Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: I tell your truth, Odysseus. What is it you seek?
Read on ao3.
You have blood on your hands.
Red washes into the sea, a bloom of color that enraptures like the swathes of paint that bring the great likenesses of the gods to life in their temples. The salt and brine are cloying, but as barnacles encrust the slats between the wooden beams of the ships, it becomes clearer that years have passed by without anyone noticing.
The great Agamemnon is a specter upon the dark horizon. He bids the crew to follow into the trade routes beyond.
Yet there is the taste of ash in the air from the burned remnants of Troy’s crumbled city, of the iron taste of the lifeblood of its people, of the bleached bones of Achilles now ensconced in a golden amphora, and the charred remnants of the trick, the lie, the gift, the horse—
“I’ve followed Agamemnon long enough.” The words leave your lips less spiteful than the air believes.
Zeus listens, and the crackle of lightning surges at the god king’s fingertips.
But he bides his time as he always has. He waits for you to slip.
But you already have, haven’t you?
“We could restock,” says Eurylochus, “take supplies from Troy.”
“We have taken enough from Troy.”
The ships set sail upon Poseidon’s sea, under Zeus’s sky. Black shadows smeared against the orange light of the escaping sun. The sails of Agamemnon’s fleet sink away, away, away. What more can be done?
The golden figurine your wife had given you sits in your hands with its carved, twisting vines, stares blankly ahead, and you hold it close to your chest as you have had for months, then ten years, then—
Hubris begets sacrifice.
What is it you seek, Hero of Troy?
In the cave of the cyclops, it is easy to bask in your own insignificance.
“Zeus’s law.”
Such confidence, such grace, in which you insist upon this. Because you know, do you not, what this must mean?
“Show hospitality to travelers. Any traveler could be a god in disguise.”
A soldier nods, another taps the damp bags of delicious cheese nailed to the stone walls, dripping with sweat and hefty with rich food none of you have had on that beach. That wretched beach. Black sand, black tides, black hearts.
You do not know what I know.
For when the cyclops Polyphemus arrives, it is not with the welcome of a hospitable host, but with the coup de grâce of a creature whose role is to be the ultimate predator. It is a mercy that so many die here in his jaws, crunched in between the incisors of this giant, because there must be some part of you that realizes what is to come next.
“Poseidon,” it groans. Its grotesque face twists like a mass upon mottled, graying, decayed earth. One eye, a lopsided nose, skin like that of a rotting corpse. The smell of mold.
It prays.
The stick that you and your men have used to skewer its eye is beautiful because it means freedom. The sticky flesh around its wood burns.
Yet you let your arrow fly loose.
You can leave. For now.
Into the maw of the ocean’s unforgiving wrath.
“That was Poseidon’s son,” a soldier trembles. “You have angered the gods.”
Yet you let your arrow fly loose.
The journey does not end for you. It takes longer, and who knows how long it has been? Who do you remember, who do you not?
The lotus flowers are on your lips, thrash about your tongue. Like sweet poison. You take it willingly.
You are human after all.
Such pathetic lies you tell yourself as the immortal Calypso watches. Each flower she feeds is honey, each supple taste of their nectar a tender balm.
Numbing, wasteful.
“What did you hear when you listened to the sirens?” Eurylochus asks, untying you from the post you had begged from.
Terror in the men’s eyes.
Nothing in the eyes of the man who had pulled the wax from his ears and swam to the sirens waiting on the rocks amongst the crashing waves, waiting to welcome him into their bosom.
Circe’s stricken face lingers. This sorcerer’s magic has bonded the rest of the crew together in haste, in spite.
I can see it on their faces.
“Go to Hades,” Circe had said.
You are making your way to Hades, through death—who knows? It would be a shorter route than the one you plan to take.
I’ve told you no.
You haven’t listened.
“All the things you want it to be,” you breathe out. “Then, all the things you wish you'd never wish for. It was the delicious itch you go to scratch, but find it’s under the skin; you can't reach it. So the delicious itch becomes unbearable. Told you what you most want is what you most can't have. And what you most can’t have is what you already had.”
