You're selfish for giving up on your blogs just because some people have said shit that apparently upsets you. Your blogs aren't for whining about stuff no one really cares about, they're for making content to entertain people. Grow up.
Hi, I've been stalking you for quite a while now and honestly you're the most caring person I've met here. I hope you're doing just fine. :)
hello, uhm honestly i don’t know what to say bc i don’t get messages like this often. but thank you. really. it means a lot. and yes, i’m doing just fine, anon. i hope you are too :) you can pm me anytime. go off anon! :) take care x
*shyly whispers* do u think u could do another Greek Mythology story~
“Your tapestries are so
fine,” the merchant says in wonder, “that you must be blessed by the goddess
Arachne tosses her
head, braided hair falling over her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall,
“What’s Athena got to do with it? My hands wove these, not hers.”
The merchant blanches
and looks to the sky, as if expecting Zeus himself to smite them for blasphemy.
Personally, she thinks the king of the gods has better thing to do with his
time. “Ah,” he says weakly, “I suppose.”
He pays her for her
wares and she leaves, almost immediately bumping into a hunched old woman with
grey eyes. “Do you not owe Athena thanks for your talent?” she croaks, gnarled
hands curled over a cane.
Arachne is not stupid,
but she is foolish. They will tell tales of it. She looks into those grey eyes
and declares, “Athena should thank me,
since my talents earn her so much praise.”
She pushes past her and
keeps walking, ignoring the goddess in humans skin as she disappears into the
They will tell tales of
her hubris. They will all be true.
The next day she bumps
into the same old woman at the market. Everything goes downhill from there.
“Know your place,
mortal,” Athena says, grey eyes narrowed. There is a crowd around them, and
Arachne could save herself, could walk away unscathed, and all she has to do is
say her weaving is inferior to that of a goddess.
She will not lie.
“I do,” she says
coolly, “and in this matter, it is above you.”
She is not honest as a
virtue, but as a vice.
Athena challengers her
to a weaving contest. She accepts.
Gods are not so hard to
find, if you know where to look.
“It’s a volcano,” the
baker repeats, looking down at her coins, as if he feels guilty for taking
money from someone who’s clearly not all there.
She grabs her bag of
sweet breads and adds it to her pack before swinging it over her shoulders,
“Yes, I know. Half a day’s walk, you said?”
“A volcano,” he insists, as if she did not hear him perfectly well the
first dozen times.
“Thank you for your
help,” she says. He’s shaking his head at her, but she knows what she’s doing.
She walks. She grows
hungry, but does not touch the bread she paid for, and walks some more. The
sun’s begun to set by the time she makes it to the base of the volcano. It’s
tall, impossibly large, and for a moment the promise of defeat threatens to
But Arachne does not
believe in defeat, in loss. They will tell tales of her hubris. Those tales
will be true.
She ties a scarf around
her braids then hikes her skirt up and ties the material so it falls only to
her thighs. She fits work roughened hands into the divots of cooled magma and
begins her slow ascent.
The muscles in her legs
and arms shake, and her hunger pains are almost as distracting. Her once white
dress is dirt smeared and torn and sweat makes her itch as it covers her body
and drips down her back.
“What are you doing?”
Arachne turns her head
and bites back a scream, looking into one giant eye. The cyclops holds easily
to the volcano’s edges, even though her hands are torn and bleeding. She
swallows and says, “I heard you like honeyed bread. Is it true?”
The creature tilts his
head to the side, baring his long fanged teeth at her. She thinks he might be
smiling. “You’ve been climbing for hours. What do you want?”
“Is it true?” she
repeats, refusing to flinch.
“Yes,” he says, looking
at her the same way the baker had, “it’s true.”
“There’s some sweet
bread in my pack, baked this morning,” she says, “it should still be soft.”
His hands are big
enough and strong enough that it could probably squeeze her head like a grape. Instead
he gently undoes her pack and reaches inside. The honey buns look comically
small in his large hands, and he swallows half of them in one bite. He licks
his fingers clean when he’s done, and his smile is just as terrifying the
second time around. “I am Brontes. Why are you climbing my master’s volcano?”
“I’m the weaver
Arachne,” she takes a deep breath, “I need your master’s help.”
