te amo tanto.” He muttered, leaning in to close the gap between your mouths halfway. Even if seconds ago you were wondering why on earth he would edge himself, the kiss told you everything you needed, adding to the support his hands gave you to get on your feet and sit on his lap. 

His lips parted from yours only to give soft kisses to your cheek and jaw, traveling the marvelous road down your neck. Your moans were soft, beginning to ease into it when a curious hand parted your legs open. 

“Fran…” You breathed you, your hand reaching to caress the hair falling near his nape; it was longer than usual, he needed a trim— you noted mentally, reminding to comment on it later. 

“Let me feel you,” He whispered against your skin, the action forming goosebumps on the area. “Estás tan mojadita; porfa.” 

He didn’t need to beg twice, your back already pulled away from his chest, shifting around in his lap and raising your hips a little in order to sink down his length, your sighs of relief harmonizing. 

“I missed this so much,” You noticed you had rendered him almost incoherent from the way he could barely formulate the words between heavy breaths and moans, a battle to keep his eyes open to watch your figure as you bounced on his hard cock. 

“Ay ese culito…” He groaned, the sound of a smack bouncing on the walls before it remixed with your yelp, but it only encouraged to move faster, wanting to give him the show he deserved. 

Franco didn’t allow himself to get lost in the mesmerizing movement of your body, instead pulling you back to be as close to him as humanly possible, his hand cupping your chin to almost drag your face near his. 

The kiss was sloppy from his part, the grinding of your hips was sharp in comparison, and he couldn’t focus. Your wet skin against his, the noises you started making the moment he started toying with that sweet spot. 

“Amor,” He couldn’t help but call your attention, ripping his lips off of yours in order to speak. You noticed the way his brows furrowed— and how could you not? he was always so expressive— his bottom lip puckering out while he tried to make out the following words. 

But he didn’t need to. 

“Yes,” You nodded, feeling your own orgasm approach quickly. From the moment you stripped and dipped in the water you knew you weren’t going to last long in whatever activity you might engage, and you were okay with that. 

“¿Si?” Franco whined, his lashes fluttering while his eyes fell shut before he could hide his face in the crook of his neck. 

“Si. Cum inside.” You confirmed, feeling his lips press against your shoulder blade before the conjoined noises filled up the room, the hand that occupied the space between your legs failing in its constant rhythm, while the other dug into the doughy merge your hips and upper thighs conformed. 

You let your eyes close while the wave of pleasure washed over you, chests rising up and down rhythmically. It felt like you had just floated down from the sky, settling down into the reality of the position— a bit insane, to say the least— you found yourselves in, guided by the pure lust and yearning of each other after the sudden separation. 

“All good over there?” You laughed softly, receiving a small ‘eh’ in a high pitched tone. It took Franco another moment before he raised his face, his lips pressing a tender kiss to your jaw before his arms wrapped around your midriff and into a tight hug. 

“Con vos? Todo perfecto.”  

[wol-fica]

-Bliss PT 11-

summary - reader would do anything, anything, to protect wednesday…

warnings - punching, blood, nose broken, SAPPY

an - missed wednesday and r, (mostly wednesday), so i thought id get back into bliss before season 2 comes !!

—————————

It was a beautiful Monday afternoon in New Jersey, golden rays of sunlight bathing the mansion floor in a beautiful blanket of bronze. The windows were open to the outside world, a warm breeze flowing through the house and invading the walls with the scent of pine and apple pie.

You were in the kitchen, humming along to one of your favorite songs while you stirred ingredients together to make a sugar glaze. Your pie was in the oven, almost ready to be taken out and admired for how damn talented you were at baking, but it needed a few more minutes to reach perfection. It’s crust was a delicious looking light brown, dusted with a bit of salt for flavor, that covered the mouth watering apple filling that was crafted from your great grandmothers secret recipe.

Your cooking and baking skills were a great blessing, especially since your wife has a bit of a sour tooth when it comes to entrees. You always made sure to craft each dish to the exact perfect condition of what she was craving in that moment, and every time, without fail, she would praise you in her gothic ways about how delicious each meal was.

Speaking of your wife, she was currently typing away on her typewriter in the office, working on a new book series since finishing her last collection. Becoming such a well respected writer had boosted her confidence a lot, which in turn helped open more doors to new plot lines and perspectives of storytelling and imagery for her to explore. You had been her biggest supporter throughout her journey and definitely earned the title of “#1 Wednesday Addams Fan” after showing up to every conference and book signing wearing her face on your shirt.