I hear you, too. I hear you the loudest of them all. You do not speak your final thought aloud. Not when you have manipulated men to avoid the crushing jaws of Charybdis, not when Scylla plucks six of your men with the snap of her monstrous jaws.
In your mind, I hear it. The truth:
And it told me I don't really want to go home.
Now the lotus flowers, my champion.
Now, forget.
For the gods you have ignored do not forget, nor will they ignore you. You have defied them in your search for oblivion. Only you know the truth, for when you had sought it, even Agamemnon’s hulking figure met you on the black sand beach of Hades’s realm. Upon the intersection of rivers of fire and ice, he spoke:
“My mistake was in returning home.”
And perhaps the gods you fear are the same gods you have created. In the fresh air, in the salt of the sea. In the tales spun by the bard who seeks your story through fleeting snatches of those who have returned to your beloved Ithaca.
Where your wife Penelope waits, alone on a throne for near twenty years, a throne she cannot have because she is not the man the land requires her to be.
Fearing for your son, Telemachus, and fearing the people who will come from the sea.
Be prepared, hero. For you are lost.
I am she who begged for her life, the priestess whose blood you watched being spilled. Whose head you let roll.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: I tell your truth, Odysseus. What is it you seek?
Read on ao3.
You have blood on your hands.
Red washes into the sea, a bloom of color that enraptures like the swathes of paint that bring the great likenesses of the gods to life in their temples. The salt and brine are cloying, but as barnacles encrust the slats between the wooden beams of the ships, it becomes clearer that years have passed by without anyone noticing.
The great Agamemnon is a specter upon the dark horizon. He bids the crew to follow into the trade routes beyond.
Yet there is the taste of ash in the air from the burned remnants of Troy’s crumbled city, of the iron taste of the lifeblood of its people, of the bleached bones of Achilles now ensconced in a golden amphora, and the charred remnants of the trick, the lie, the gift, the horse—
“I’ve followed Agamemnon long enough.” The words leave your lips less spiteful than the air believes.
Zeus listens, and the crackle of lightning surges at the god king’s fingertips.
But he bides his time as he always has. He waits for you to slip.
But you already have, haven’t you?
“We could restock,” says Eurylochus, “take supplies from Troy.”
“We have taken enough from Troy.”
The ships set sail upon Poseidon’s sea, under Zeus’s sky. Black shadows smeared against the orange light of the escaping sun. The sails of Agamemnon’s fleet sink away, away, away. What more can be done?
The golden figurine your wife had given you sits in your hands with its carved, twisting vines, stares blankly ahead, and you hold it close to your chest as you have had for months, then ten years, then—
Hubris begets sacrifice.
What is it you seek, Hero of Troy?
In the cave of the cyclops, it is easy to bask in your own insignificance.
“Zeus’s law.”
Such confidence, such grace, in which you insist upon this. Because you know, do you not, what this must mean?
“Show hospitality to travelers. Any traveler could be a god in disguise.”
A soldier nods, another taps the damp bags of delicious cheese nailed to the stone walls, dripping with sweat and hefty with rich food none of you have had on that beach. That wretched beach. Black sand, black tides, black hearts.
You do not know what I know.
For when the cyclops Polyphemus arrives, it is not with the welcome of a hospitable host, but with the coup de grâce of a creature whose role is to be the ultimate predator. It is a mercy that so many die here in his jaws, crunched in between the incisors of this giant, because there must be some part of you that realizes what is to come next.
“Poseidon,” it groans. Its grotesque face twists like a mass upon mottled, graying, decayed earth. One eye, a lopsided nose, skin like that of a rotting corpse. The smell of mold.
It prays.
The stick that you and your men have used to skewer its eye is beautiful because it means freedom. The sticky flesh around its wood burns.
Yet you let your arrow fly loose.
You can leave. For now.
Into the maw of the ocean’s unforgiving wrath.
“That was Poseidon’s son,” a soldier trembles. “You have angered the gods.”
