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yamayuandadu · 2 months ago

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Hecate, Melinoe, "Ereschigal": when a name becomes the ship of Theseus?

(Triple Hecate on a magical apparatus from Sardis, via William Bruce and Kassandra Jackson Miller, Towards a Typology of Triangular Bronze Hekate Bases: Contextualizing a New Find from Sardis, p. 512; reproduced here for educational purposes only)

This article wasn’t planned in advance. It’s largely a side effect of trying to help a friend with tracking down a \specific source, the elusive reference to Melinoe from outside the Orphic Hymns, in order to determine whether it really treats her as interchangeable with Hecate. Investigating this topic revealed that it’s connected fairly closely with something I wanted to cover for a while already, namely the Greek (or rather Greco-Egyptian) magical papyri, a unique text corpus to a large degree focused on Hecate and in particular on supposed equations with a number of other figures, ranging from Selene, though Isis, to Mesopotamian Ereshkigal. The last of these cases is what I will focus on, as similarly as the supposed interchangeability of Hecate and Melinoe it is often presented online without context. While the two core goals of this article are establishing whether Melinoe really is just Hecate, a distinct but very Hecate-like figure, or something in between, and explaining whether references to “Hecate-Ereschigal” necessarily indicate some greater degree of familiarity with Mesopotamian theology, that’s not all I will cover. You will also be able to learn why Hecate gained an extra body in early centuries CE; whether it’s true that sources referring to her as genderfluid exist; which unexpected figure plays the role of messenger of Zeus in magical papyri; what the possible last known pre-modern reference to Ereshkigal has to do with Jewish angelology; and more!

Note that technically this is not my first Hecate article; I wrote one long ago - in the early days of this blog, probably around half a decade ago at the height of the initial covid lockdowns, if not in the even more distant past. However, it was subpar; for all intents and purposes, this is the first one which meets my modern standards.

The case of Melinoe

Melinoe appears in a very small number of sources, all of which are fairly well studied. In theory this makes her fairly easy to write about. However, she is also fairly unique in that I can’t think of many other mythological figures who arguably received an enormous boost in prominence specifically thanks to their online reception. This is a double edged sword. On one hand, unique sources reach more people than they would otherwise, at least indirectly.. On the other, misconceptions and misreadings are abundant. For this reason, a brief introduction to her will be necessary before evaluating what, if any, connection existed between her and Hecate.

There’s no strong reason to suspect Melinoe was ever particularly popular in antiquity - more on that soon - and she had negligible presence in art before quite recently. A notable exception is apparently an offhand reference to her in one of Hugo Grotius’ poems (Edwin Rabbie, Editing Neo-Latin Texts, p. 42). I was sadly unable to track it down - if you want to check for yourself, it is reportedly to be found on p. 359 in the 1992 anthology Original Poetry 1604–1608 (De Dichtwerken van Hugo Grotius, I 2 A/B 4).

Melinoe in the Orphic Hymns

Grotius relied on what was the only source about Melinoe available to him and his contemporaries - the Orphic Hymns. They remain a pretty important point of reference for researchers today, though not exactly due to the presence of Melinoe. Even though they’re relatively late and fairly esoteric (as expected from an orphic text corpus), they’re one of the best preserved collections of Greek hymns which were undeniably performed in a religious setting. We don’t know the full history of their transmission, though. They were hardly discussed in other literature before the fifteenth century, barring a single reference in a commentary on Hesiod’s Theogony which might date to the thirteenth (Daniel Malamis, The Orphic Hymns. Poetry and Genre, with a Critical Text and Translation, p. 1).

The full collection consists of eighty eight hymns, each dedicated to a different deity, ranging from major figures recognized virtually all over the at least partially Hellenized world, through personified abstract concepts, to local deities from the west of Asia Minor with few, if any, other attestations. Melinoe belongs to the last of these categories, alongside the likes of Mise, Hipta and Erikepaios (The Orphic Hymns…, p. 171-172). The seventy first hymn is dedicated to her. Multiple translations are available, the most recent one is Daniel Malamis’ (The Orphic Hymns…, p. 103):

The exact translation of some phrases remains a subject of heated debate, but the gist of it is fairly well understood: Persephone gives birth to a minor underworld goddess after Zeus impersonated Hades to seduce her. A minority position is that Melinoe somehow has two biological fathers (The Orphic Hymns…, p. 130). I’m not aware of any translator making it even remotely possible that Hades alone was her biological father - this is entirely an online misconception. There is no alternate account of her origin, the hymn is the only version - claims on the contrary are doubtlessly the result of online games of telephone. The friend whose Melinoe inquiry was a catalyst for this article informed me that there are online claims that the myth describes Hermes witnessing this event. It’s important to stress that nothing of that sort is evident here, as you can see for yourself - the only deities mentioned are Melinoe herself, Persephone, Zeus and Hades. I’d assume this misconception is the result of the river Cocytus also being mentioned in the hymn to Hermes Cthtonios (and nowhere else in the Orphic Hymns), which however doesn’t deal with Melinoe, let alone specifically with her birth (The Orphic Hymns…, p. 89):

To go back to the main topic, dedicating a lot of space to explaining the origin of Melinoe sets the hymn apart from the other eighty seven. It is possible that the compiler considered her obscure to the point it warranted explaining to their audience who she was by narrating her origin myth (The Orphic Hymns…, p. 266). As a result of this unusual focus, she receives very few epithets compared to most other deities praised in the Orphic Hymns. She shares this status with Nomos - in whose case the small number of epithets instead reflects the fact he was more a personified concept than a deity proper, though (The Orphic Hymns…, p. 270).

Thanks to the contents of the hymn, despite Melinoe’s obscurity we have a pretty solid idea about her character, too. At the very least for the compiler of the hymn, she was an appropriate deity to invoke to guarantee safe passage of the dead into the afterlife (Kassandra Jackson, ‘She who changes’ (Amibousa): a Re-examination of the Triangular Table from Pergamon, p. 465). Further insights might possibly be gained from her name, which has been variously interpreted as “gentle-minded” (from meilinói; this interpretation was seemingly proposed as early as in the sixteenth century, as evidenced by an anonymous translation into Latin explaining her name as placidae mentis) or “russet” (from mílinos), in this context a poetic way to describe the color of the moon (The Orphic Hymns…, p. 288).

The fact the hymn refers to Melinoe as a nymph warrants some further discussion as well. I haven’t seen this point raised in literature, but this would fit neatly with her presumed status as a minor goddess of strictly local importance. It was not uncommon for such figures to be labeled as nymphs when they were incorporated into the broader “Olympian” pantheon in one way or another, as attested for example for Callisto or Britomartis (Jennifer Larson, Greek Nymphs: Myth, Cult, Lore, p. 7).

A potential issue for this interpretation is that Melinoe doesn’t seem to correspond to any specific natural feature, though - the localized character of nymph cults reflected the fact that they typically corresponded to a specific river, mountain, island, et cetera (Greek Nymphs…, p. 9). Alcman mentions underworld nymphs (lampads) from the entourage of Hecate, but this reference is entirely isolated (Greek Nymphs…, p. 284; note the wikipedia article asserting they are referenced in Hesiod’s Theogony is essentially a hoax, though admittedly a fun, creative one). For what it’s worth, the term “nymph” might very well just be used metaphorically to indicate Melinoe was imagined as a young woman, though (Anne-France Morand, Études sur les Hymnes Orphiques, p. 182).

Nymph-centric deliberations aside, the fact that the hymn associates Melinoe with ghosts and more broadly with the underworld, and that she might even have an indirect lunar connection depending on which etymology of her name is correct, it probably doesn’t come as a surprise that it’s pretty much the academic consensus that overall her character was Hecate-like (though pretty obviously less multifaceted). The similarities even extend to terms used to refer to them (“saffron-robed” is a fairly common epithet of Hecate) and requests aimed at Melinoe in the hymn and at Hecate elsewhere (‘She who changes’ …, p. 465). However, as far as the Orphic Hymns are concerned, they are ultimately two separate goddesses (The Orphic Hymns…, p. 361). In the hymn dedicated to her, Hecate is actually portrayed as a veritable head of the pantheon (The Orphic Hymns…, p.165-166), directly addressed as the “queen of all cosmos” (The Orphic Hymns…, p. 27):

Ultimately it’s important to bear in mind that even if the compilers clearly cared about Melinoe enough to dedicate a separate hymn to her, they neither equated her with Hecate nor even attributed a comparable degree of importance to them. The investigation cannot end here, though. Melinoe has exactly one more further attestation.

Hecate-Melinoe, Hecate-Persephone, Hecate-Zagourê? The Pergamon tablet and its historical context

An illustration of the triangular magical tablet from Pergamon (wikimedia commons)

In addition to her considerably more famous role in the Orphic Hymns, Melinoe also makes a cameo on a peculiar object from Pergamon (The Orphic Hymns…, p.172). It dates to the third century CE. In contrast with the hymns, it doesn’t provide much mythological or theological information about her. It’s not even really a proper text. Rather, it’s a triangular tablet inscribed with a long series of epithets of Hecate, arranged into three columns under three depictions of her placed in the corners (‘She who changes’ …, p. 457).

In this context, Melinoe is explicitly one of Hecate’s (many) names (‘She who changes’ …, p. 464-465). This is presumed to reflect a level of familiarity with both figures sufficient to establish they were similar enough to warrant an equation (Richard Gordon, Another View of the Pergamon Divination Kit, p. 198). It’s also worth noting that Melinoe’s presence in the inscription was one of the arguments which lead to the formation of the generally accepted view that the Orphic Hymns must have been originally composed somewhere in the proximity of Pergamon, at least more broadly in western Anatolia (The Orphic Hymns…, p. 171-174).

This doesn’t mean we should conclude the Orphic Hymns were also written with the same arrangement in mind, though. Equation in a specific context doesn’t mean two figures can be considered interchangeable. It’s hard to think of better proof than the fact not only Melinoe, but also Persephone is reinterpreted as a title of Hecate on the Pergamon tablet (‘She who changes’ …, p. 466). It’s hardly the only magical text to do so (Eleni Pachoumi, The Concepts of the Divine in the Greek Magical Papyri, p. 130-131). It is probably relevant that a tradition in which Hecate was a daughter of Demeter is also attested - sparsely, but still. It might even be alluded to in Eurypides’ Ion, where Enodia is addressed as such (Ljuba Merlina Bortolani, Magical Hymns from Roman Egypt. A Study of Greek and Egyptian Traditions of Divinity, p. 232).

Hecate actually gets a fair share of other names which usually would refer to independent figures on the discussed tablet; the two cases discussed above aren’t unique in that regard. Some of the other notable examples include Leukophryne (“of the gleaming brow”), a designation used exclusively for the local form of Artemis worshiped in Magnesia on the Meander; Dione (sic); and even the angel Zagourê (“he whose fire glows), best known from the Eighth Book of Moses and other magical papyri, a genre of text I will soon go back to (‘She who changes’ …, p. 463-466).

While as far as I am aware the last equation is unique, as a curiosity it might be worth noting that the words angele and angelos were actually sometimes used to describe Hecate elsewhere (for example by Hesychius), usually in the literal sense, to reflect moving between the underworld, the earth and Olympus (Rangar Cline, Ancient Angels. Conceptualizing Angeloi in the Roman Empire, p. 49). It’s tempting to speculate that perhaps this is why the author of the Perhamon tablet opted to equate her with a specific angelos they were vaguely familiar with - it’s not like the text preserved any distinct information about Zagourê’s character.