They tell tales of
They are not true.
He’s got a broad,
angular face and short brown hair. His eyes are like amber set into his face,
and his arms are huge, and he’s rippling muscle from the waist up. He has legs
only to his knees. From there down his legs are bronze gears and golden wire,
replacements for the legs destroyed when Hera threw him from Mount Olympus.
“Had your look, girl?”
he asks, voice rough like he’s always a moment away from breaking into a
“Yes,” she says, and
doesn’t turn away, keeps looking.
His lips quirk up at
the corners, so it was the right move. The heat is even more oppressive inside
the volcano, and all around him cyclopses work, forging oddly shaped metal that
she can’t hope to understand. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to find me,
girl. What do you want?”
She slides her pack off
her shoulders and holds it out to the god, “I have a gift for your wife. I have
woven her a cloak.”
He raises an eyebrow
and doesn’t reach for the bag, “You believe something made with mortal hands
could be worthy of the goddess of beauty?”
They will tell tales of
They will all be true.
With a gust of wind the
oppressive heat of the volcano is swept away, leaving her chilled. In its place
stands a woman – more than a woman. Aphrodite has skin like the copper of her
husband’s machines and hair dark and thick and long. Her eyes are deepest,
richest brown, piercing in their intelligence. People don’t tell tales of
Aphrodite’s cleverness. That is because people are stupid.
“Let’s see it then,”
she says, reaching inside the pack and pulling the cloak from its depths.
It unrolls beautifully.
It’s made from the finest silks, and it shimmers in the light from the forges.
The hem of the cloak is sea foam, speaking of Aphrodite’s beginning, and up
along the cloak is intricate patterns it tells of her life, of her marriage and
her worshippers and escapades, all with the detail of the most experienced
artist and the reverence of her most devoted followers.
Her lips part in
surprise and she slides it on, twirling like a child. “Gorgeous,” Hephaestus
says, though Arachne knows he does not speak of the cloak. She doesn’t take
The goddess smiles and
Arachne’s heart pounds in her chest. She does her best to ignore it – Aphrodite
is the goddess of love, after all. It is only expected. “Very well,” the
goddess says, “you have my attention.”
Aphrodite’s attention is a heavy thing. “I have offended Athena,” she says,
“She has challenged me to a weaving contest.”
Their faces somber.
Hephaestus rubs the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and says, “Athena will
lose such a contest, if judged fairly. She does not take loss well.”
“I know,” she says,
“you are friendly with Hades, are you not?”
There are no tales of
their friendship. But she’s staking her life on its existence, because why
wouldn’t it exist – both of them even tempered, both shunned by Olympus, both
Gods hate being made to
feel lesser. It is why they say Persephone was kidnapped, why they say
Aphrodite cheats with Ares. It is why Athena will crush her when Arachne wins
the weaving contest.
“Clever girl,” Hephaestus
Aphrodite stares at her
reflection in a convenient piece of polished silver. Arachne assumes Hephaestus
left if lying there for that express purpose. “Very well!” the goddess says,
not looking at her, “when Athena sends you to the underworld, we will entrench
upon our uncle for your release.” She turns on her heel and points a finger at
her. Arachne blushes for no reason she can think of. “In return, you will weave
me a gown, one equal to my own beauty.”
A gown as exquisite as
the goddess of beauty. An impossible task.
They will tell tales of
They will all be true.
The contest goes as
expected. Athena’s tapestry is lovely, but Arachne’s is lovelier.
The goddess’s face goes
red in rage, and her grey eyes narrow. Arachne stands tall, ready to accept the
death blow coming for her.
The blow comes.
Death does not.
She is an insect. Even if she can make it back to Hephaestus’s
volcano, even if they can help her, they will not know it is her. She has no
hope left, no course of action, she should just give up. But –
She doesn’t believe in
defeat, in loss.
It was a terribly long
journey on foot, that first time. It is even longer this time, although now she
has eight legs instead of two. She makes it to the volcano, and creeps in
between crevices, until she finds out a hollowed room, one with a sliver of
sunlight and plenty of bugs to keep her fed.
Athena’s cruel joke of
allowing her to weave will be her downfall. Her silk comes out a golden yellow
color – it will look exquisite against Aphrodite’s copper skin.