She scolded you for it every single time.

“Doing okay, babe?” You called out, whisking the icing gently.

The ‘tap tap tap’ of the typewriter abruptly stopped, and the sound of footsteps ranges out softly in the house as your partner approached the kitchen. You turned your head just in time to see her round the corner, your breath catching in the back of your throat from the sight of her.

Wednesday Addams was a glorious view, and just so easy to look at for you even after all these years. Her skin was supple and pale, almost ghostly white from lack of melanin in her cells. Her eyes, black as ever, were filled with a sense of warmth that to others, would be discomforting; to you, it was home. She was dressed in a knee-length black skirt that held her checkered sweater tucked in at her waist, with a thin silver chain hanging loosely from the front of her hip to the back. She had white, shin-length socks on that hugged her calves in such a way that it was almost hypnotic to stare at her. Her hair was in her usual duel braids paired with her beautiful bangs that you loved oh so much, and she wore an expression of admiration on her face when she spotted you.

“Hey you.” You said, setting your whisk down to fully turn to her, “Finished the third chapter yet?”

“Not yet.” Wednesday replied, stepping into your personal space and tilting her face up to you, “I am stuck in the torturous prison of what the people call ‘writers block’.”

You chuckled, taking her chin in your hand and leaning down to kiss her. She stood up on her toes to meet you, her hands resting on your hips while you cupped her jaw. She tasted divine, her lipgloss flavor consisting of black cherries and dark chocolate with a hint of eucalyptus to complement the sweetness.

“Hi.” You murmured to her after pulling away, staring into her dark eyes.

“Hello.” She whispered back, her hands slithering around your waist, “I missed you.”

“We live together.” You teased, smiling when she undid the tie of your apron.

“You have been baking all morning.”

“Could’ve joined me.”

“And suffer with the nauseating effect of home life and domestication? I’d rather be nailed to a post.”

You giggled, moving around her to hang your apron on the pantry door hook before coming back over to the oven to peak at your pie. It seemed to be done, so you grabbed your black mittens and carefully took the hot dish out and placed it on the stove. The aroma of apple hit you like a warm pillow to the face, and you felt your whole body physically relax from the touching smell.

“I hope to get a slice later.” Wednesday said, sliding her hand into yours once you took the mittens off, “It looks divine.”

“I thought Wednesday Addams didn’t like sweet things?” You asked, scrunching your nose at her.

“I like you, isn’t that enough proof?”

You hummed, pressing your lips to her forehead as a loving gesture. The radio sounded light static before Foolish Girl by Marjorie filled the room. Your unoccupied hand slide to rest on your wife’s waist, gently beginning to sway to the music with her. She let her head rest against your chest, her eyes falling shut at the sound of your heartbeat.

“Twenty-five years old and you still dance like you’re fifteen.” You mumbled, smoothing the wrinkles out of her sweater.

“I need to perfect my skills, I just haven’t had the time.” She replied softly, burying her nose into your hoodie, “Fifteen year old me would be devastated.”

“No.” You said, lifting her head and reaching to cup her face, “She would be so proud to see what you have achieved; you’re incredible, baby”

Wednesday blushed, shamelessly letting her eyes run over your features with pure admiration. You both stayed like that for a while, content in swaying in each other’s embrace whilst occasionally sharing little kisses here and there. The moment was perfect, until a sharp knock at the front door startled you.

“Who could that be?” You wondered aloud, knowing you weren’t expecting anyone today.

“A spokesperson maybe.” Wednesday grumbled, turning and heading towards the front door, “I’ll tell them to leave.”

“It’s not like we get solicitors.” You said, knowing it’s a pretty long walk from the road to your front door, “Be nice, please!”

She waved you off, rounding the corner out of sight but not of earshot. You heard the front door open, and a male voice respond to your wife’s question of his presence.

“I’m here for you, actually.” The person said, his words slightly slurred.

“Sorry, not available, please leave.”

“Seem pretty available to me; pretty cute too.”

“Use the word ‘cute’ to describe me again and i’ll remove your finger nails with my pliers.”

“No need to get attitude with me, gorgeous. How about I come inside and we chat a little?”

You tensed up, dropping the plate you were drying onto the counter and briskly walking to the front door. There was a tall man in the entrance, holding the door open with his hand so Wednesday couldn’t shut it on him. He was scruffier looking, his greasy hair long and his wiry beard unkept on his bumpy skin. He had a smirk on his face that was unsettling and gross looking, like something that came out of a shitty thriller from the 60’s or something of the sort.