The Pergamon tablet isn’t unique - similar objects also inscribed with long series of Hecate names are known from Sardis and Apamea (Towards a Typology…, p. 509) - but as they don’t mention Melinoe I won’t discuss them here in detail. All three of these extensive collections of Hecate names reflect the same phenomenon, though. In late antiquity Hecate’s defining feature was arguably being “many-named” and “many-formed” (The Concept…, p. 137). It’s tempting to assume that the standard three bodied Hecate depictions, which the average person would be well familiar with, made her particularly suitable for equations with goddesses who shared some of her characteristics - which, as I outlined above, is definitely the case for Melinoe.

It's also important to stress that there was a pretty universal religious anxiety over getting the names and titles of deities wrong or omitting an important one, though. Simultaneously, it was believed that it pleases a deity to hear many of them, say, in a hymn in their honor; and, furthermore, that they could be compelled to act by sufficient familiarity with their names (The Orphic Hymns…, p. 218-219). It’s easy to imagine how this would influence composition of texts focused on a goddess whose very nature required turning this focus on names and titles up to eleven. Given that Melinoe is not attested on any other similar artifact, perhaps she was included just in case due to such a concern? Ultimately this is pure speculation on my part, though, and it’s equally if not more plausible that she is included only in this one list simply because she was exclusively worshiped relatively close to where it was found.

The long strings of names and magical formulas on the Pergamon tablet and other similar objects are also significant for a further reason: they make it possible to establish a connection with a specific corpus of Greco-Egyptian esoterica, the late antique magical papyri. The owners of the tablets were not necessarily actually well versed in Egyptian religious texts of the sort passed down in temple scriptoriums, but it does seem they knew enough about them to attempt to use the same principles - which is reflected, among other things, in the long strings of names assigned to Hecate (Another View…, p. 197-198). Melinoe is not attested in any of these texts (‘She who changes’ …, p. 465), and her role in this article as a result ends here.

Before I can move on to the second case of a peculiar link between Hecate and another deity I'd like to discuss, a brief introduction to the magical papyri themselves will be necessary.

A brief introduction to magical papyri

“Greek magical papyri” and “Papyri graecae magicae” (PGM) are the modern conventional names designating a corpus of unusual texts from, as you can probably guess, Egypt.

The earliest example known dates to the fourth century BCE, but most are significantly younger (Jacco Dieleman, The Greco-Egyptian Magical Papyri in Guide to the Study of Ancient Magic, p. 316). While they were composed under Roman rule, between the second and fifth centuries CE, the only languages used in them are Greek, and less commonly Demotic, with no trace of Latin. This is pretty much in line with other texts from Roman Egypt. It was culturally Hellenized through the period of Ptolemaic rule, but it never really became Romanized to a comparable degree, and Latin was restricted to military administration (Magical Hymns…, p. 3-4).

Why are these papyri “magical”? Despite involving deities and frequently referencing specific myths, they generally describe rituals which took place in private houses, as opposed to temples. The stated aims often can be only described as petty (securing the love of another person, gaining material wealth, or even a specific outcome in a chariot race…), and require some rather unorthodox solutions, like quite literally blackmailing deities, ghosts or other supernatural beings. Many of the texts also stress that their contents should remain secret. Thus, referring to them as “magical” rather than broadly “religious” literature is seen as optimal by researchers, to stress that they don’t represent the official temple cults, but rather a distinct sphere of activity (Magical Hymns…, p. 14).

It needs to be pointed out that modern terminology reflects the Greek (and Roman) outlook more than Egyptian. The closest Egyptian term to “magic”, heka (ḥkȝ) originally referred to something that was ultimately a prerogative of temple priests, rather than an unofficial application of religious principles to private ends (Magical Hymns…, p. 16-18). Since at least some of the authors of the magical papyri were Egyptian priests, possibly ones who sought new sources of income in changing times (Magical Hymns…, p. 23-24), it is possible that they deliberately reinvented their practices for a new clientele to meet their expectations (Magical Hymns…, p. 19). It was pretty clearly important to make sure the clients were satisfied - at least some of the texts were composed ad hoc for specific unique cases (Magical Hymns…, p. 277). While the magical formulas were innovative and had no direct antecedents, they were deliberately presented as a secret ancient tradition to imbue them with more authority. Sometimes they were outright claimed to be passed down from famous historical authors or religious figures, ranging from Pythagoras, through Manetho, to Moses, or even deities, typically ones heavily associated with magic like Hermes or Isis (The Greco-Egyptian…, p. 312-313).

The magical papyri feature a plenty of unusual technical terms known as voces magicae. They’re magical formulas with no actual meaning which in the context of the magical papyri might have been treated as secret names of deities. While it is possible some of them were garbled transcriptions of words originating in Egyptian or in Semitic languages, many are pure gibberish, like sequences of vowels (aeēiouō is a genuine example) or invented palindromes (The Greco-Egyptian…, p. 285). The formulas sometimes label the voces magicae as Hebrew, Aramaic or Meriotic, but this is obviously not true - at best, it can be assumed that to the customers of the experts preparing the magical papyri they sounded sufficiently “alien” for these labels to be believable (The Greco-Egyptian…, p. 309-311). Some authors of the papyri evidently went even further, and claimed that the abra cadabra formulas represent the language of animals, for example falcons or baboons (The Greco-Egyptian…, p. 311-312):

The case of “Ereschigal”

It probably comes as no surprise that most of the deities frequently invoked in the magical papyri are Greek (Helios, Hermes, Hecate, Selene, etc.), Egyptian (Isis, Osiris, Seth, Bes, etc.) or, like Serapis, somewhere in between (The Concepts…, p. 10). What is less obvious is why a few of them contain references to Mesopotamian Ereshkigal - or rather “Ereschigal” (Ἐρεσχιγὰλ), to remain true to the Greek spelling. In a single case a Demotic form is attested, but it reflects the Greek one, and doesn’t represent an independent borrowing from any language spoken in Mesopotamia (Daniel Schwemer, Beyond Ereškigal? Mesopotamian Magic Traditions in the Papyri Graecae Magicae, p. 67). What is perhaps even more surprising is that her name is effectively treated as a byname of Hecate - one of the spells is directly labeled as directed towards “Hecate-Ereschigal” (The Concepts..., p. 21).

A crash course in Ereshkigal’s career, from Early Dynastic Lagash to Seleucid Uruk

Ereshkigal is a well attested deity, with a fair share of up to date publications dealing with her to booth. Sadly, as I’ve noticed while working on this article there’s a fairly significant issue with coverage of her in literature dealing with the magical papyri. In many cases even the authors of the most recent, rigorous publications in this field often seem to be far behind when it comes to Assyriology, and depend on and recommend questionable old scholarship. For instance, while I recommend Magical Hymns from Roman Egypt overall - it’s all over this article as a source, and I had a blast reading it - I really think it’s not ideal to use “Kramer 1960” (let alone “Wolkstein and Kramer 1981”) as the main points of reference. For this reason, I feel obliged to at least briefly discuss her history and character here. By the time Ereshkigal got to appear in the magical papyri, she was already a figure with a remarkably long history. She is attested in the textual record for the first time in an offering list from the reign of Urukagina, an Early Dynastic king of Lagash, from around 2370 BCE or so. The even earlier textual sources, like god lists from Fara and Abu Salabikh or the Zame Hymns, don’t mention her at all, though (Dina Katz, The Image of the Netherworld in the Sumerian Sources, p. 386).

Lu-Utu’s inscription on a dedicatory cone among other similar objects (British Museum; reproduced here for educational purposes only) While Ereshkigal’s very name - “queen of the great earth” - is probably intended to hint at her role as the queen of the underworld, the first text which explicitly characterizes her as such is an inscription of a certain Lu-Utu. He served as the governor of Umma in the Sargonic period (ca. 2300 BCE), probably between the reigns of Manishtushu and Naram-Sin (The Image…, p. 355).

There are actually no other known dedicatory inscriptions mentioning Ereshkigal, Lu-Utu’s is one of a kind (The Image…, p. 352). Overall her cult evidently had a small scope, and later attestations of offerings made to her, let alone sanctuaries dedicated to her, are uncommon (Frans Wiggermann, Nergal A in RlA vol. 9, p. 220). She is also absent from theophoric names, which makes her an outlier even as far as underworld deities go. However, it’s possible that the likes of Nergal or Ninazu would be primarily invoked in this context as the tutelary gods of their cities, not lords of the underworld (Wilfred G. Lambert, Lugal-edinna in RlA vol. 7, p. 137). The bulk of attestations of Ereshkigal are literary texts, chiefly from the Old Babylonian period (ca. 2000-1600 BCE) and the Neo-Assyrian period (911-612 BCE).

As far as I am aware, there is only one notable cuneiform text corpus dealing in any capacity with Ereshkigal which have some temporal overlap with the (early) magical papyri - the administrative texts from Seleucid Uruk. They mention the existence of a “temple of Ereshkigal” in the city, though this term might actually refer to a cemetery, not a temple - or at least to a sanctuary directly connected to a graveyard (Julia Krul, “Prayers from Him Who Is Unable to Make Offerings”: The Cult of Bēlet-ṣēri at Late Babylonian Uruk, p. 74). Interpreting the term as something more than just an elaborate synonym for a graveyard is the easiest way to explain references to sacrifices made to Ereshkigal, though. These are at the very least implied by a set of instructions pertaining to daily offerings, according to which she couldn’t receive beef or fowl; in contrast with the other regulations (it is self-explanatory why Ningublaga, a cattle god, would be displeased to receive beef) the underlying logic remains unclear (Prayers from…, p. 62). However, even then, it was not really Ereshkigal herself who was actively worshiped - rather, it was her scribe Belet-Seri who enjoyed newfound popularity in Seleucid Uruk (Prayers from…, p. 76-77). Ereshkigal most likely was seen as an unapproachable, distant figure, just like before, and as such was hardly worshiped directly (Prayers from…, p. 75).

Julia Krul argues that Ereshkigal’s presence in the pantheon of Seleucid Uruk reflected diffusion of earlier knowledge about her status as Inanna’s sister, courtesy of the loose Neo-Assyrian adaptation of Inanna’s Descent (Prayers from…, p. 75). I’m skeptical myself - as pointed out by Alhena Gadotti, the term might very well be used as an honorary title, not necessarily as an indication of actual kinship (‘Gilgamesh, Enkidu, and the Netherworld’ and the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle, p. 13). No independent evidence for the existence of such a tradition exists, and the very same myth has ample evidence for use of kinship terms as titles - Ninshubur refers to three separate gods as “father” despite none of them ever being actually viewed as her family. It’s also worth pointing out that in Nergal and Ereshkigal Ereshkigal is addressed as the sister of all of the gods when an invitation is sent to her, which obviously can’t be literal. This is ultimately a digression; I plan to go back to this point in a separate article eventually, though - consider this a teaser.

Putting abstract considerations aside, to sum up Ereshkigal didn’t offer a very good parallel to Hecate, not least simply because she was not exactly commonly worshiped - while Hecate is arguably attested primarily in the sphere of cult. Furthermore, while she does appear in Mesopotamian magical texts (āšipūtu), she doesn’t play a particularly major role in them (Beyond Ereškigal…, p. 67), and in contrast with deities such as Ea as Ningirima she was hardly a “deity of magic”. You probably could make an argument that if anything Ereshkigal offers a closer parallel to Hades - in the god list An = Anum a mini-section even lists names which did double duty both as her bynames and terms for the underworld (Wilfed G. Lambert, Ryan D. Winters, An = Anum and Related Lists, p. 24); the most notable example is easily Irkalla (An = Anum..., p. 196). However, as I’ll try to demonstrate in the next section, the matter of interpretatio graeca is not quite as simple as “the character of these two overlaps, so they ought to be analogous”.