It takes seven years
for her to complete it. She hasn’t left this room in the volcano in all that
time, and as soon as it’s done she scurries out back toward the village. She’s
a large insect, but not that large.
She arrives just as the
sun begins to rise, and leaves before the first rays have even touched the
earth, her prize tied to her back with her own silk.
Arachne doesn’t return
to her room. Instead she goes to the more popular parts of the volcano, hurries
and runs around terrifying stomping feet until she finds who she’s looking for
and scurries up his leg and onto his shoulder.
“Huh,” Brontes looks
onto his shoulder and blinks. “What on earth are you?”
She cautiously skitters
down his arm, waiting. He bends closer and lightly touches her back. “Is – is that
a piece of a honey bun?”
She looks up at him,
waiting. It’s her only chance, if he doesn’t remember, if he doesn’t understand
His face slowly fills with
a cautious kind of wonder. “Arachne?” She
jumps in place, being unable to nod, and Brontes cautiously cradles her in his
massive hands, “We must find the Master immediately!”
She jumps down, landing
in front of him and running forward. “Wait!” he calls, and she makes sure he’s running
after her before skittering back to her corner of the cave. It’s almost too
small for him to enter but he squeezes inside and breathes, “Oh.” He stares for
several moments, and Arachne climbs her web and waits. Brontes shakes himself
out of his reverie and uses his powerful wings to bellow, “MISTRESS APHRODITE!”
There’s that same
breeze and she’s in the crevice with them, “What was so important, Brontes,
that you had to yell?”
Arachne sees the exact
moment that the goddess sees the gown, golden yellow and glimmering, made
entirely of spider silk. “Beautiful,” she says, reaching out a hand to brush
down the bodice. Her head then snaps up, “Brontes, where’s Arachne?”
She warms at that, that
Aphrodite knew it was her weaving even though she hasn’t been seen in seven
They’ve told tales of
They are all true.
Brontes points at the
web, and Aphrodite steps over and holds out her hands. Arachne crawls onto the
goddess’s palms. “Athena is more powerful than I am, I cannot undo her work,”
she says, “but I know someone who can.”
Then they are in front
of a river. A handsome young man stands there waiting with a boat. “Goddess
Aphrodite,” he says, “we weren’t expecting you.”
returns, “I need to see Persephone.”
The man’s face stays
cool, and for a moment Arachne fears they will be refused and she will be stuck
in this form forever. Then he smiles and says, “My lady is of course available
for her favored niece.” He holds out a hand to help her onto the boat, “Please
come with me.”
Arachne weaves a dress
for Hades’s wife as a thank you, and returns to her volcano.
“I can take you
somewhere else,” Aphrodite says, “you don’t have to hide here.”
Arachne pauses at her
loom. She has lived in this volcano for seven years. It’s her home. “Would you
like me to leave?” she asks instead.
Aphrodite scoffs, “Of
course not! How could I dress myself without you here?” She’s wearing the
spider silk dress Arachne spun for her, and she’s working on another for the
goddess now. Aphrodite runs a gentle finger down Arachne’s cheek and for a
moment she forgets to breathe. “You are the finest weaver to ever exist.”
She looks up at the
goddess, “Then as the god of crafts and goddess of beautiful things, where else
would I belong besides with you and Hephaestus?”
To declare your company
equal to that of gods is the height of arrogance and blasphemy.
They tell tales of her
“An excellent point,”
Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.
I just read everything in your gods and monsters series and wow I am in awe. I am absolutely blown away by your writing it's beautiful the Icarus one had me staring at a wall for ten minutes afterwards absorbing what I'd just read. anywhoozle, I love everything you've written and not to rush or pressure you or anything but I was wondering if perhaps we could get more of the greek mythology stories?
First is the sea. He’s
loved her his whole life, heard her siren song from the time he had long curly
hair and still tolerated being put in dresses and called a girl. He loves the
sea like his parents go to temple, in an unmovable and inexplicable way that he
no longer questions.
Second is Poseidon. Foolish,
but so achingly kind. He’s a man who professes his wish to master the sea
without ever really understanding it, and Caeneus smiles and kisses the stress
lines from his brow but does not worry.