“Who the fuck are you?” The man drawled out, seeming to size you up when you approached.

“Her wife.” You deadpanned, standing to slightly in front of Wednesday to block him from entering your home, “And I’m pretty sure she asked you to leave.”

He laughed, his breath reeking of scotch and beer when it hit your nose. You recoiled slightly, mistakingly taking a step back in disgust. The man saw that as an opportunity to strike, and shot his hand out to grab Wednesdays arm.

It felt like everything happened in a millisecond; one minute you were pinching your nose to block the smell, the next you were swinging your fist into his face, his nose breaking with a satisfying ‘crack’. He fell backwards onto your concrete front porch, his hand immediately covering his injury. You breathed heavily, your chest heaving up and down from the adrenaline pumping through your veins. Not many things angered you, but if someone ever put their hands on Wednesday, you would see red.

Call it your wifey instinct.

“OW! What the fuck?!” He screamed, cradling his face, “Son of a bitch!”

“Never, ever, touch her again.” You growled, squaring your shoulders to make yourself appear bigger, “Now get the hell off of my property before I call the cops.”

With that you slammed the door once he retreated down your steps and to the street, locking the deadbolt with a grunt of annoyance. Blood coated your knuckles from the impact of the man’s nose breaking, but you could honestly care less as your focus was on the women standing in front of you.

“Are you okay?” You asked, reaching for her arm to make sure she wasn’t scratched or bruised.

“I am fine.” Wednesday reassured, a glint of love in her eyes as she stared at you, “That was the most attractive thing I have ever seen.”

“Wednesday, I just punched a man in the face.”

“And it was divine.” She replied, biting her lip in a teasing way, “The way you spoke to him; impressive.”

You sighed with a smile, wrapping your arms around her and kissing her softly. She responded with leaning into you, titling her head to the side to welcome you in as much as she could.

“I’m glad to have you.” You whispered against her lips, “Truly.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” She whispered back, tugging you forwards with her as she walked backwards.

“The pie is still on the stove.” You reminded her as she began to run her hands down your chest, “Didn’t you want a slice?”

She pulled back from your embrace, nodding in the direction of your shared bedroom. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes, a small smirk coming to her face.

“I can think of something sweeter to eat.”

—————————

🫦

taglist: @cartierdreamx @tundra1029 @red1culous @vorsdany @andsoigotabutterfly @theafterofnevermore @yomomisgay @house-of-lovin @dunohilly @somekindofpoet @alexkolax @cinffy23 @pedrosprincess0 @amberfreemansburntface @myfturn

[brittle-doughie]

The Fallen Ruler: Dark Thorn Cookie.

Once a benevolent and kindhearted Cookie, now turned into a sadistic and cruel Cookie whose purpose is to make the Beast Cookies suffer for destroying their entire kingdom…all to get to them…

Despite their best efforts to defend themselves, the Beast Cookies paid the price for their own actions.

Shadow Milk, Mystic Flour, Burning Spice, Eternal Sugar, Silent Salt Cookie…All locked up in the dark dungeons of Y/N Cookie’s castle. Being held in place by sharpened thorns and stripped of their power, Dark Thorn Cookie would occasionally take the time to visit them…

…And cruelly mock them into believing that they’d be theirs. How would the Beast Cookies react…to this monster of their own making?

Burning Spice would be the most resistant. He didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of breaking him. You’re not bothered, it’s only a matter of time before Spice comes to the realization that fighting to take power back would be foolish.

Silent Salt doesn’t want to speak to you, not that they could speak anyway. They made the vow of silence, only giving you the occasional glance at them before turning their back to you. Silent is patient, but that patience can only last for so long.

Shadow Milk still wants to think that he can pull a string or two to convince you that keeping him in here is a fruitless endeavor, he’ll get out in the end and he’ll make you DANCE to his song~ No, let the clown laugh at his own delusions. He’s not getting out…

Mystic Flour was all about apathy, she knew it was pointless to try and keep fighting a battle that had an already foreseeable conclusion. She doesn’t fight, she instead wants to make amends. She wants to go with the flow rather then waste what little energy and power she had left.