Some notes on interpretatio graeca

Interpretatio graeca is a tricky subject in its own right. Equivalencies weren’t necessarily recognized universally. It goes without saying the perspective of Greeks and foreigners could vary considerably, too. For example, to Greeks the Lycian and Lydian goddess Maliya (Malis) was simply a nymph, as evident in her portrayal in Theocritus’ Idylls (Annic Payne, Native Religious Traditions from a Lydian Perspective, p. 242). However, both to Lycians and Lydians she was a counterpart of Athena - partially due to shared association with craftsmanship, partially because the Lycian kings wanted to emulate Athens politically in one way or another, and sought to portray their tutelary goddess as Athena-like (Eric A. Raimond, Hellenization and Lycian Cults During the Achaemenid Period, p. 153-154; Native Religious…, p. 241).

Oxus depicted in the form of Marsyas (wikimedia commons) Equations could be made based on very superficial similarity. For example, in Bactria a river god regarded as the head of the local pantheon, Oxus, came to be associated with Marsias (sic), and was depicted under the guise of the latter. This was the result of a random twist of fate - Greeks settling in Bactria after the conquests of Alexander largely came from Magnesia (Mary Boyce, Frantz Grenet, A History of Zoroastrianism, vol. III: Zoroastrianism under Macedonian and Roman rule, p. 180; Boris A. Litvinskii, Igor R. Pichikian, The Hellenistic Architecture and Art of the Temple of the Oxus, p. 57-58). Since Marsias was the namesake river god of the main river flowing through this area, he was effectively THE river god to them - and thus upon encounter with a different river god a transfer of iconography was possible. The fact the two shared few, if any, characteristics otherwise was of no importance. Needless to say, nobody ever recognized Marsias himself as king of the gods; but his river-related lore was sufficient for his iconography to be borrowed.

A possible Hellenistic depiction of Nanaya (wikimedia commons) This case is still not quite as outlandish as the official Seleucid policy of recognizing Nanaya as the counterpart of Artemis, which is yet another example of politically motivated interpretatio. There’s an obvious difference right off the bat - Nanaya was associated with eroticism first and foremost, Artemis demonstrably… wasn’t; the same goes for her association with hunting, a sphere of influence Nanaya had nothing to do with. The lack of similar traits was of no real concern, though - Seleucids simply needed local deities who could be presented as counterparts of their dynastic triad of Zeus, Apollo and Artemis. Marduk as a typical pantheon head made a decent fit for Zeus (despite lack of any real connection to the weather), Nabu as his son and, broadly speaking, a deity linked to the arts (primarily scribal, but hey, close enough) was proclaimed the counterpart of Apollo (Paul-Alain Beaulieu, Nabû and Apollo: The Two Faces of Seleucid Religious Policy, p. 20)… and Nanaya, as a Nabu-adjacent goddess, got to be Artemis (Nabû and Apollo…, p. 27). The fact Apollo and Artemis were siblings, while Nabu and Nanaya were not, was not an issue. It’s probably down to chance that it was Nanaya and not Tashmetum, who had a stronger and older claim to an association with Nabu who got this role, really - not that Tashmetum would be a much better match character-wise.

In particularly extreme cases it’s hard to attribute specific cases of interpretatio graeca to anything but confabulation about a deity one Greek author or another had only the vaguest idea of. Perhaps most notably, Herodotus (in)famously asserted that Persian Mitra was Aphrodite in a passage where he generally makes many claims about her foreign equivalents and moe broadly on foreign cults which make at best limited sense (Albert F. de Jong, Traditions of the Magi. Zoroastrianism in Greek and Latin Literature, p. 107-110). His mistake was repeated by Ambrosius, but to be entirely fair to Greeks and Romans, those two are outliers in this case, and other authors (notably Strabo and Nonnus, but not only them) were at the very least aware that Mithra was a male solar deity and/or that he presided over oaths, even if some of them were confused if he was Persian or Mesopotamian (Traditions of…, p. 286-288).

A unique problem with Hecate and interpretatio graeca is that in many cases we can’t really say much about the deities she was associated with in that capacity, which makes it difficult to determine what shared qualities or historical circumstances lead to the development of a close association. The likes of Roman Trivia or Thessalian Enodia are not exactly well represented in the historical record, to put it very lightly; they’re effectively epithets more than distinct deities which can be discussed in any meaningful capacity. There’s also the even more extreme case of Lydian Nenenene (sic). It’s not hard to find the assumption she was associated with Hecate in scholarship (ex. The Concepts…, p. 132), though the only evidence available is a partially preserved stela with a dedication to her found in Kula. The modern assumption rests entirely on the goddess preserved on it appearing distinctly Hecate-like thanks to the presence of a dog next to her, as no other attestations of Nenenene are available (Eda Nalan Akyürek Şahin, The Cult fo Hecate in Lydia: Evidence from the Manisa Museum, p. 38).

Ereschigal: deity, epithet, vox magica?

At first glance, even taking the difference in their respective characters, the case of Ereshkigal and Hecate might appear easier to parse just because the latter is pretty obviously nowhere near as ephemeral as Enodia or Nenenene. However, in reality the available information about her reception is at best troublesome to interpret.

Ereshkigal is not attested in Greek literature at all outside of the magical papyri and related objects, such as curse tablets and apotropaic gems (Magical Hymns…, p. 236). No cultic activity involving her is attested in areas where any of them were found (Korshi Dosoo, Magical Names: Tracing Religious Changes in Egyptian Magical Texts from Roman and Early Islamic Egypt, p. 123). To make it all even more complicated, not even once does the name appear in a context which would indicate any familiarity with Mesopotamian sources going beyond the awareness that Ereshkigal was an underworld deity. No epithets, no references to motifs from Mesopotamian literature, virtually nothing. When specific attributes are listed, they’re invariably those of Hecate or Persephone (Beyond Ereškigal…, p. 66-67).

Of course, it is clear that at least the initial stage of transfer must have involved people who possessed some basic familiarity with the structure of the Mesopotamian pantheon, After all, even if none of the attributes are Ereshkigal’s, and no text where the name appears shows any familiarity with specific Mesopotamian myths or with Mesopotamian magical slash exorcisitic literature (the already mentioned āšipūtu), it is consistently clear it was understood the name designated a figure closely associated with the underworld. However, it’s hard to disagree with the view that the authors and compilers of the available texts mentioning “Ereschigal” pretty clearly had neither detailed knowledge about her character and position in Mesopotamian theology, nor much interest in it.

Daniel Schwemer actually suggests the lack of familiarity might be central to why “Hecate-Ereschigal” arose in the first place. He suggests that the sole purpose of incorporating Ereshkigal into magical formulas was to provide Hecate with a sufficiently unusual, inexplicable new name, without much concern for its original context (Beyond Ereškigal…, p. 67). He argues that the familiarity with her was so limited that it’s distinctly possible the transfer might have been indirect, though he doesn’t speculate about the identity of middlemen this scenario would require (Beyond Ereškigal…, 78).

If Schwemer is correct - and I see no reason to doubt him - we’re essentially dealing with a ship of Theseus. “Ereschigal” was understood by the magicians compiling and using magical papyri not as a distinct deity whose interpretatio graeca was Hecate, but merely as a title of Hecate, with associations derived from the latter’s character (more on that later). Rather than a strictly Mesopotamian contribution to the world of magical papyri, it is to be classified among ephemeral entities and formulas such as Abraxas or Sesengenbarpharanges (Magical Names…, p. 123). Or, to use a more modern example - somewhere near hocus pocus and abracadabra, if hocus pocus and abracadabra could be personified and assigned as names to one deity or another.

Of course, determining that still leaves many questions about the process of its transmission open - not least the problem of middlemen I mentioned already. Hopefully future research will shed more light on it. I’m fairly hopeful myself - it’s worth noting that a few years after publication of the article I relied on here, a team of researchers from the University of Würzburg lead by Schwemer received a pretty sizeable grant from the German Research Foundation specifically for a project meant to focus on comparative studies of magical papyri and other texts from similar genres.

A remarkable Syriac drawing of the archangel Gabriel (wikimedia commons) Speculation about future research aside, for additional context it’s worth noting that the adaptation of a name without much concern for its original context is not entirely without parallel in the magical papyri. For example, the names of archangels Gabriel and Michael frequently appear as “secret” names of invoked deities, in some cases respectively Anubis or Thoth, or alternatively with solar gods or astral bodies (Magical Hymns…, p. 68). Ereshkigal’s case ultimately remains unique in other regards, though - her name is actually the only Mesopotamian theonym to appear in the magical papyri (Beyond Ereškigal…, p. 66). There technically are two other potential suspects, but both cases are at best dubious.

Shamash, Semea, Nebutosualeth: Mesopotamian or magical?

The lack of references to Mesopotamian deities in the magical papyri might seem surprising, especially in comparison to the numerous sources affirming that reception of other arts and sciences, especially astronomy, was widespread. However, it’s important to note that there is actually very little evidence for interactions between specialists involved in Mesopotamian magic and their Egyptian (let alone Greek) counterparts. We do know that scholars and ritual experts from Syria, Anatolia and Egypt were present in the Neo-Assyrian court a few centuries before the composition of the bulk of the magical papyri, which might be relevant here, but this ultimately remains pure speculation (Beyond Ereškigal…, p. 64).

As far as the dubious cases of Mesopotamian influence go, a handful of attestations of Shamash (Σαμας) are available, and they at the very least indicate knowledge of this name belonging to a solar god. In one case this theonym is mashed together with a Greek spelling of Ra into the unique “Samas-Phrēth” (Σαμασφρηθ). However, nothing really indicates we’re necessarily dealing with the Mesopotamian Shamash. None of the passages preserve any material which would require adoption of a Mesopotamian figure. In fact, the god is typically labeled as “Canaanite”, “Phoenician” or “Syro-Palestinian” in scholarship in this case (Beyond Ereškigal…, p. 67-68). This might come as a surprise to some readers, since there’s a fairly common online trend of referring to distinctly feminine Shapash as “Caananite” or even “Phoenician”, but this theonym is exclusive to Ugarit, which was basically its own thing, and ceased to exist in the Bronze Age collapse. Meanwhile, Phoenicians spelled the name of their solar deity, who was male, with a m - so it is perfectly believable that we’re dealing with him in this case, not with the identically named Mesopotamian god, let alone the Ugaritic goddess. It’s worth noting that Phoenician conception of the solar god shows the influence of analogous Egyptian motifs (Manfred Krebernik, Sonnengott A. V. in RlA vol. 12, p. 616) - which I believe might be relevant here in the light of the pairing with Ra. The phonetically similar name Semea (Σημέα) which appears in formulas addressed to solar deities is most likely derived not from a theonym, but from the ordinary Hebrew word for sun, which was seemingly adopted as a “secret” term for the astral body (cf. σημεα inscribed on gems with compilations of such terms; Magical Hymns…, p. 124). -

The other alleged at least partially Mesopotamian theonym is the term Nebutosualeth (or Neboutosoualēth; νεβουτοσουαλήθ), sometimes held to be derived from the name of the god Nabu. For what it’s worth, Nabu was a popular deity through much of the first millennium BCE, and as I mentioned earlier at least some Greeks must have had some exposure to him thanks to official Seleucid policy. However, there’s no strong evidence for this etymology, and it doesn’t account for the origin of… well, the rest of it, really. Even if the first four letters are superficially similar to Nabu’s name, the rest bears no resemblance to any of his epithets (Beyond Ereškigal…, p. 67).