Yet you let your arrow fly loose.
The journey does not end for you. It takes longer, and who knows how long it has been? Who do you remember, who do you not?
The lotus flowers are on your lips, thrash about your tongue. Like sweet poison. You take it willingly.
You are human after all.
Such pathetic lies you tell yourself as the immortal Calypso watches. Each flower she feeds is honey, each supple taste of their nectar a tender balm.
Numbing, wasteful.
“What did you hear when you listened to the sirens?” Eurylochus asks, untying you from the post you had begged from.
Terror in the men’s eyes.
Nothing in the eyes of the man who had pulled the wax from his ears and swam to the sirens waiting on the rocks amongst the crashing waves, waiting to welcome him into their bosom.
Circe’s stricken face lingers. This sorcerer’s magic has bonded the rest of the crew together in haste, in spite.
I can see it on their faces.
“Go to Hades,” Circe had said.
You are making your way to Hades, through death—who knows? It would be a shorter route than the one you plan to take.
I’ve told you no.
You haven’t listened.
“All the things you want it to be,” you breathe out. “Then, all the things you wish you'd never wish for. It was the delicious itch you go to scratch, but find it’s under the skin; you can't reach it. So the delicious itch becomes unbearable. Told you what you most want is what you most can't have. And what you most can’t have is what you already had.”
I hear you, too. I hear you the loudest of them all. You do not speak your final thought aloud. Not when you have manipulated men to avoid the crushing jaws of Charybdis, not when Scylla plucks six of your men with the snap of her monstrous jaws.
In your mind, I hear it. The truth:
And it told me I don't really want to go home.
Now the lotus flowers, my champion.
Now, forget.
For the gods you have ignored do not forget, nor will they ignore you. You have defied them in your search for oblivion. Only you know the truth, for when you had sought it, even Agamemnon’s hulking figure met you on the black sand beach of Hades’s realm. Upon the intersection of rivers of fire and ice, he spoke:
“My mistake was in returning home.”
And perhaps the gods you fear are the same gods you have created. In the fresh air, in the salt of the sea. In the tales spun by the bard who seeks your story through fleeting snatches of those who have returned to your beloved Ithaca.
Where your wife Penelope waits, alone on a throne for near twenty years, a throne she cannot have because she is not the man the land requires her to be.
Fearing for your son, Telemachus, and fearing the people who will come from the sea.
Be prepared, hero. For you are lost.
I am she who begged for her life, the priestess whose blood you watched being spilled. Whose head you let roll.
Summary: I tell your truth, Odysseus. What is it you seek?
Read on ao3.
You have blood on your hands.
Red washes into the sea, a bloom of color that enraptures like the swathes of paint that bring the great likenesses of the gods to life in their temples. The salt and brine are cloying, but as barnacles encrust the slats between the wooden beams of the ships, it becomes clearer that years have passed by without anyone noticing.
The great Agamemnon is a specter upon the dark horizon. He bids the crew to follow into the trade routes beyond.
Yet there is the taste of ash in the air from the burned remnants of Troy’s crumbled city, of the iron taste of the lifeblood of its people, of the bleached bones of Achilles now ensconced in a golden amphora, and the charred remnants of the trick, the lie, the gift, the horse—
“I’ve followed Agamemnon long enough.” The words leave your lips less spiteful than the air believes.
Zeus listens, and the crackle of lightning surges at the god king’s fingertips.
But he bides his time as he always has. He waits for you to slip.
But you already have, haven’t you?
“We could restock,” says Eurylochus, “take supplies from Troy.”
“We have taken enough from Troy.”
The ships set sail upon Poseidon’s sea, under Zeus’s sky. Black shadows smeared against the orange light of the escaping sun. The sails of Agamemnon’s fleet sink away, away, away. What more can be done?
The golden figurine your wife had given you sits in your hands with its carved, twisting vines, stares blankly ahead, and you hold it close to your chest as you have had for months, then ten years, then—
Hubris begets sacrifice.