Eternal Sugar really wants to rule by your side, she apologized in her tattered and weak state. She promised that she only did what she had done out of geunine care for you. It’s not her fault that you had such a warm and shining soul, teasing her with it. It’s rude to tempt a Beast like that, so be a good little cookie AND GIVE YOURSELF TO HER-

[prythiansprincess]

Can I get a FIC abt the reader being Theodore’s gf and best friend and she’s embarrassed and alone in her dorm bc of cramps and they are REALLY REALLY bad and he just comforts her and they snuggle and he gives her his hoodie and fluffy!! (I’m dying from my cramps in my bed rn 🙏 I need comfort from my book bf)

heart shaped bruises.

pairing: theodore nott x reader.

song inspiration: toothpaste kisses by the maccabees.

author's note: i'm so sorry you're in pain, love. hope this makes you feel better 💗

Bloody fucking hell. 

You clutched your stomach, doubling over in pain as another wave of cramps crashed into you at full force. An anti period pain potion. That would be your first invention after finishing your education at Hogwarts. For now, you were forced to endure the pain and misery sans magic. 

The clock on your nightstand rang obnoxiously, rattling the various barrettes and books stacked atop the table. The alarm meant that Charms would be starting soon. With a rather hard smack, you silenced the clock and buried yourself underneath the covers. 

There was no way in hell that you were going to make it to class today.

You couldn’t even get out of bed, let alone walk to the other side of the castle. No, you were staying right here. Cocooned in the safety of your blankets so you could wallow in self pity in peace. 

Apparently, suffering in silence was too much to ask for because the minute the alarm finally stopped, there was a knock on your door. 

“Go away,” you yelled, the words slightly muffled by your goose down comforter. 

“Y/N?” A familiar voice called from the other side of the door. “Are you alright, love?”

Tears pricked the back of your eyes. No, you were definitely not alright. Your uterus was an active war zone, your emotions were a poorly assembled rollercoaster in an abandoned theme park, and to top it all off, you had a raging headache like someone had taken a bludger to your skull. 

But you couldn’t say all of that. You didn’t want to freak your boyfriend out. 

“I’m fine, Theo. Just feeling under the weather.” You clamped your eyes shut, trying to block out the migraine. “Go to class without me.”

There was shuffling from the hallway before your door swung open, revealing a very concerned Theo. He took in the sight of you in bed, your cheeks flushed and your eyes red from crying all morning. Theo was by your side in three strides. 

“What’s wrong, dolcezza?”

“Nothing, I’m just not feeling well.” A fresh set of cramps chose that exact moment to pummel your lower abdomen, making you wince in pain. 

“That’s not nothing, darling.” He knelt beside you, taking your hand. “Tell me what’s wrong, Y/N. I hate seeing you in pain.”

Your eyes watered again. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Of course not, love.”

“It’s these cramps,” you said slowly, shifting to face him. “I’m on my period and it’s just really bad today. Usually I take a pain relieving potion, but even that’s not working this time around.”

Theo’s face softened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You averted his gaze, flushing. “I guess I was embarrassed. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“It is a big deal,” said Theo. “Everything that has to do with you is a big deal to me. I hate thinking that you’ve been suffering through this all alone.”

“I just didn’t want to bother you with something so silly.”

“You could never bother me, Y/N.” Theo gently pulled back the covers. “If anything I’m the one bothering you right now. Scoot over, darling. Make room for your Teddy.”

“But you’ll miss Charms.”

“I’ve skipped for less. This time it’s actually important. You need me. I’m not leaving you.”

You smiled softly and made room for Theo. He instantly wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a snuggle. The familiar scent of sea salt and smoke felt like a warm hug in itself. Theo stroked your hair and kissed your temple. 

The cold air seeped in through your frosted glass windows, chilling you to the core. As much as you loved the ominous charm of living in the dungeons, this was one of its disadvantages. You shivered in Theo’s arms, cuddling closer for warmth. 

Your boyfriend radiated heat. You had no idea how when it was near freezing in your dorm. Theo liked to say he was hot blooded. You were just grateful to have your own personal heater. 

“Are you cold, darling?” 

You nodded, resting your head in the crook of his neck. “A little.”

Theo shifted beside you. He tugged at the hem of his hoodie and pulled it off in one swift move. “Arms up, love.”

You sat upright and did what you were told. Theo slipped his hoodie over you, smiling as the plush fabric swallowed you whole. It was warm and smelled like him. You wanted to drown in it. 

He kissed the tip of your nose. “It looks good on you, but don’t think that it gets you out of cuddling.” 

Theo pulled you to him, snuggling you from behind. He twined your legs together, making you giggle as his leg hair tickled the back of your thighs. You intertwined your fingers and kissed the back of his palm. 

The cramps may still be wreaking havoc on your body, but at least now you had Theo to comfort you. 

“How are you feeling, babe?” 