Similarly as in the case of “Ereschigal”, Nebutosualeth doesn’t appear in any contexts which would reflect Mesopotamian tradition (Beyond Ereškigal…, p. 67). However, this term typically also shows up in lists of voces magicae describing Hecate. It has been proposed that three of them, which at times appear in sequence - Ereschigal, Neboutosoualēth and Aktiōphi (ἀκτιῶφι; meaning unknown) - were designations of the three moon phases associated with triple Hecate (Magical Hymns…, p. 237). For what it’s worth, Neboutosoualēth is explicitly a lunar goddess acting on behalf of Helios (or rather “Barzan Boubarzan Narzazouzan Barzabouzath Helios”) at night in the London-Leiden papyrus (Jacco Dieleman, Priests, Tongues, and Rites. The London-Leiden Magical Manuscripts and Translation in Egyptian Ritual (100–300 CE), p. 124).

The moon god Sin on an Ur III cylinder seal (wikimedia commons) Needless to say, this would reflect ideas about the moon and deities associated with it typical for Greek culture. In Mesopotamia, the moon was invariably imagined as a male deity, and the same holds true for virtually all the other cultures across the “cuneiform world” (Manfred Krebernik, Mondgott A. I. In Mesopotamien in RlA vol. 8, p. 360).

A Ptolemaic depiction of Wadjet from Edfu (wikimedia commons) As a curiosity it’s worth noting that an alternate proposal is that Neboutosoualēth was derived from Egyptian nbt-wḏȝt, “lady Wadjet” (Uto in Greek), though it also has no strong evidence behind it (Magical Hymns…, p. 237). I think it warrants further inquiries, though, not least because both the magical papyri and a variety of earlier sources actually associate Hecate with snakes (Magical Hymns…, p. 233).

While this is unrelated to the matter of Mesopotamian influence on the magical papyri (or lack thereof), as a curiosity it’s worth noting that least one more of Hecate’s epithets attested in them is at the very least an allusion to voces magicae. The unique Borborophorba (βορβοροφόρβα) from the “love spell of attraction in the presence of heroes or gladiators or those who died violently” (ἀγωγὴ ἐπὶ ἡρώων ἢ μονομάχων ἢ βιαίων) literally means “one who feeds on filth/mud”. However, it has been argued that instead of designating Hecate as some sort of Greco-Egyptian analog of Aztec Tlazeotl or something along these lines, it is effectively an attempt at smashing syllables commonly used in voces magicae both in the papyri and elsewhere into a semi-coherent name. The meaning was most likely of secondary importance, though, and the primary goal might have been to get something sounding vaguely like the barking of a dog (Magical Hymns…, p. 230).

deities in the magical papyri are limited to literature from the early twentieth century, and have been long since abandoned. Most of them were incredibly short lived, and depended entirely on superficial phonetic similarities between voces magicae and Mesopotamian theonyms (Beyond Ereškigal…, p. 68). One such proposal warrants some further comments, though, despite being disproved - the assumption that the deity Iao (Ιαω) is Mesopotamian Ea (Beyond Ereškigal…, p. 68). I would argue that this assumption was actually sound on some level - Ea (Enki, not to be confused with another unrelated Enki, though) was THE god of magic (not the only one, to be fair, but by far the most prominent). He’s all over āšipūtu literature (as a matter of fact, this art was traditionally represented as his invention), and continued to be worshiped well into Hellenistic times. When cuneiform was arguably at the peak of its prestige, in the second millennium BCE, he was known virtually everywhere from Hattusa all the way up to Susa - and in at least some areas he persisted outside Mesopotamia into the first millennium BCE. It would actually be much easier to explain how a Greek or Egyptian might have stumbled upon him despite limited familiarity with Mesopotamian sources than it is in the case of Ereshkigal.

And yet, Iao is actually not Ea. As it turned out, the reality is much stranger than the early interpretation of the name in scholarship was. Yao is actually a Greek adaptation of the tetragrammaton. The result is effectively a new deity, as opposed to simply YHVH placed in a new context, though (Magical Hymns…, p. 67-68). A short hymn to Apollo preserved in one of the magical papyri describes him as a messenger of Zeus (Magical Hymns…, p. 62). The name also pops up in some gnostic sources, reinterpreted as an archon, which is also attested for a number of other designations for the Abrahamic capital g God (Magical Hymns…, p. 68). That’s well beyond the scope of this article, though.

The references to Iao, as well as a variety of angels, reflect a broader phenomenon: ultimately, while outliers such as Ereshkigal, Shamash or Mitra can be identified, in addition to Greek and Egyptian only Jewish culture is represented to a bigger degree in this text corpus. This is not accidental: religious specialists from these three cultures were all present in Egypt in the relevant periods, and in at least some cases competed for clients. Combining elements from potentially competing traditions could give one an edge in this peculiar supernatural marketplace (The Greco-Egyptian…, p. 284-285).

“Ereschigal” beyond Hecate, Hecate beyond “Ereschigal”

While the other references to Mesopotamian deities in the magical papyri turned out to be dubious at the absolute best, it’s worth highlighting that there are a few cases in the magical papyri where the title Ereschigal is applied not to Hecate, but instead Isis or Aphrodite (Magical Hymns…, p. 236). Needless to say, this doesn’t match Mesopotamian evidence either, and I think it’s safe to say in both cases we are dealing with situations dependent on the associations between these goddesses and Hecate.

A Roman period depiction of Isis (wikimedia commons)

The identification between Hecate and Isis is an incredibly well documented phenomenon - I’m actually shocked how rarely it comes up outside of academic literature, honestly. It depended on two points of connection: like Hecate, Isis was associated with magic; and via a link to the star Sirius (Sothis), she was an astral (though obviously not lunar - deities associated with the moon were invariably male in Egypt) deity. It should be noted that Isis actually had no consistent interpretatio graeca, though, and based on which of her characteristics was emphasized could be variously linked not only with Hecate, but also with Demeter, Persephone, Cybele, Selene, Artemis, Aphrodite, Tyche or Nemesis (Magical Hymns…, p. 9-10; additionally p. 235 for the last two). It should be remembered that in many cases these one-off instances of syncretism had a political motive behind them, since Isis was regarded as a source of authority and legitimacy for rulers - this doesn’t necessarily mean the average person believed she was essentially a slurry of goddesses from all over the ancient Mediterranean (Magical Hymns…, p. 10). Sadly, questionable vintage scholarship lives on, in some cases leading to what Aren Wilson-Wright aptly describes as “Frazerian” attempts to present her as interchangeable even with deities she had nothing to do with, like Inanna (sic) or Tanit (Athtart. The Transmission and Transformation of a Goddess in the Late Bronze Age, p. 9).

As for Aphrodite, the matter is more complex. Her association with Hecate seemingly reflected the development of a new, quadruple form of the latter, which required the addition of a fourth deity to the common Hecate-Selene-Artemis set representing the phases of the moon (Magical Hymns…, p. 294). Hecate with “four faces, four names, (...) of the four roads” is attested in a hymnic passage from a text labeled simply as a “spell of attraction” - which also mentions Aphrodite in relation to her, in addition to the expected closely associated goddesses (Magical Hymns…, p. 283). The rise of quadruple Hecate appears to be the result of astronomical developments. As explained by the second century CE astronomer Cleomedes, while earlier on Greeks only recognized three phases of the moon - the crescent, the half moon and the full moon - in his times this number changed to four, with gibbous as a new addition. This also required the addition of a fourth face to the triple depictions of lunar deities (Magical Hymns…, p. 294). As a curiosity it’s worth nothing a late reference to four-faced lunar Hecate can be found in the writings of the sixth century Byzantine official John Lydus, who states that this was a visual representation of the moon’s control over the four elements - pretty clearly a secondary, philosophically motivated reinterpretation (Magical Hymns…, p. 293). The new moon seemingly had no direct impact on the notion of three-bodied lunar Hecate (or any other deity who came to share this characteristic). However, it does show up in the magical papyri in association with her in a slightly different context. According to one of them, the “inscription to the waning moon” (δέλτος ἀποκρουστικὴν πρὸς Σελήνην), it was easier for a magician to command Hecate to specific ends during the new moon. The spell bolsters the effects by having the performer make it clear they are aware of that, and pretend to be “Hermes-Thoth” and claim to know how to prolong the new moon forever just in case (Magical Hymns…, p. 251). This is seemingly a reflection of a motif already common in earlier Egyptian magical texts. It was believed that it was possible for a priest to influence, or even control, a deity by showing a high level of knowledge about their sphere of influence and using it to own advantage, or by threatening to cease to perform or to disturb regular temple services in their honor (Magical Hymns…, p. 253).

It has to be stressed that the connection between Aphrodite and (quadruple) Hecate is limited to only one of the magical papyri (Magical Hymns…, p. 293). There’s also a number of indirect connections between the two, though. Both of them were, in different contexts, linked with Isis, which might have facilitated the incorporation of Aphrodite into Hecate’s circle in the aforementioned magical papyrus (Magical Hymns…, p. 296). While this is less relevant, it’s also worth noting in Samothrace both could be linked with the local goddess Zerynthia (Magical Hymns…, p. 292). It’s worth noting that in addition to the singular case of apparent conflation, some of the magical papyri show what can be described as encroachment of Hecate upon spheres of influence normally associated with Aphrodite. In multiple cases she is invoked in erotic spells (Magical Hymns…, p. 289). As a matter of fact, they represent the single largest group of formulas invoking her (Another View…, p. 193) In one case this role might be underscored by turning the name of Peitho, the personification of persuasion frequently associated with Aphrodite and further with the nymph Iynx (a personified love charm, basically), into a further epithet for her (Magical Hymns…, p. 288). The only reference to Hecate in a vaguely erotic context outside of the magical papyri I am aware of can be found in Artemidorus’ Oneirocritica, though it’s hardly comparable. He states that dreams involving having sex with Hecate are an ill omen, “even if one delights in it” (Daniel E. Harris-McCoy, Artemidorus’ Oneirocritica. Text, Translation & Commentary, p. 149). Curiously, going by the same source, it’s the opposite in the case of Selene - it’s an auspicious omen as long as you are, to paraphrase, a shipowner, helmsman, merchant, or at least examine the heavens, enjoy traveling or wander frequently. Otherwise - it’s a sign you’ll suffer from edema (Artemidorus’ Oneirocitica…, p. 149, 151). Excursus: genderfluid Hecate?

Putting the auspicious and inauspicious implications of dreams aside, the lunar connections of Hecate might be responsible for perhaps the single most unexpected aspect of her character attested exclusively in the magical papyri. A few of them attribute a degree of androgyny to her (Magical Hymns…, p. 259). In the already mentioned “inscription to the waning moon”, she is referred to as possessing “the heart of a man” and as “manly” (Magical Hymns…, p. 247). While Athena or Artemis could be sometimes metaphorically described in other sources in similar terms due to associations with pursuits conventionally regarded in masculine by ancient Greeks, in Hecate’s case the matter is much more complicated.

There might also be a lunar angle to it as well, though - Mene is a title of Selene with strictly lunar connotations, so it’s possible that the underlying idea was that Hecate slash Selene had different forms tied to different moon phases, with gender as one of the characteristics which shifted as the lunar cycle progressed (Magical Hymns…, p. 259). The fact lunar deities were uniformly masculine in Egypt might have contributed to this phenomenon (Magical Hymns…, p. 260). This explanation is obviously speculative, but especially the last argument strikes me as plausible. It’s worth noting that Greeks also came into contact with male lunar deities in Anatolia, most notably with Phrygian Men. While none of them seem to come up in the magical papyri, as far as I am aware, it strikes me as plausible that it could have also contributed to the idea of a genderfluid lunar deity.