The sea has never loved
him back, and it never will. She is power and coldness and loss, and her beauty
is in her tragedy. Poseidon is warmth and thoughtfulness and strong hands on
his hips. He is nothing like the sea, and he will never rule it.
Caeneus knows this, and
he’s relieved by it. Poseidon loves him back. Poseidon is not the sea.
Then he wakes up to his
lover’s lips on his neck, cold enough that flinches away from the sensation,
and for a terrifying moment he doesn’t recognize the person touching him as the
man he loves.
“I can do it now,” he whispers,
and cool fingers splay against his waist, “I can make you the man you want to
Caeneus wants the body
that men usually have, wants people to stop looking at him and seeing a woman.
But if Poseidon had asked, he would have told him – Caeneus would choose his
lover over a new body, would rather live as he does now than have Poseidon harm
himself for his benefit.
But he did not ask, so
Caeneus closes his eyes and accepts the gift his lover is so eager to give him.
Amphitrite has never had
a heart before.
She was the sea, and what
she desired, she took. Men, women – she wanted, and she had, and then she moved
But the heart in her
chest is softer, warmer. It turns her pearl hued skin pink and makes her swim
to the surface to watch the sun set, makes something like empathy stir inside
her when before all she had was selfishness.
The heart in her chest is
in love, and she thought it was something she could control, something she
could stop. It’s not. It will be one day, when she masters this heart in her
chest, but not yet. She spends hours following Caeneus as he sails her seas,
guides fish into his net and feels her borrowed heart beat that much faster
whenever he pears into the ocean and she catches sigh of his gorgeous amber
So she says to Poseidon, “You
spend too much time on the shore for a god of the sea.”
He glances at her, and
his eyes are green just like hers, are cold and uncaring just like hers used to
be. She wonders what her eyes look like now. “Caeneus is on the shore.”
“Bring him here if you’re
so concerned with your mortal,” she says, focusing on weaving shells into her
hair and giving the impression that she couldn’t care less what he does with
his mortal plaything. “The palace is big enough.”
He stops and turns to
her, eyebrow raised. “You do not mind me bringing him here?”
“Do with your mortal as
you wish,” she repeats, and stamps down on the trembling joy in her chest, “It’s
no concern of mine.”
Caeneus doesn’t know how
to love a god of the sea. He knew how to love Poseidon – take him onto the
water to watch the sunrise, feed him warm, sweet drinks, and let him curl
around him at night and listen to his stories of his siblings, of impossible
gods who do impossible things.
But now he sits in a
palace under water, with his own room and the freedom to see the other side of
the ocean he loves so dearly. There are no sunsets here, no cocoa to barter
for, and Poseidon doesn’t tell him stories any more.
Poseidon still loves him.
He kisses him and holds his hips when they sleep together and keeps him by his
side while he crosses the sea and gains more and more control over this domain
that he now commands. Poseidon still loves him, he tells himself when he itches
to return to the surface and the home Poseidon build for him, and the life he
built for himself.
He didn’t want to be a
consort of the king of sea. He just wanted to be Caeneus, a man who loved a man
and was loved in return, a man who loved the sea even though it would never
love him back.
The sea will never love
him back. He’s known that since he was a child, so the real question is – how much
of the Poseidon he knew is left, and how much of him the depths of the ocean?
There’s a hurricane that
requires her husband’s attention, and even he is not so foolish as to bring his
lover to a place as dangerous as that. Which means it’s the perfect time for
her to run into him in the interior gardens, as he stares up through the iridescent
seaweed to the rays of sunlight that just manage to penetrate the water. “Do
you miss it?” she asks him, and he startles, swinging around to face her and
“My lady!” he says, and
falls to his knees before her, bowing his head. It’s what she expects of all
mortals, but not from him, never from him. The heart in her chest loves him,
and if it’s not her heart, well – the
rest of her doesn’t know the difference. “A thousand apologies.”
“You are welcome here,”
she says, and smiles. She’s never smiled quite like this before, she’s never
felt quite like this before, fond and fluttery and so painfully eager that it
would be embarrassing if she ever dared articulate it. It’s a wonder Poseidon
managed to get anything done at all if this is what he had in his chest.