What is it you seek, Hero of Troy?
In the cave of the cyclops, it is easy to bask in your own insignificance.
“Zeus’s law.”
Such confidence, such grace, in which you insist upon this. Because you know, do you not, what this must mean?
“Show hospitality to travelers. Any traveler could be a god in disguise.”
A soldier nods, another taps the damp bags of delicious cheese nailed to the stone walls, dripping with sweat and hefty with rich food none of you have had on that beach. That wretched beach. Black sand, black tides, black hearts.
You do not know what I know.
For when the cyclops Polyphemus arrives, it is not with the welcome of a hospitable host, but with the coup de grâce of a creature whose role is to be the ultimate predator. It is a mercy that so many die here in his jaws, crunched in between the incisors of this giant, because there must be some part of you that realizes what is to come next.
“Poseidon,” it groans. Its grotesque face twists like a mass upon mottled, graying, decayed earth. One eye, a lopsided nose, skin like that of a rotting corpse. The smell of mold.
It prays.
The stick that you and your men have used to skewer its eye is beautiful because it means freedom. The sticky flesh around its wood burns.
Yet you let your arrow fly loose.
You can leave. For now.
Into the maw of the ocean’s unforgiving wrath.
“That was Poseidon’s son,” a soldier trembles. “You have angered the gods.”
Yet you let your arrow fly loose.
The journey does not end for you. It takes longer, and who knows how long it has been? Who do you remember, who do you not?
The lotus flowers are on your lips, thrash about your tongue. Like sweet poison. You take it willingly.
You are human after all.
Such pathetic lies you tell yourself as the immortal Calypso watches. Each flower she feeds is honey, each supple taste of their nectar a tender balm.
Numbing, wasteful.
“What did you hear when you listened to the sirens?” Eurylochus asks, untying you from the post you had begged from.
Terror in the men’s eyes.
Nothing in the eyes of the man who had pulled the wax from his ears and swam to the sirens waiting on the rocks amongst the crashing waves, waiting to welcome him into their bosom.
Circe’s stricken face lingers. This sorcerer’s magic has bonded the rest of the crew together in haste, in spite.
I can see it on their faces.
“Go to Hades,” Circe had said.
You are making your way to Hades, through death—who knows? It would be a shorter route than the one you plan to take.
I’ve told you no.
You haven’t listened.
“All the things you want it to be,” you breathe out. “Then, all the things you wish you'd never wish for. It was the delicious itch you go to scratch, but find it’s under the skin; you can't reach it. So the delicious itch becomes unbearable. Told you what you most want is what you most can't have. And what you most can’t have is what you already had.”
I hear you, too. I hear you the loudest of them all. You do not speak your final thought aloud. Not when you have manipulated men to avoid the crushing jaws of Charybdis, not when Scylla plucks six of your men with the snap of her monstrous jaws.
In your mind, I hear it. The truth:
And it told me I don't really want to go home.
Now the lotus flowers, my champion.
Now, forget.
For the gods you have ignored do not forget, nor will they ignore you. You have defied them in your search for oblivion. Only you know the truth, for when you had sought it, even Agamemnon’s hulking figure met you on the black sand beach of Hades’s realm. Upon the intersection of rivers of fire and ice, he spoke:
“My mistake was in returning home.”
And perhaps the gods you fear are the same gods you have created. In the fresh air, in the salt of the sea. In the tales spun by the bard who seeks your story through fleeting snatches of those who have returned to your beloved Ithaca.
Where your wife Penelope waits, alone on a throne for near twenty years, a throne she cannot have because she is not the man the land requires her to be.
Fearing for your son, Telemachus, and fearing the people who will come from the sea.
Be prepared, hero. For you are lost.
I am she who begged for her life, the priestess whose blood you watched being spilled. Whose head you let roll.
The world is a strange place. Stay silent too long and it folds around you, dimming you like a candle swallowed by fog, letting your traces sink beneath layers of dust that no one remembers. You try to speak, because something inside you insists on being heard, yet the world shies away from voices that echo too brightly, too honestly, too close to whatever a soul truly is.