The only other figure described as both male and female in the magical papyri is Kronos, though the passage is unique and links this characteristic with the deity’s role as a creator. It’s essentially a parallel of the Orphic creator figure Phanes (The Concepts…, p. 96-97). This is obviously a phenomenon very different from Hecate’s apparent occasional genderfluidity.

There’s a further instance of a connection between Hecate and a male deity in the magical papyri, though it’s much less direct. Two of them refer to her with the feminine form of Hades’ poetic name Aidoneus, Aidonaia (Ἀϊδωναία). This doesn’t really have similar implications, though. This title was only supposed to designate her as an underworld deity - in other words, as “Hecate of Hades” in the sense of a supernatural realm (Magical Hymns…, p. 318).

Deity, epithet, spell, angel: the final attestations of Ereshkigal As far as I’m aware, no passages referring to “Ereschigal” overlap with these discussed above. It might be worth noting that in one case the standard “Ereschigal Neboutosoualēth Aktiōphi” sequence appears in a spell addressed to “Typhon-Seth”, who is obviously a male figure, but the context indicates it’s not supposed to be understood as a string of names applied to him, merely as a magical formula (Beyond Ereškigal…, p. 67)

There actually is a single possible reference to a potentially male Ereshkigal, or rather Ereschigal, though. The name might have continued to circulate as a magical term for at least two centuries after the composition of the last magical papyri. It has been proposed that the name of the angel Erechsiel (’RSKY’L), known only from the inscription on an amulet from the sixth century Maon Synagogue, was one of the results of Jewish reinterpretation of the voces magicae, now personified as angelic figures. They’re all invoked to aid a certain Natrun, daughter of Sarah, who was apparently suffering from headaches (Anna Jordanova, Untersuchungen zur Gestalt einer Unterweltsgöttin: Ereškigal nach den sumerischen und akkadischen Quellentexten, p. 499). Obviously, at this point we’re effectively dealing with a double case of the ship of Theseus: a deity turned into a magical formula turned into an angel. I don’t think the situation is really comparable to the late survival of Nanaya in Sogdia. Still, it makes for a pretty remarkable final chapter in Ereshkigal’s history prior to her rediscovery more than a thousand years later - and even if the connection between her and Hecate was hardly direct, it is safe to say Hecate can be metaphorically credited with making it possible.

#hecate #melinoe #ereshkigal #greek mythology #mesopotamian mythology #greek magical papyri

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itscherrylipsforme · 1 year ago

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When were you planning to tell us?: Theseus Scamander x fem!reader

Summary: During their wedding your recently married friends can't stop asking questions about your "mysterious" husband. Little they know he is the same man who has been flirting with you during all the ceremony

Warnings: Drinking a little, I guess? But nothing else except that Jacob and Queenie being unaware of the world around them; Leta and Theseus ot being able to hide their chuckles; and Dumbledore being a funny smartass. Takes place after Dumbledore's secrets and in Au where Leta doesn't die and she wasn't enganged with Thesesus

Requested: yes

Words: Around 1130

Author rambles: This is kind of inspired in a wedding I attended a couple of years ago and the situation fitted quite well with the request

Masterlist Characters I write for

Likes and reblogs are appreciated ღ

I do not authorize any of my works to be copied, translated or plagiarized ✗

Bright smiles, sparky eyes and some tears of pure happiness, that was a quick and accurate way to describe most weddings. Jacob’s and Queenie’s was not an exception to this. A small and intimate ceremony on the bakery, only family and friends attending, perfect for the couple union. While the bride and the groom, now wife and husband, were looking at each other with love-dove eyes, you and the rest of the guests were enjoying the sight.

“She looks beautiful today, even more that normally” You whispered to Theseus who was by your side leaning in the desserts table.

“I still believe you were prettier in your wedding” He replied a small grin playing on his lips.

“You are a charmer with words, Theseus Scamander” Your hands slowly moved to take two glasses of champagne, handing one of them to your companion.

“Only because you deserve it, darling” He took a quick sip of the pinkish beverage, which had been Queenie’s idea.

You would have scolded him for his smarmy antics if it wasn’t for your nosy friends who had been half-listening to your talk. Yeah, a small bakery was definitely not the best place to hold a private conversation. It wasn’t long until Mr and Mrs Kowalski came to your way with a mixture of curiosity and surprise.

“y/n you never told us you had been married, honey” Queenie sweet voice echoed in your ears. The realization hit you, you had been caught.

“Actually, I still am” Thesus couldn’t help but chuckle at your words.

“And who is the lucky man?” Jacob managed to speak while taking a bite from the nuptial cake “Do we know him?”

Theseus cheeks were starting to tint in a similar tone to his hair. You wondered how an auror like him, who has supposed to be calm and stern in every situation, couldn’t stop that grin from spreading on his face right now. Luckily for the two of you, Leta Lestrange, your best friend since your Hogwarts years (your guardian angel as you should call her from now on), appeared on the scene.

“What is the fuss for?” she joined the group and thanks to her endearing smile and her ability to put the focus on herself in every situation, you could enjoy a few seconds to think what would you say next. You were so relived thanks to her entry that you didn’t even get annoyed when she playfully stole your glass of champagne.

“y/n has just told us that she is married” The bride explained enthusiastically.

“Ohh…” Great, the last thing you needed right now was another person who couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. Surprisingly, she decided to play along. After all a little fun never hurt anyone “Of course she is, I was the bridesmaid”

“Leta…” You tried to interrupt her in order to finally reveal the truth.

“Wonderful!” Queenie clapped “So you can tell us more about that mysterious husband of hers”

“Yeah y/n, you never told us anything about him” Theseus took a sip of his drink and still he couldn’t hide his smirk.

Oh, he made a big mistake… Never play games with a girl who can play them better, Scamander. You should remind him that later.

“Well, he is the perfect gentleman. Sweet, chivalrous, caring…” You dreamingly looked at the celling “But also a little bossy, stubborn, touchy too. And he always overworks himself with his job to the point its annoying” Your audience was expectant to hear more about it. Theseus tried his best not to look slightly offended while Leta patted his back.

“But you love him, don’t you?” The older Scamander brother asked, his eyes shinning hopefully. One of the many things that made you fall for him since the first day.

“With every piece of my heart” Your gaze was locked in his.

That intimate moment which had somehow grown in a room full of people faded a wide the instance the door’s bell rang, announcing Tina’s and Newt’s arrival in the bakery. God knew what they had been talking about while the rest of you were enjoying the desserts.

“Guys, you will never guess what happened” Jacob said as soon as they came to his sight.

“Y/n is married!” Queenie announced as the sweet gossiper she was.

The young magizoologist’s eyes travelled back and forwards from yours and his brother’s face, clearly confused. The elder Goldstein sister just looked unaware, waiting for an explanation.

“Of course, she is” Newt finally broke the silence “I was the best man”

“You too?” Jacob said surprised “Are we the last ones to discover this?”

“I didn’t know until today either, Mr Kowalski. Although I have been having my suspicions since you two were students. You have never been good at hiding your feelings, Miss l/n”

Dumbledore laughed from the other side of the room where he was leaning on the wall absent-mindedly eating his piece of cake. A privileged position which he took advantage of to listen to the whole discussion.

“Or should I say Mrs Scamander now? Congrats anyway, thanks to your marriage Professor McGonagall owes me ten galleons now” Gasps of shock echoed between the bakery’s walls.

Your husband made himself comfortable, his hands now proudly around your waist in a gentle grip.

“Thanks Professor” he replied.

“When did you make it official if I can ask?”

“Just after he returned from the war. We wanted to keep it simple, Newt and Leta were the only guests” You softly squeezed your husbands hand.

“And when were you planning to tell us?”

“Jacob, sweetie, focus on what is important” His wife corrected him “Why didn’t you tell us?”

You two shrugged the question off. Being honest, you had never truly hidden your union, not intentionally at least. Theseus did not wear his ring on his finger, but in a necklace around his neck. Too afraid that he would lose it in a mission due to his work as an auror; so you decided to do the same. He didn’t keep the gesture of love low-key either. Always calling you pet names or protectively staying by your side. But it was true he did the same for Leta and his brother, and that kisses were always reserved for closed doors for unknown reasons. With those reasons, it was understandable that your friends hadn’t realized sooner you were in fact married. They just took you for an old friend duo. How wrong they were, but as no correction had been said before by either of you they were still ignorant of the fact.

As they say: “Actions speak louder than words” and that was exactly what your husband did. Arms tangled around your hip and lips that were leaning for a kiss which ended up in a resounding applause. In the next years you would receive endless teasing for it, but enjoying the moment you couldn’t care any less about it.

#theseus scamander x reader #theseus scamander x y/n #fantastic beasts x reader

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seoafin · 1 month ago

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ship of theseus (iv) pairing: jason todd & reader ; dick grayson x fem!reader warnings/tags: word count: ~3.8k series masterlist

The cold is glacial, sharp needles spiking up your arms and legs as you sink deeper into the inviting embrace of the ocean. You can see the sunlight streaming through the water, temporarily illuminating the black depths. Everything is still. Finally quiet. Ever since she died it’s been radio static and an unintelligible passing of time, but now you can be at peace.

You can feel everything with a frightening intensity. Your heartbeat slows, your limbs grow heavy, and a pleasant numbness you know to be your brain shutting down permeates your body.

I’ll be there soon, you think. Wherever you are. This time, I’ll find you.

You’re wrenched from the water, and oxygen meets your lungs with a fury that feels like a punch to the gut. Ice bites into your skin, and you can’t feel your body. Your eyes burn. The sun against the white landscape is blinding —

You wake up in a pool of sweat, Dick’s arm loosely wrapped around your waist. You immediately still, regulating your heartbeat, as to not wake him. Dick is a light sleeper—when circumstances dictate it so. A sharp intake of breath, any sudden movement, a wrong step. The trick is to go slow, lest he wake up and ask you what’s wrong.

You can feel his breaths, the lightness of them ghosting against your nape. You should want him off of you, rip your covers off, and run.

Instead, you close your eyes and try to focus on the sound of his breaths, following the subtle, loping, rhythm.

You gently extricate yourself from him, watching Dick’s face scrunch up as he mutters something about pancakes and spray paint and Damian that is not a butterknife—

Your knuckles briefly brush his face. You grab Dick’s sweats off the floor, and then you’re gone.

You’ve already memorized all the different halls, rooms, and wings in the manor, barring the batcave. You’ve never even stepped foot in there, despite knowing the several passageways in. At this time of the night, nobody will be awake, except maybe Tim reviewing case files. Dick has absentmindedly said that after twelve, Tim rarely leaves his room.

Nobody will wake up as long as you keep away from the bedrooms and don’t trip any alarms meant for the occasional assassin. The manor is even darker in the night, when its inhabitants have gone to sleep. As you traverse hallways and stairs, the shadows get longer, and the large portraits hanging on the walls follow you with their permanently fixed stares.

It’s always interesting to slowly peruse the manor in the same manner you’d observe a museum. Every room brings something different. A new aesthetic, an old one from the 70s when velvet was popular, a thousand year old vase from the Zhou Dynasty, a monet painting. Rooms with weeping curtains draping over windows, luxurious persian and oriental rugs covering half the floor, priceless china inside temperature regulated glass, shining mahogany bookshelves. If you had time, and were completely sure that Bruce wasn’t monitoring your actions somehow, you’d pick a room and completely comb it from top to bottom. An intellectual exercise. Spyware, wires, traps, cameras, weapons, all hidden within the various crooks and crannies of the room. You’d take each item apart and put it all back together sans a single piece. Then you’d hide it all back exactly where you found it. Two inches to the left. And you’d start with Bruce’s first floor study.