He looks up, hesitant,
and she holds out her hand. He takes it, and she pulls him to his feet, pulls
him closer until they’re nearly touching and he’s forced to look up into her
eyes or be stuck staring at her chin. He’s warmer than her, she can feel the
heat pouring off him in waves, and she wants him to hold her in his arms so she
can languish against him like she would a sun-warmed rock.
Before she had a heart, she
took who and what she wanted, when she wanted it.
Now she has a heart, and
she takes his hands in both of hers and says, “Would you like to visit the
surface? I can take you, and bring you back before my husband returns.”
He’s hesitant because he’s
afraid of her. Caeneus will never love her, because although she holds the
heart he loves she is not the person the heart belongs to. Not that he knows
any of that, not that anyone will ever know the details of her and Poseidon’s
arrangement. But she doesn’t want Caeneus to be afraid of her. She wants him to
smile at her like she is a sunrise. “Yes, please,” he decides on finally.
She stands and watches as
he walks through his home, as he touches the hearth and looks longingly at the
bed, as he stands in the small cottage that he clearly prefers over her palace,
over all the riches and adoration that comes with being consort to the sea.
Caeneus is a simple man, whose
heart loves with a simple love.
He is a man whose heart
loves someone who now has no heart, and Amphitrite can’t bring herself to tell
him. She’s the one who took it away, and she won’t give it back.
She likes having a heart,
and one day she will need to return it, but not now, not yet, not for a long
Caeneus lies besides Poseidon,
curled up so his head rests on the god’s outflung arm and he can watch his chest
rise and fall as he sleeps. There are bruises on Caeneus’s hips and down his
chest, bite marks on his shoulder and up his neck. It’s not the first time his
lover has been rough with him, and he doesn’t mind, like that Poseidon doesn’t
touch him like he’s afraid he’ll break, likes that whenever he’s rough he’s
careful enough with his strength not to ever cross the line from bruising to
It’s different than it
used to be. It’s been different for a long time, ever since Poseidon somehow
convinced the Lady to hand over her title as monarch, to share her power with
him for no reason that Caeneus can see. It’s not love between them, because the
sea does not love. But she got something out of it, something valuable enough to
bargain away part of her power, and as soon as she did the man Caeneus loves
ceased to exist.
He slides out of bed and angrily
rubs at his eyes. He can’t do this anymore, can’t sleep and live with this man
who has his lover’s face and memories and nothing else.
He knows this palace
well, and everyone else knowns him too. The servants don’t question him, only
offer shallow bows before hurrying on his way. He’s a fisherman who lives on
the outskirts of society. He’s not any sort of person that people were meant to
bow to. He stands in front of an ornate set of carved doors, the beautiful
shimmering inside of a muscle shell of impossible size. Two guards stand at
each door, but neither move to stop him as he pushes it open and slips inside.
“Lady?” he whispers. Large,
bioluminescent carvings flare to life all across the room, bathing them in soft
golden-green light. Amphitrite pulls herself out of bed, green hair loose
around her and the rest of her on display, pale and flawless, as perfect an example
of a beautiful woman as Caeneus has ever seen, and he averts his gaze. “Lady!”
“So modest,” she teases,
and when he glances over she’s in a simple white robe and pulling her hair up
behind her. She looks vulnerable like this, almost like his mother did when she
would rouse him and his father from sleep in the darkness of early morning so
they could catch the fish while they were still sleeping. “What’s going on
Caeneus? I thought my husband had exclusive rights to your nights,” she winks,
and he forces a smile.
He walks over to her, takes
her hands in his because he knows she likes how warm he runs compared to her,
and her smile slips off her face. “Please,” he whispers, “Poseidon is different
than he once was, and I want to know why. Please.”
She shouldn’t tell him,
but the heart in her chest loves him, and she
loves him too, thinks she would even without Poseidon’s heart influencing her.
So she tells him, and
when he starts crying she brushes away his tears and he doesn’t stop her. “He’ll
never love you like he once did,” she tells him, “It’s not that he doesn’t want
to, he just can’t.”
“The sea doesn’t love you
back,” he says, because he knows, because he’s a skilled sailor, because he’s
one of the people who has worshipped her his whole life without ever expecting
anything back, because that’s what an ocean gives back – nothing at all. “Can –
can I give you my heart?”