You turned, smiling. “Better now that you’re here, Teddy.”

Theo grinned and pressed a gentle kiss against your lips. “Get some rest, love. I’m not going anywhere.”

[milkfordragons]

Hannigram Post-Fall: A Realistic Analysis of Possibilities

There are so many post-fall fanfiction, but the ones that captivate most are those that feel like echoes of the unwritten season four, visions of what might have been, stripped of network constraints yet still faithful to the show’s aesthetic, its poetic script, its dreamlike symbolism. But what is the most realistic approach to their relationship after the fall? If we take Hannibal in its entirety, its stylized storytelling, its performances, its mythic undertones...what would their bond look like, unfettered and laid bare?

For this analysis, we begin with what has been confirmed: Hannibal and Will survived.

We need to first examine the wreckage left in season three’s wake: Jack Crawford abandoned, Francis Dolarhyde dead, and the ghost of Will’s domesticity with Molly fading into the ether. More importantly, we have to consider the state of Will and Hannibal themselves.

Hannibal, believing the Red Dragon had killed himself and the hunt had ended, resigned himself to his love. In his mind palace, he lit votive candles at the church altar, mirroring Francis burning down his shrine, a final ritual of surrender. He had refuted his insanity plea, knowing a retrial could mean death. Life without love, life without Will, was not life at all. But he was still wounded and furious that Will had tried to sever them, bitter at Will’s insistence on pushing him away even after orchestrating a dance only they could perform. He had sought to end Will’s family, and in a way, he had risked Will’s life just the same. Their love was a thing of madness, and together they were two boiling pots threatening to overflow.

Will, slipping further from reason, had been descending for some time. His hallucinations had become unbearable, his grip on reality increasingly tenuous. He had realized, perhaps too late, the terrible beauty of what he shared with Hannibal, and how impossible it would be to live without it. But Will, in his violence, is righteous. Hannibal is destructive. So Will chose obliteration, for both of them. And Hannibal, finding no color in the world without Will, followed him into death.

When they fell, they were not just dying. They were merging. A swirl of color, of bone and flesh and water, indistinct. But the shock of impact hurt, jolting Will back into reality, back to the cliffside, where he never truly fell. Pain throbbed from his wounded shoulder. He was still in Hannibal’s arms, still held, still claimed. His mind had yearned for the end, but his body had refused to let go.

Then he would fade into darkness.

When he woke, he saw his river. He waded into the quiet, half-certain he had died. There was peace in it, but also disappointment...Hannibal was not here. Had he lost him in death, or was Hannibal lost in his own mind palace, forever separated? Before he could follow the current further, he awoke to the sound of thunder, to the rocking of a small, swaying world. A boat.

His body ached, stitched and bandaged. The air was thick with salt, the sky a pitch-black abyss pricked with stars. Inside his head, the echoes of old sailor songs hummed like a lullaby. There was food, simple and warm. There was silence. What was there to say? Will wasn’t even supposed to be in this world anymore.

For a time, that was enough. But the quiet was borrowed, and reality would come knocking soon. Wherever Hannibal had taken him, it would not last.

When they reached land, time resumed its relentless pursuit. Guilt gnawed at Will. He needed to return to Molly, to seek absolution. And when he did, she gave it to him without hesitation...told him she believed in the goodness in him, that they would figure things out. Will wept. Not for her kindness, but because he wished she would die a painless death and set him free. And because he knew she would not. She would suffer, simply for existing within his orbit.

She let him go when he asked for time, and he went to Hannibal. There, blood was shared like communion, violence woven into their love. It intoxicated Will, descending him further. But Hannibal held him steady, as only he could. Kept him. Trained him, sharpened his palate, refined his senses. They built a memory palace together, doors opening between their minds like secret passageways in an ancient cathedral.

Inside Will’s mind, his mother lingered, silent and melancholic, her smile a ghost of things unsaid. Hannibal saw the resemblance, understood, perhaps, something Will had never spoken. Mischa was there too, frozen in time, locked behind a door wreathed in snow. They touched for the first time there, in a space without friction, merging in a way no physical act could replicate. Love, timeless and unbound, entwined them completely.

Jack was hunting them. And Will, in a moment of reckless indulgence, made it worse by killing Bedelia, taunting the hounds on their trail.

Hannibal, ever patient, knew Will would never be his as long as guilt existed. So he set him up. Left no trace of himself. Sent Molly their location. When Will arrived and found her there, something inside him shattered. She stayed, and he let her. Told her she deserved better. She told him she loved him. He still could not say it back.