But you aren’t.

So you tread onwards to one of the smaller kitchens in the manor, on the first floor, click the light on, and pour yourself a glass of water with hands that tremble exactly once as you lift it to your lips. A weakness you allow yourself in the presence of nobody else.

You aren’t sure where your feet are taking you until you’re unlocking the doors leading the patio overlooking the private gardens in the back. You’ve probably tripped multiple sensors, but you don’t care as you sit down on the top step leading down, and let the cool air brush over you. You’re not dressed to be outdoors during a Gotham fall night, but the cold has never bothered you as much. You grew up with winter, and it has never left you.

The large hedges and bushes are immaculately trimmed. It’s aesthetically pleasing, and distinctly shaped enough that you get the impression that they’re meant to distort satellite imaging of the manor. A far fetched notion if it was anyone other than Batman.

You remember Dick mentioning Alfred’s highly prized and coveted roses. So you stand and plan to aimlessly walk through the small, elaborate hedge maze, until you feel like a person again. Because the thought of Dick seeing you as anything else makes your stomach turn.

The faint rumble of an engine reaches your ears. You still, turning your head in the direction of the noise. The east wing of the manor. Dick’s room is in the far west end. Same wing as Tim, different floors. The east wing belongs to Damian who you know to have commandeered a room and the top floor, and…

Re-entering the manor, you follow one of the halls until a loud crash, followed by a colorful line of curses that echoes through the hall.

–

Jason doesn’t want to be here. In fact, the manor is the last place he wants to be, pretty much all the time. ‘Cept beggars can’t be choosers, not when he’s currently bleeding out all over Alfred’s silverware.

Two bullets: one clean shot through his thigh, the other through his arm, and both hurt like a fucker.

He had been at the docks, tracking a lower rung mafia family and their lowlife grunts who would be receiving a new shipment of trafficked girls when gunshots had rung out accompanied by screams. One girl tried making a run for it and it had gotten her a bullet to the head.

Jason had started shooting.

Which brings him to his current predicament. Rifling through the drawers of one of the smaller kitchens in the manor, the one furthest from Bruce’s room. He knows Alfred keeps emergency provisions in nearly every room in the manor—including this one. The struggle is in finding it. Somewhere an awed hookup of Bruce’s, or a curious stray reporter wouldn’t be able to find a military grade emergency kit and start asking questions.

Besides, he’ll never pass up the opportunity to steal—whoops— borrow from Bruce. The man can afford it.

He’ll take the kit, patch himself up until the bleeding is temporarily staunched, and get his bike (hidden in the bushes underneath a patio towards the east), and nobody would be none the wiser. Bruce is still out on patrol, along with his latest Boy Wonder. Timbo’s probably doing…whatever the hell he gets up to in his room. Video games? To his knowledge, Dickwad’s still in Bludhaven.

Ignoring the twinge in his arm, the constant throb of pain in his leg, and the steady flowing blood, he rifles through pans and pots and silverware.

“Looking for something?”

He doesn’t think before whirling around, pressing a body into the wall, a gun pressed to their stomach.

He didn’t hear a thing. Not a single god damned thing. It’s eerily reminiscent of Dick’s own soundless steps. You had been quiet enough to sneak up on him, in his heightened, adrenaline spiked, unmasked state.

Jason meets your gaze. A woman, maybe a little older than him. You look supremely unbothered despite the cold, hard weight of the glock digging into your side. “You must be Jason.”

It’s far too late to hide his face. His red faceguard lies on the kitchen table, but you had hardly glanced at it. And you look unsurprised to see a random stranger bleeding out in the kitchen. It’s not hard to put two and two together.

“Who the hell are you?” Call him rude, sure (Alfred would despair at his manners, but he’s always been a lost cause anyway). People know better than to sneak up on him when he’s vulnerable unless they want to walk away with one less kneecap. He uses his height to his advantage, all looming bulk and menace. It says something that even the scum denizens of crime alley avoid his path when he’s unmasked. Not even a flicker of uncertainty across your face.

“A librarian.”

He blinks. “What?”

Taken aback, he lets you push the gun away with a flick of your hand. You look at him, and he feels vaguely like he’s on the receiving end of Alfred’s raised eyebrow. Or Bruce’s stern gaze, arms crossed, about to tell him off for being reckless. Like he’s done something wrong. Like he’s nine again, swinging from buildings, and fighting crime dressed in an atrocious red, green, and yellow color scheme.

His arm drops, the other throbbing with an increased intensity. He stands there awkwardly, not quite divested of all his guns. Not quite knowing what to do. Is he hallucinating? Maybe it’s the lateness. Combined with the bright fluorescent lights Alfred never bothered to replace because this is a smaller, secondary, kitchen, in an area of the manor that scarcely anyone passes, this feels like some weird fever dream. Except weirder things have definitely happened.

Like dying and coming back to life.

“Sit down.”

You don’t wait for a response, turning into the cabinets. Moments later there is an open emergency kit on the table. The wet cotton with antiseptic. “Take off your clothes.”

He looks you up and down. He’d definitely remember you if he met you. He quirks the best nonchalant brow he can manage. “Don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.”

You stare at him for an unnervingly long time. A second later, he’s tearing off his blood soaked kevlar and pants without another word, feeling stupidly bare in nothing but his boxers. You’re unfazed as you study his wounds in silence. Then you begin to disinfect his wounds with practiced motions.

He doesn’t know what he expected from this night, but it definitely wasn’t letting some strange woman in the manor patch him up after a patrol gone bad. If anything, he would’ve expected Alfred to sweep into the kitchen, eye him with concern, and hover around him.

You’re so quiet he almost misses Dick’s inane on and off rambling. He’d take Dick arbitrarily ranking the best cereal in terms of color than this mind numbingly awkward silence.

He’s used to silence. God knows, Bruce can tell a million words with his. Disappointed silence, happy silences, contemplative silences, pleasantly surprised silences. Bruce is emotive with his silences. Bruce’s silences are decodable, something you get used to after a few dinners after you get over your awe of the mansion, the kind butler, the feeling of not having to fight for survival every single damn day of your life, that innate suspicion that everyone is out to get you.

You, on the other hand…

“So,” he coughs, when a particularly painful dab of antiseptic to his arm makes his eye twitch. “A librarian.”

As he’s come to expect in the ten minutes he’s met you, you don’t respond. He figures an open statement is a bit too much for you. He settles on, “You like books?” Me too. Then he thinks about the two overdue library books he had left laying around in the South safehouse and inwardly winces. Oresteia , a trilogy of Greek tragedies, and Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus . Maybe you’re karma. But hey, the ladies of the Gotham City Public Library happen to love him. They’ll send him away with some stale cookies from the staff room and an exempt fine he’ll still pay.

If your hand hadn’t been within his sight, he would’ve missed it. Your grip on the tweezers imperceptibly tightens.

You concentrate on bandaging up his thigh. “Dick asked me the same thing the first time we met.”

Jason resists the urge to groan, and bang his head on the table. Of course he’d pick the one weekend Dickbird’s in town. Fuck. Furthermore, the association with the original boy wonder leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Not to mention the fact that Dick probably meant it as some corny, half assed pickup line (that obviously worked.) That’s embarrassing. Fuck. He’ll blame this entire night on the blood loss. And the trauma from dying. That always works.

You’re definitely not just some civvie. You’re a civilian that knows their identities. Of all of them, it figures that Dick would be the most well adjusted for a long term relationship with a non-vigilante. Which isn’t saying much. The bar is in hell. He’s never seen it himself, but Dick’s temper tantrums are infamous. Even Bruce maintains a distance when boy wonder’s in a rotten mood.

“You never answered the question,” he says gruffly, tugging on the bandages wrapped around his arm and thigh. They’re secure; on par with Alfred’s own expert fingers. At least he didn’t need stitches this time around.

“Not really.”

He damn near chokes on his spit. “Yeah? You tell Dick that?”

You look him straight in the eye, and say monotone: “I told him I’m passionate about the dewey decimal system.”

Jason snorts, chest heaving. Except pain shoots up his arm and thigh, which makes him stifle the rest of his laughter. “You’re a real hoot, you know that?” He can’t imagine Dick with a girl like you. At all.

Your gaze flickers to the doorway.

Seconds later, Alfred steps into the room with a handful of fresh clothes. The man’s gaze is soft. “Master Jason…I believed I heard your voice.”

The amusement is instantly sapped out of him. “Hey Alfie,” he croaks. Sure, Bruce took him in, gave him a roof over his head, clothes, food, no matter how brief it was. But Alfred. Alfred would make his favorite breakfast, with the eggs exactly how he liked it whenever he wanted. Alfred patched him up with gentle hands after bad patrols that would reduce Bruce monosyllabic noises. Alfred still brings him home cooked meals so he isn’t living off box mac n cheese. Jason still isn’t completely sure how Alfred is finding his safehouses, but he knows Oracle probably has a hand in that because the woman loves making his life difficult.

The emergency kit clicks shut, and you stand. “Good morning, Alfred.”

Alfred doesn’t take his gaze off of him. “It is indeed.”

Jason swallows, feeling his throat thickening as Alfred lays the clothes down on the only place in the counter that isn’t bloodied. You’re definitely not going to be any help now. No attempt to even break the silence. You’re washing your hands, content to let the two of them hash out a heart to heart which is something he can’t handle right now.

He shifts uncomfortably. “Thank you…for the roast.” He pats the clothes. “And the clothes.” He pauses. “And I can clean up here—”

“There is certainly no need for that ,” Alfred says, daring him to argue. Jason knows better than getting in between Alfred and his complicated cleaning system, so he lets the matter lie. “And all of that was my pleasure, Master Jason.” He hesitates, “Would you…indulge this old man and stay for breakfast?”

And that’s his cue. Of course he feels bad. He always feels bad whenever he turns Alfred down. They do this dance every time Alfred catches him taking supplies or money whenever Bruce is out. He pointedly lowers his gaze, and begins changing into clothes that are still warm.

“Sorry Alfie, I’ve overstayed my welcome.” The clothes fit perfectly, and he refuses to think about why there are clothes his size in the manor when he left years ago. Bloody clothes in a plastic bag, check. All guns accounted for, check. Knives, check. Keys, check. “I should skedaddle before the big man catches me.”

“Master Bruce would not—”

Jason clears his throat. He turns, figuring he should thank you, but there’s nobody there. He doesn’t know exactly how you managed to leave when the doorway was within his gaze the entire time.

“Was all that real?” Maybe he hallucinated you. A genuine concern after all the years of getting his skull getting knocked around here and there.

Alfred’s forlorn face turns amused. “I assure you Master Dick’s guest is no ghost, no matter her penchant for wandering the manor at night.”

Could’ve fooled me. “She always that…uh,” he twirls a finger, realizing he has no idea how to describe you other than inexplicable silent emotionless.

“Yes,” his expression turns thoughtful. “She is an odd one, isn’t she? I figured the two of you would get along. She and Master Bruce appear to have their own share of… differences.”

Jason raises an eyebrow at that. “Seriously?” He can’t imagine what you and Bruce would talk about, let alone have differences about. Would the two of you even talk? The silence would be excruciating. He stifles laughter at the thought of Dickbird desperately trying to facilitate conversation between two nonverbal adults.

“An unconventional first meeting, I’ve gathered,” Alfred says, moving from cabinet to cabinet, and tidying. “Master Dick despairs regularly.”