She stares. “Excuse me?”
“Let me give you my
heart,” he pleads, “so that I may hold Poseidon’s in my chest. You can have
mine, I know I’m only a mortal–”
“You’re all mortal to me,”
she says, because a hundred years, a thousand, ten thousand, what does it
matter – she and Gaia were around long before gods and humans, and they’ll be
around long after them. “If I give you Poseidon’s heart, you will become a god.”
He pales and flinches
away from her. He’s not in this for power, this was never about power to him.
It was always about love. “Lady, I’m not trying to – I don’t want that.”
“If you become a god,”
she continues, because she loves him and that means she wants him to be happy,
even at her own expense, “you will be alive when the time comes for me to
reclaim my title of monarch. One day I will take back my heart from Poseidon,
will reclaim the cold, black thing in his chest as my own, and when I do he
will no longer be master of the sea. When I do, you can give him back his
heart, and he will love you as he loved you before, as he will always love you.”
Caeneus has a hand over
his chest and there’s so much hope shining in his eyes that it’s almost painful
to look at. “Please, Lady. Please. I love him, let me carry his heart, let me
have him back once you are done. I will wait.”
“It will be a long time,”
she answers honestly, “Empires will rise and fall before I’m willing to give
this up, before Poseidon will be willing to give up his power over the sea.”
“I will wait,” Caeneus repeats,
“I love him. If you have my heart, maybe you will grow to love him too. If you
have my heart, you will protect him, you will keep him safe.”
Amphitrite loves Caeneus,
and Caeneus loves Poseidon, and Poseidon is incapable of loving anyone at all. “Very
well,” she whispers, because a heart is a heart, and just like Poseidon she’s
unable to deny Caeneus anything.
She breaks open her chest
and takes out the warm, beating heart of Poseidon. She slits open Caeneus’s
chest for him, and holds him upright while struggles to take out his heart and
clumsily places in into her chest. She heals over instantly, and nestles
Poseidon’s heart in Caeneus’s ribcage. He too heals over, and his eyes flash
with power as the heart settles inside of him.
Caeneus becomes so much
more than a mortal man in that moment.
This heart doesn’t feel
too different, she still loves Caeneus because she’s capable of loving and he
is worthy of it. “Go,” she says, “Say your goodbyes, and leave. If you stay, he’ll
just continue hurting you, and in a few thousand years he’ll hate himself for
it. Leave now, and spare both of you that pain.”
He leans forward and cups
her face in his hands, kissing her on each cheek. “Thank you,” he breathes, and
then he’s gone.
Caeneus can feel the
power of a god flowing into him, but he doesn’t care about that, the only
reason he’s glad he’s a god now is so he’ll live long enough to get Poseidon
back, to get the Poseidon who loves him back.
He goes back to where Poseidon
is sleeping, and takes a long, careful look. It will be a long time before he
sees this man again. He kisses him on the lips, softly and carefully, the way
Poseidon first kissed him when he thought he was sleeping.
Then he leaves, stepping
outside the palace and using his newly gained powers to bring himself to the
Poseidon is furious, bur Amphitrite
won’t budge, says only that Caeneus left. He throws a temper, and half the
palace is lost in the aftermath, but she does not care.
She doesn’t tell him that
she no longer carries his heart. It doesn’t matter. Caeneus’s heart beats in her
chest, and she sits on her throne amongst the rubble and does nothing more than
sigh at the way he threatens to tear the world apart looking for his lover. It
will pass. The depth and coldness of the sea is unable to sustain such fits of
Years pass. Rumors reach
them of a sea god, one who is known for rescuing sailors and fisherman from
storms, one who they say used to be a mortal fisherman himself.
They call him Glaucus,
and say that he swallowed a magical herb to become a god.
She smiles when she hears
these rumors, and thankfully Poseidon has long given up trying to get her to
explain herself. The rumors are only half right, but she likes hearing them
none the less.
★ “Stop talking. I will win. That’s… what heroes do.” | “So I’m going to be a hero. I’ll make that money… So that my mom and dad can have easier lives!” ★ ↳ Katsuki & Ochako | ♥ Brave Heroes♥ | Requested by anon o(〃＾▽＾〃)o ♥♥♥♥