Then the murders began again. Will killed, and made it look like it was Hannibal. At some point, even Will wasn’t sure who was responsible. Their souls had fused, their consciousness blurred. Even Hannibal, drawn into Will’s untethered sense of time and reality, began to slip. They were not two men anymore but a single entity, fragmented yet whole.

When Molly died, Will blamed Hannibal. Accused him. But was it truly Hannibal who did it? Or had some hidden, feral part of Will, desperate for final freedom, struck the match himself?

Achilles or Patroclus...who was the one who wished all Greeks would die?

In a bathtub filled with thick, crimson blood, they lay together. Washing away the stains of separation, the sins of shame. Here, where skin met warmth and death met life, they performed their darkest sacrament. Bryan Fuller described season four as a lurid erotic intimacy. What could be more lurid than this? More fevered, more erotic than bathing in their sins, drowning in each other’s ruin?

Their love began in hunger, passed through starvation and torment, and reached its final peak: an unbreakable unity. All the Greeks lay dead at their feet. At last, they could conquer Troy alone.

[applebuttercringe]

ARCANE FINALE SPOILERS AHEAD

Also this is all my personal opinion written while I am very sleep deprived like 30 seconds after I finished the finale. Take it with a grain of salt.

Jinx’s story is so irresponsible. This is a character whose suffering was shown in great detail the entire series. Her suicide attempts span across the plot. Her arc is about feeling like she ruins everything she touches, and the self harming behaviors that result from it. We watch in detail as she is beaten, screamed at, had happiness dangled in front of her and then ripped away again and again, and all throughout it she makes attempts on her own life. Then the final episode starts with one of the most graphic depictions of her suicide attempts, while a haunting song about the pain of existence and how death is a release plays. It might as well the the suicide theme song. Then the finale ends with her “sacrificing herself” while the same song plays. Smiling through the tears as she finally kills herself.

That is just such an awful end for the character. This reduces her entire arc throughout the series to just an endless pain train with no comfort. Is the moral that this is the only way she could atone, make things right. Are we supposed to believe she really is a jinx? Are we supposed to believe she is better off dead?

It is a grotesquely irresponsible portrayal of depression and suicide.

I know this is extremely individual but as someone who has struggled with self harm and suicidal ideation this scene was just viscerally upsetting.

I am so terribly disappointed in Arcane.

[lunette-png]

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

[broomsick]

Ritual to Eir —

Asking for help with a health problem

This ritual is to be performed when you're struggling with a health problem or an injury. It's designed to require very few supplies, but it's possible to build around it and adapt it to one's specific needs.

You will need:

A drink to offer Her. I suggest alcohol or tea, but anything will do, as long as it's offered with intent. In my experience, herbal teas seem to be Her favorites.

A glass to offer the drink in, and one for yourself to drink from.

A piece of wood on which to carve your rune work. It must be light and small enough to carry around, in case you want to use it as an amulet.

A carving tool you can confidently use (pens or pocket knives do the work perfectly)

A bowl of saltwater. Ideally, water drawn from a body of water, but it's also possible to simply add salt to water from home.

Optional but a great idea: Candles and incense to light during the ritual. Cedar, chamomile, lemon balm and sage are the herbs that I associate with her most, so I generally pick the incense in accordance.

As an aside, instead of rune carving, you can write the runes onto your skin using a green or black pen. It's a method I love to use at a pinch!

How to proceed

1. Start by by pouring the drink for Eir, reciting:

"I offer this drink to mighty Eir, who sits with the helpers of gold-adorned Frigg, that She may hear my call and drive away ailments."

2. Pour a drink for yourself and make a toast, declaring out loud that you're drinking in Eir's honor:

"Kindly maiden, share this drink with me."

3. Carve the runes Sowilo, Algiz, and Uruz onto the piece of wood (alternatively, write them onto the inside of your left arm using a pen). The first, to call upon the bright and powerful energy of the sun, the second, to ask for protection, and the third, to strengthen body and mind.

ᛇ ᛉ ᚢ

4. Gently anoint the runes using saltwater, saying "Eir vígi" (Eir bless). Recite the following in order to formally ask for help:

"Bless and consecrate these runes in the name of Menglöð, divine mistress of the magical arts, of spellcraft, and of Wyrd-weaving songs. By your hand, place upon my body the protection of Lyfjaberg, that I might find my condition to improve and my thoughts to clear. High is your seat among the healers of this world, and sacred among the Ásynjur your word. Your help extend and your blessings grant for those who suffer. Eir, I ask for your help."