There’s a glint in Alfred’s eye. Jason recognizes that glint. Some scathing statement is about to follow, packaged neatly in the Queen’s English. Which in Jason’s opinion, makes it all the more devastating. “In my humble opinion, Master Bruce is simply discomfited by the girl. Hmph. You and I know how he loves those neat little boxes in his head. Heaven knows when a person is too much for his tiny head to comprehend.”

Jason lets out a huff of laughter. He knows, of course. He knows that to Bruce, he’s regularly caught between two boxes himself: enemy or ally .

He unclenches his fists.

“But you didn’t hear anything from me,” Alfred finishes lamely.

Jason grins. “My lips are sealed, Alfie. At least it sounds entertaining. I’d pay good money to see it.”

The butler blinks innocently. “Perhaps if you stayed for breakfast, you could witness it for yourself.”

Jason is tempted. Because in the end, there’s nothing more he’d love than to see Bruce squirming in his seat.

But he’s also not welcome here. It’s a bleak fact. Every time he sees Bruce, it’s another beating to the heart. Another disappointment. There’s only so many times a whipped dog comes back.

“Sorry,” he says evenly, “Looks like a full house today and I could do without the noise.”

Alfred accepts his refusal with a sigh. “Then if you’d wait a moment.”

Alfred steps out of the room, and within a blink, he’s back, stacks of tupperware in his hand.

At the look on Jason’s face, he raises an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t let this old man’s cooking go to waste, would you?”

He closes his mouth. There must be something in the air, because he has to blink it out of his eyes. “No, I wouldn’t.”

–

It’s not until Jason’s speeding away on the 109 that he realizes he never even got your name.

–

Dick is still sleeping when you return.

You sit down on your side of the bed, and immediately feel Dick’s arm snake around your waist.

“Nghghnhgh,” is the barely intelligible noise that leaves his mouth, pressed against your hip.

“Morning.” You gently sweep his hair out of his face.

“Too early,” he mutters. Then he cracks open an eye. “I thought you were getting water, but you never came back.”

“I took a walk.”

Dick aims a pout at you. “Without me?”

You do not point out the fact that Dick is someone who needs at least 4 hours of beauty sleep to be able to function as a human being.

His hand brushes a wet stain on your shirt, and he’s up in a flash, hands on your shoulders, splaying you out for inspection.

“Why do you have blood on you?”

You reach out to stop him. “I met Jason.”

Dick blinks. “Jason’s here?” In one swift movement, he’s across the room, pulling on a shirt. “And he’s bleeding?”

“Well, I think he’s gone now.”

As if on cue, the revving of a motorcycle engine reverberates throughout the grounds, loud enough to wake its inhabitants up. You already anticipate the grumbling at breakfast.

This family and their flair for the dramatics.

Dick inspects you closely, expression severe as his fingers brush your body. “Did he…”

You think about Jason. How he had been poised to attack. The strength coiled in his body, ready to strike at any given moment. You understood at once that he was someone who would do what he had to, putting him at odds with the rest of the family. Making him dangerous.

Fortunately for you, he had come at the perfect time. You needed the familiarity of the sharp scent of antiseptic to tether you back to the present. You needed to think about anything else than the ghosts hounding your dreams. Jason ceased to be a person. Instead, he became a task to complete.

You hadn’t even realized until he had made conversation. Oh, you had thought. This is Dick’s little brother. Be gentle.

“He was fine,” you say softly, wisely not touching on your tension fueled first seconds where you briefly thought he’d pull the trigger, and then welcomed the thought. “Perfectly amiable.”

Dick wraps his arms around you. “‘Perfectly amiable’ are not the words I would use to describe Jason. Tell me he didn’t threaten to shoot you,” he says lightly, despite the tension outlining his body. “You can tell me. I get it, any sane person would run for the hills.”

Any sane person would’ve ran a year ago. A sane person would’ve done anything but kiss the charming smile off Dick Grayson’s face when he had been bleeding out on the ugly rug in his living room dressed in spandex. A sane former Black Widow would have left him in his bed months ago, and left for the airport with nothing but a one way ticket straight to Tibet.

But now in Dick’s arms, you’re neither. It’s less of a loss than you would’ve thought. But then again, you’re used to changing identities at the drop of a hat. Existing within the fringes of yourself. Losing yourself to the next new name. It was okay to lose yourself, you always knew. She’d always be there to help you make sense of yourself. She’d know you, even if you didn’t know yourself.

You press a kiss to his cheek, and wrangle yourself free from his grip. You need a shower. “Breakfast in an hour.”

Dick flops onto the bed, a grin playing at his lips. “An hour’s long enough.”

You give him an unimpressed look, before turning and shrugging off your shirt in full view as you step into the bathroom.

Seconds later, you hear him tripping over his pants in his effort to take them off.

#dick grayson x reader #dc x reader #nightwing x reader #Jason Todd x reader #m.dc #sot

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love-bugsy · 5 months ago

Text

good ol' gotham | jason todd

the worst thing about love

you’re just trying to get through your surgical residency, but this masked vigilante keeps showing up half-dead on your fire escape and reminding you of your dead best friend. oh well, at least he's cute.

two | three | four | series masterlist

content warnings: no editing, allusions to character death, (haphazard) depictions of grief, smoking + mentions of alcohol, swearing, completely ooc Jason bc he’s just my lil guy, medical terminology learned from greys anatomy lol

only jerks steal other people’s writing and mine isn’t even that good so no reposts

You and Jason sit across from each other in a diner booth, his restless leg bouncing under the table and your workaholic fingers tapping rhythms on the lacquer. The tired waitress who begged for your shift today brings over a plate of fries for you both, waving you off when you try to tip her. She gives your head an affectionate ruffle like she used to when you were 6, and you flush. As she goes to wait the next table, Jason laughs and says something about nepotism. You reach over and smack him.

He scoops up a heaping handful of fries, holding out his cigarette in his free hand so he can choke it down. He wipes his hands on his pants, taking another drag. You frown as your eyes dart between him and the ‘no smoking’ sign, glaring pointedly at the cigarette hanging half out of his mouth. He huffs, hiding a smile as he crushes the lit end on the underside of the table and flicks it into a nearby bin. You kiss your teeth, rolling your eyes but it’s entirely too fond to have any lasting effect. This damn boy’s got you wrapped around his battered fingers.

“Those’ll kill you, you know,” you huff, shoving a couple of fries in your mouth and basking in greasy diner heaven. Jason tilts his head, examining you, and snorts when you chuck a fry at his face.

“So you tell me every time, and yet, miraculously, I’m still here.” He plucks the fallen fry out of his lap, not even brushing it off before he scarfs it down and reaches for another handful. You eye his hand, meant to shovel chips into his mouth but instead is littered with callouses and cigarette burns. It’s a stretching silence as you find your words.

“S’killing you slowly.”

“Lucky me.” He shoots you a toothy grin, leaning back into the booth, one hand laid out face-down on the table. The bruises on his knuckles are a motley of yellow and purple; your hand aches just looking at the scabs that litter the top of his hand. You’re sure he doesn’t feel it, though - he’s always healing, gaining new wounds before the old ones are finished scarring over. A veritable human ship of Theseus.

His hand clenches into a fist under your gaze and you suddenly become very interested in the plate of fries between you. ‘M’not gonna stop,” he says, tone unyielding. You don’t know whether he’s talking about his smoking or the elephant-sized robin in the room. Probably both.

“But maybe you should.” You blurt out, and the way his face twists in anger makes you want to cover your mouth and hide. You hate how he clings to things - smoking, grudges, Robin - you think it’ll be the death of him one day. But you’re a hypocrite, because you love how he clings to you. Jason’s jaw feathers.

“Just fucking back off, okay?”, he snaps at you, and you go silent - you don’t want to have the same argument for the thousandth time. You study the way his eyes close and he sinks back into the chair - guilt washing away the enraged crease between his brows.

You forget - all the time - how angry he is, all of it built up under his rib cage. You think he gets scared to show it to you, like it’ll scare you away. For all his intelligence, Jason has yet to grasp the fact that you have Gotham in you too - spent your whole life atoning for the sin of your existence here. You’re angry too, of fucking course you are.

There’s no shortage of anger and fear and desperation in Gotham - they flood the gutters and hang dormant in the smog. Not many people choose to be kind here, it’s just too hard to. You think maybe your bleeding heart is at fault for how he tiptoes around you, but you wish he would just be honest. This diner, your friendship - it’s so far removed from the rest of his life… you wish he would stop treating you like a precious secret.

“I-” You shake your head when he starts to apologise, waving your hand as if to clear the air between you.

“It’s forgotten,” you say, even though it never is. The tilt of his head reads you like an old book. Getting up, he rounds the table, shoving you further into the booth and looping an arm around your shoulders. Neither of you say anything - Jason reaching awkwardly for another chip - but the warm press of his side against yours is words enough. You shuffle - somehow - closer to him and take the hand that's over your shoulder, moving it delicately into your lap. You run careful circles around the bruises on his knuckles, trying to commit the warmth of him to memory. Trying to remember him while he’s still here.

When you glance back at him, he’s looking at you with something wide and soft and world-ending in his eyes. The hand in your lap shifts around to thread your fingers together and he squeezes your hand almost uncomfortably. This boy, this fucking boy, who loves too much, too rough, too pure. “You can’t be real,” he whispers, and the diner melts away and all that’s left is his (blue blue blue) eyes and the way his hand holds yours like a lifeline. You hope you love him enough that it shows - that it spills out of the gaping seams of your stitched up heart. Clammy palms grip tighter to each other.

“I’m real, blue. This is real.”

“No. No,” he says, using your name in that careful, hard-edged tone he does when he’s serious, “It’s not.”

You wake gasping, shooting up in your bed as you try to catch your breath. Your hand crushes against your chest, trying to still your pounding heart. Fumbling in your sheets for your phone, you squint at the time. 4:02. You shuffle around, bare feet meeting hardwood floors and start to follow an unconscious morning routine - brain still foggy with sleep. It’s not until you’re wiping the steam off your bathroom mirror that you remember what day it is. The anniversary.

Reminders of Jason always hit you like a truck - blue mugs, cigarettes, hero complexes - but visiting his grave is another beast. You’re not one to let things get to you, moving too fast for anything to stick; but today is always cruel. In the entryway, you go back and forth between jackets, eventually yanking Jason’s old one from where it's hidden underneath all your others. Burying your face in the collar, you grab your keys and step into the biting Gotham wind.

You take the metro up to the park by the Wayne Estate, stopping on the way to buy overpriced flowers and a travel sized bottle of whiskey. You stop outside the imposing gates - always closed but never locked - to take a shuddering breath. It’s never easier.

Pushing open the rusted gate, you make the short trek up to the Wayne cemetery. Jason’s grave is a ways away from the others, hidden by an ancient sycamore tree. Autumn has come early this year, yellowing the sycamore’s leaves and burning your nose with the fresh scent of death.

You really fucking hate this day.

It’s not the real anniversary of his death. You shudder to think about seeing Bruce Wayne here, and you doubt he’d even recognise you. Probably for the best. You’d tear him to pieces for existing when Jason is gone. No, today is the last time he left the diner - that’s the day Jason Todd died to you.

You remember staying up to watch the press conference Bruce Wayne gave after Jason’s death was reported. Sitting in a cold, empty diner, listening to his cold, empty responses, and grinding your teeth to bits.

Wayne looks tired - beaten down, “No comment,” he says, when the questions steer to Jason. You’re furious that he could even bear to stay silent when you are tearing at the seams with things to say. Because Jason was kind, he was sharp as a whip and just as witty. And he was brash, and loud, and impulsive and full of a wild energy that hummed under the surface of his skin. And he was good. He was so good.