So you shape masks out of quiet nights and borrowed smiles, each one fitting just enough to pass, each one soft enough not to disturb anything. You learn to mute your joy, your strangeness, your colors.
You learn to mute yourself.
Pieces of you fall away like petals in slow motion, just so you can keep moving.
And somewhere along the way, your soul grows quiet, so quiet you almost forget the sound it used to make.
I knew i shouldn't have looked on tumblr for posts on Nolan's adaptation of The Odyssey
Not so hot take, but I really adored this film. I feel like a lot of the takes I see on tumblr are from the people who want this adaptation to be exactly like the epic, but the truth is, the messages for both are very different
In the epic, Odysseus wants to be someone. It's his hubris that ultimately sends him on a neverending voyage. In the film, Odysseus still has hubris, but it is his guilt that keeps him away from home
Once you understand the difference, the adaptation is that much more enjoyable
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
one of @itsmoonpeaches's weakpoints for FE Art Scuffle was "Felix realizes in a devastating fashion that he cares for someone." so i delivered with CF!Felix killing Sylvain + big scary Dimitri about to avenge Sylvain :)
※ please do not repost my art ※
➜ commission and ko-fi links in bio
✨ The only thing we're guilty of is posting a fresh prompt!
Because it's Flash Fiction Friday and it's time to write!
✨ New to FFF? Let us fill you in!
Flash Fiction Friday is a fun writer event that’s meant to inspire, share and connect writings of all genres and writers of all ages. It’s designed to make people want to write, especially if they’re feeling blocked. Everyone and everything is welcome! We always do our very best to keep the prompt’s genre open, entertaining, positive and encouraging.
✨This is how it works:
Write between 100-1000 words. It can be any genre, in any text format and 18+ is fine by us — but tag your works with any appropriate content warnings and let the reader know what they’ll find before they get the chance to read your work!
Use this Friday’s theme in your text. Any way you see fit. This means that your text is newly written for the prompt by you. We do not allow any contributions created or aided by AI/LLM.
Post on your tumblr blog and remember to tag us at @flashfictionfridayofficial! So we’ll see it, read it and reblog it! (No need to ask for permission or need to get added to a list to join in. Just write and have fun!)
The deadline is 24 hours after the prompt has been issued (12 pm CE(S)T).
Please post your entries as regular posts, not screenshots — or provide the text as a regular post as well. Let’s keep everything as accessible as possible!
New for the fanfic-writers among you: tag your fandoms correctly and remember we now have an Ao3 collection (‘FlashFictionFriday’)
We do not condone fiction, asks or comments that glorify: direct hostility, unconstructive critique, LGBTQIA+ hate, slurs, racism and/or general no-no behaviors.
join us on discord | suggest a prompt | FAQ
✨All your amazing works from last week can be found HERE.
Go check them out and consider supporting your fellow FFF writers with some likes and reblogs!
✨ And now, the new prompt!
[#FFF365 Blood on Your Hands]
This prompt has been brought to you by @itsmoonpeaches; thank you very much! Is this a crime scene? Who died and why? Is this even a murder or more a metaphorical exclamation? Either way, we want to know all about it! Tell us who is guilty, what they've done and what the consequences will be. Go and write, write, write!
When rujinu week happens, could also be notified on Twitter? I have some oomfs who would love to participate, but they don't have Tumblr/Bluesky.🥀
Hi! Unfortunately, our team is super small right now and we just don't have the manpower or bandwidth to host officially on Twitter. 🙁 On top of that, the disappearance of communities on Twitter has made pushing out announcements there a lot more difficult to do.
Because of this, @dayeongi will usually share updates and announcements through her personal account to keep everyone informed in case anyone wants to join! Just a heads-up that if you want to participate fully in our RB/RP, you'll need a Bluesky or Tumblr account. You are still completely welcome to participate on other platforms, though -- just please make sure to credit rujinucafe on Tumblr and/or Bluesky!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