5. Optional: sit in Her presence while finishing your drink, and explain the sickness, afflication, or pain you're suffering from. That way, you're letting Her know exactly what you want help with and why. If you want to make other offerings, now is the right time to do so.

[yermes]

Oh how I love being a woman🌷

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Pick a meme

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Disclaimer: please take what I say with a grain of salt and not as the gospel. I just want to share some ideas of practicing and giving advice using the medium as often as I can with school, work, and my own personal studies and practice. But I am working on sharing my notes soon so that will be exciting! Liking and sharing does a lot 🥰

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Socials: My Socials **☾**

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The cards

Heart + letter 💌

A love letter to the very state of being, divine femininity, the state people write songs about and the radiance of that is so great its where the myth of love goddesses came from. No state can strip away your wealth of love, no one can take your autonomy to think, to feel, to love, even if they try desperately to cage it. While people are going back to the 20’s with woman’s rights the love for yourself and being there for yourself. Loving yourself means you love the state of being a women as a whole. With love and respect for ourselves and others we will go forwards rather than backwards.

Tower + rider ❄️

Loneliness in the confines of womenhood, no support within institutions and no support with peers and lovers. You may travel, you may look for comfort and community elsewhere, however you will always feel independent of the cause, you will always feel like you give and don’t get enough. You will always feel if you can try and out run the tragedy but the title wave of emotion and solitude will swallow you whole. Trudging off to your tower of isolation you may only accept the one person who will understand you in the entirety of your personhood is yourself, you cannot seek acceptance and closure with people who don’t understand you. I know we are in an isolating state, but truly, you are not alone actually. Do not lock yourself in your castle.

Person + clover ☘️

Luck and laughter, your being is detached, you cannot seek acceptance giggle more than you suffer which is a great trait in this society at the moment, the world is falling apart everything is in the shitter, do you cause it? No. Can you do anything about it? No. Try and look for the positive, your positive outlook will be your saving grace in this time. Where people will only see the negative you can find the crumb of sunshine in the storm that will put you and your heart and ease. Your luckiest attribute is your ability to see the positive even in the darkest situations.

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Extras:

Story/vent:

Job starts next week,,, nervous,,,,

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[sillyhanako]

❀．LET US SING THE SAILOR SONG ﹗

☆★ WINDBREAKER BOYS as pirates !! ft. umemiya hajime, akihiko nirei and sakura haruka 𖥔   ࣪   ˖

☆★ sfw. 496 WC   ࣪   ˖

cw :: nothing crazy just umemiya being umemiya, profanities used in sakura's part, sakura and sugishita being on eachothers throats

☆★ notes :This was so much fun to make!! This was also inspired by the strawhats pirate crew roles!! So i cant be sure if the roles are 100% accurate to the real thing and for that im sorry 🙁 can you guest my mind was blank at sakura's part? 😭 sorry for sakura's content eaters 🙁🙁

. . .UMEMIYA HAJIME the captain // leader

pretty obvious one! Umemiya is super confident and positive, even when his ship is being chased by a whole bunch of navy ships. He goes from island to island, recruiting crew members from all over the place, no matter who they are.. (hiragis on life support) In his many adventures, he makes friends with all sorts of people. Some say that the Bofurin Pirates and the Shishitoren Pirates are extra close pals! Maybe even drinking buds?

He also has this little garden where he spends most of his time in, growing and caring for his vegetables and will go batshit if an attacker ruined it.

Hiragi : can you pass me the salt?

Umemiya : huh?? The what?

Hiragi : the salt.

Umemiya : HUH?

Hiragi : *long suffering sigh*

Hiragi : ...the ocean cocain?

Umemiya : Oh yeah sure

Umemiya : am i going too far??

Hiragi : No, no, no. You went too far about seven hours ago. Now we're going to prison.

. . .AKIHIKO NIREI the navigator

At first, I wasn't sure if Nirei would be an archaeologist or the ship's navigator. But, I decided to make him the latter. As a member of the Bofurin Pirates, Nirei is responsible for guiding the ship and its course. Even though he just joined the crew, he will sometimes give orders when needed to keep the ship and the crew safe. Nirei is still getting used to having this job, but he's determined to do his best since Umemiya trusted him with the role!

Nirei's room is filled with a jumble of maps and charts of various islands he and the crew have visited. Did you know? that each map is accompanied by a collection of pictures and personal notes detailing unique features and characteristics of each locale?

Tsubakino : you're so sweet !! ><

Nirei : thank you i have abandonment issues

Nirei :i feel silly for admiting this but, im actually really nervous this is my first time on a shi-

Sakura :

WE'RE GONNA CRA

. . .SAKURA HARUKA the combatant

Due to Umemiya's empathetic nature and genuine respect for him, Sakura agreed to join him. His unflinching loyalty to Umemiya pushed him to persevere through even the most difficult situations. Sakura feels a strong desire to train diligently to protect both the ship and the crew, and would wipe out any threats, hes always striving to meet new rivals to horn his reflexes and learn new fighting styles.

Sakura is often spotted snoozing on deck, lounging with both Suo and Nirei (though he is reluctant to admit it), or simply relishing the delectable meals prepared by the ship's cook, Suzuri.

Sakura : im not passive-agressive. Im just aggressive. I dont even know what passive means. That doesnt make me stupid. I'll fucking kill you *unsheathes sword*

Nirei : you know what would be cool?

Sakura: what

Nirei : if we had a pet! pirates always have a pet of some sorts

Sakura : who needs a pet when sugishita is right here.

Sugishita : what did you say-

ー﹕m.list﹐

© 2024 sillyhanako ━ do not copy, steal, or reupload my works. Thanks!

[lua-magic]

Intresting observation in astrology.

If fourth house and second house has malefics like Saturn, north node, south node, Mars usually it shows lot of family trauma and toxic home .

Such natives are generally advised to leave their house and settle somewhere else.

Saturn + moon conjunction shows emotionaly unattached mother.

However, there is another aspect of this placement it also suggests highly spiritual mother, who loves her culture and are deep thinker.

Saturn Moon conjunction could make person suicidal or depressed

Saturn+ Moon could also make extremely focused and hard working.

Venus is sperm in male's chart, fiery planets like sun and Mars in seventh house or Mars or sun conjunct with Venus decreases the sperm count in Man.

Second house is also your way of speaking.

Malefics like North node, Sun and Mars makes person rude and straight forward. Such natives when they speak people misunderstand them for fighting.

Native with exalted moon or moon in second house or fourth house has best intuition.

North node and south node combined with moon also gives native intuition.

Second house is also your taste and food.

People with sun in second house prefers boiled food, Mars in second house prefers fast foods, North node in second house prefers spicy food .

Saturn in second house could give addiction to alcohol, tea, and coffee.

Venus and moon in second house prefers variety of foods in their plate.

Sun with Venus natives loves to add extra salt to their food .

People who have moon with Mercury or Mercury in fourth house or moon in third house procrastinate alot ...

Virgo is extremely active sign, heavy planets like Saturn, Jupiter and south node increaseas your debt and gives you suicidal thoughts..

Saturn with Venus or Venus in Capricorn people hardly bother about their physical body, they usually don't pay attention to their physical appearances.

Mercury in Libra makes person asexual.

Venus in Libra makes person flirty.

Sun in Libra cause ego clash with their partners.

Mars in Libra, pieces, and cancer makes native highly reactive and short tempered.

Mars with moon also gives natives anger issues.

Aquarius placements usually look for short cuts, Mercury in Aquarius people are careless about their documents, and forgets name frequently.

Mercury in Aquarius placements native usually learns language fast and usually knows more than two languages.

Venus in pieces people are extremely careless about their money and give money fast, thay love to enjoy luxury but are also spiritual.

Combination that makes you spiritual.

Jupiter Moon conjunction.

Moon with south node

Sun or Jupiter or Venus in pieces.

Jupiter in ninth house, fifth house or eighth house, twelfth house.

Saturn in eitgth house, Saturn with moon or Saturn in twelfth house.

Any planets that goes in eitgth house or twelfth house will pull you towards spirituality.

Sun in eighth house or sun with south node causes separation from father.

Jupiter in eighth house natives suffer from breathing problems.

Venus in third house could give sometimes same sex marriage

Mercury with south node detaches native from sexual desires.

Saturn with Mercury also detaches you sexually.

Mercury with Mars conjunction natives are extremely Frank and have got great sense of humour as well.

North node in second house give natives money but also give lot of insecurities about their money.

Second house is Also about your income source.

Saturn moon combination also makes you good in cooking..

Moon and Venus third house natives loves to listen to romantic songs.

Mars in third house people love to hear music in high volume and loves rap and hip hop music

Jupiter in third house loves to hear songs about God.

Saturn in third house hears sad songs.

Saturn conjunct with north node natives should be extra careful about their body.