Somewhere between Wayne’s practised speech about the orphanage he’s opening in Jason’s name and his final statement, you mute the television and go back to washing dishes. It’s a herculean effort not to look up; waiting for Jason to start rambling about a book he’d read or someone he’d saved. You tuck your head down, avoiding the reminder that he was never going to keep you company again.

In the background, Bruce Wayne talks silently to a rapt audience.

And how they lauded him as Jason’s saviour - the homeless criminal turned social messiah by Wayne Enterprises. You want to scream; he was good already, he was good to the bone. But Gothamites - as much as they like to deny it - are obsessed with the idea of heroes. In a city of the uber wealthy and the poorest of the poor - everybody wants someone to save them. Big Brucie Wayne swooping in to reform a Gotham bottom-feeder? That’s a story everyone was taken by.

The crunch of a leaf underfoot pulls you out of your head and you realise you’re standing in front of Jason’s grave. Sitting yourself down, cross-legged, you face the grave; whiskey in one hand and flowers in the other.

You’ve never liked his headstone. No pretentious quotes, no sardonic digs from beyond the grave. Just a dry, impersonal epitaph, etched permanently in his name: ‘In memory of Jason Peter Todd, loving son’.

You think he would’ve hated being reduced to someone’s son. You don’t think he was anyone’s anything. He was Gotham’s. He was yours. He was Batman’s. And then he was dead.

He was never any of those things at the same time. And he was certainly no one’s son.

He was loving, though. You’ll give ‘em that.

“Well,” you say, unscrewing the bottle and downing half of it with a grimace, “Cheers, blue.” Nearly a decade and you still hate the taste of whiskey. You’d both made a pact that it would be your first legal drink - both with romantic ideas about what it would taste like. To you, it really just tastes like soap; but tradition is tradition. You reach out, brushing the thin layer of dirt that’s gathered over his headstone, eyes catching on the crude little bird carving in the top right corner.

You’d carved it into his headstone the first year after he died; spent the whole year silently aching - haunted by empty space, reaching for him only to find air. That night was just the breaking point. It hadn’t helped that you were drunk off your ass either.

You remember being miserably sick the next morning and - as you rested your head on the cool porcelain of your toilet - feeling selfishly satisfied that you were hurting at all. Visiting him early is selfish for you too. You want them to know you loved him first. You want them to know that somewhere, there is someone who mourns him into ruin.

Or at least, into vandalism.

Now you drop the flowers on his grave - chrysanthemums and white lilies - and sweep away a stray fallen leaf. Crouched in front of his grave, you press your fingers to your lips, then to the bird. You feel the throb of a lump in your throat, and stand up fully, zipping up your jacket. The train home is loud and sweaty, but you feel more alone than ever.

You need a smoke.

Your apartment door is barely locked before you’re sliding up your window and ducking out onto the fire escape. Digging around in the pockets of Jason’s jacket, you fumble for your lighter, and the pack of cigarettes you’d bought on the way home.

You lean over your fire escape railing, lighting up and taking a long drag. It’s a rare clear night in Gotham, and you close your eyes as you breathe out, listening to the faint, familiar whine of sirens. This. This is why you’ll never leave Gotham—these rare serene moments where you’re brought back down to earth by the familiar smell of rain and pavement; an early-Autumn breeze ruffling your hair.

Your moment of peace is interrupted when Red Hood swings down onto your fire escape, and you startle, dropping your - still-lit - cigarette over the railing.

“Fuck!” You lean over the railing as if you’ll be able to catch it, letting your head fall against the cool metal in defeat. “Please tell me you don’t need stitches tonight,” you grumble, head still hung over the railing. A hand grasps the back of your shirt, pulling you - a little roughly - away from the edge. Your eyes flash up to his mask, only to find him looking away.

“No stitches.” He shifts uncomfortably. “I… I’m not- injured.” Your brow creases.

“Then… why are you here?” He pauses. If you hadn’t been slowly learning him over the past few months, you’d mistake his silence for stoicism, but his shoulders are drawn up slightly and his gaze is focused on a spot just above your head. He seems… sheepish? No. Caught. He clears his throat—hand in the cookie jar.

“I just…,” long pause, “Drop by sometimes. To check you’re… you know.” You do not know. You raise a brow and he nods over at the pack of cigarettes balancing on the railing.

“I’ve never seen you smoke before.” Not exactly a seamless subject change, but you know better than to pry when the other person has guns strapped to their thighs. Your eyes drift to the cigarettes, and back to Red.

“Only when I’m stressed.” He does that head tilt-y thing—trying to read you.

“Something more stressful than surgery on a stranger in your apartment?” You just hum, turning away and reaching for another cigarette. Lighting it, you hold the pack out to Red as you take another drag and exhale. He shakes his head, “Quit a long time ago, doc.” Your surprise must paint itself all over your face because he laughs lowly, rasping out his response.

“Had a friend who hated it.”

Brows creasing, you tilt your head, appraising him in a quiet once-over. “You don’t seem like the type to change for anyone, Red.” Somehow he stiffens and relaxes at the same time; you get the sense that the answer to your observation is just as paradoxical, equal parts right and wrong.

“Yeah well, she was…” He trails off, gaze drifting from you and shoulders sinking. He looks… lost. Watching him feels like you’re intruding on a private moment, so you turn away, leaning heavily on the railing. You take another long drag of your cigarette and exhale the smoke into the wind.

“Was that you? The sirens?”

He huffs, railing creaking as he settles next to you. “Yeah. Some asshole trying to rob a mom-and-pop store.” You kiss your teeth in mirrored disappointment, nose wrinkling.

“Good ol’ Gotham.” You feel his gaze boring into you and make a point to glare defiantly out at the skyline - avoiding him. The hand that isn’t keeping a loose grip on your cigarette begins to scratch anxiously at the rust on the railing.

Red points vaguely at your cigarette, “What’s your stressor?” Without really noticing it, you clench your jaw and your hand moves halfway up to your mouth before you stop it. Old habits quelled by memories of bleeding nails bitten to the quick. You realise you’ve waited too long to spout a believable lie.

“Visited my friend’s grave.” You don’t even bother to school your voice, letting it claw its way across shards of glass to be heard.

“‘M sorry.” Red’s head inclines slightly, gloved hand inching towards yours. You just shrug.

“It’s been nearly ten years.”

“Doesn’t make it easier.” He tells you and you know it isn’t false platitudes. Death is an old friend of the both of you.

You pause, letting the city rush over you. “No,” you say finally, “It doesn’t.” Reaching again for your cigarette, you feel the weight of the day prickling at the backs of your eyes. The railing creaks as he leans heavier against it.

“Tell me about them.”

“What?”

“Your friend.”

You take a deep breath, brows knit, “He was…,” you roll your lips together, trying not to choke up, “Reckless.” Red snorts, hanging his head in surprised amusement. You smile for the first time all day. “I swear danger followed him around or something, I was always having to patch him up, even before—“ You cut yourself off, white-knuckling the railing.

“He’s the reason I’m a doctor.” There’s a thick silence, which Red breaks with a staticky whistle.

“You’re something else, doc.” Your brows knit, fingers drumming on the railing. The cold seeps into your bones, fire escape creaking with every gust of wind. Looking out over the city, you shake your head at nobody.

“I’m…” you swallow, dislodging the breath stuck in your throat, “I’m tired.” You fumble for the right words and Red waits, turning his back on the skyline, mask angled down.

Shaky hand brings your cigarette to your lips, breathing out a cloud of smoke. “So much of me is him… I don’t know—“ your voice cracks, “No one can help me carry the love he left me with. I don’t know where it goes.”

More silence—you’re starting to get comfortable with it. He lifts his head, and you think he might talk, instead, he carefully pulls off a glove, shoving it in his pocket so he can run a warm, calloused palm over your upper arm. You choke up at the gesture, gritting your teeth against the lump in your throat when your eyes catch on his bruised knuckles. Haven’t we been here before?

“Think ya just get bigger around it, doc.” Blinking at him, you dissolve into tears—a dam held in since this morning. Embarrassed, you close your eyes, tears running, unbidden, down your cheeks.

Red’s mask pulls back slightly in shock, “Fuck, sorry, m’not good at this, don’t—” He flounders a little, hand gripping your arm with a ferocity you know is unconscious. The physicality of the action steadies you.

“I’m not—” you huff out a wet laugh, “It’s not you, I just… you lose someone and everything you used to share becomes a sign. My life is marked by a ghost.”

“Fingerprints.”

“… yeah.” You crush your half-smoked cigarette against the railing, flicking it over the edge. You stand, awkwardly, next to each other; neither of you wanting to leave but both empty of words. Your hands tap nervously on the railing and you shove them in your pockets - if only to have something to do with them. Pulling out your lighter, you flick it on and off absently, watching the flame flicker under your control.

The lighter distracts you for a little, but soon you realise that Red has gone rigid beside you; the silence between you just slightly too thick. You shoot him an inquisitive glance, trying to gauge what he’s thinking.

“Nice lighter.” he says, gaze locked on the bird etched into it. Your brows furrow.

“It’s not really mine.” The truth, if obfuscated a little.

“Is it… a robin?” You shake your head, a little laugh escaping you at how bad your etching job must’ve been.

“A bluejay.” The second the words leave your mouth, he goes still - so still you’re unsure if he’s still breathing. “Red?”

“Blue?” You wave a hand in front of his face, shaking him out of a thousand yard stare into his coffee mug. “Earth to Jason Todd.” He shoots you a flat look and watches as your face breaks into a world-ending laugh. Leaning forward, he raps bruised knuckles against the counter. You shake your head to hide the split second of worry in your eyes at the sight of his hands. Jason notices.

“So why do you call me blue?” He says, trying to innocuously tuck his hands back under the table. You huff, clumsy hands dropping the dish you’re washing in the sink with a clatter. You lean on the edge of the sink, collecting yourself before you answer.

“Why do you call me birdie?”

“��Cause you’re small. ‘Nd you got a pretty voice.” He must imagine the bashful way you tuck your head into your shoulder. Like you liked that.

Picking up the plate you dropped, you rinse and dry it, letting him stew in your lack of answer for a little. “It's a play on words.” Jason’s brows knit, trying to think of the connection you’d conjured. “Blue. Like blue jay.”

“Ha ha.”

“I’m serious.”

His brows crease. “Why a bird?” (Why not a robin?)

You give him a funny look, eyes squinted like you’re reading his mind. You always seem to know what he’s thinking. Jason shifts in the barstool; feathers ruffled.

“It’s just a nickname, Jay.” Jason knows you; he knows the word ‘just’ doesn’t have a place in your vocabulary. But he spots the tiny crease in your brow, your red raw hands, the single knot on your apron in place of a double knot—reads your language. He takes a swig of coffee from his baby blue mug, grinning toothily before he changes the subject.

Bruce’s office door is closed when Jason returns to Wayne Manor, so Jason finds himself roaming the halls aimlessly. His feet carry him to the library—he still has to stand in awe every time he wanders between the statuesque shelves, spilling over with books.

Slipping further into the maze of shelves, Jason doesn’t quite know what he’s looking for until he spots it. His fingers graze an untouched ornithology book, sliding it into his lap. Cross-legged on the floor, Jason flips it open to the chapter on blue jays.

... so i'm not dead, lol, and I am still writing - albeit very slowly and sporadically. the past few months have been very hectic, but I'm going to have a lot more writing time now that my first term of uni (!!) is nearly over. anyway, sorry to keep you guys waiting and I hope you enjoy reading my silly story :)

with love, bugsy

#jason todd x reader #jason todd fic #x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd reader insert #love bugsy #series: the worst thing about love

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inej-ruination-ghafa · 2 months ago

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you're losing me - L.C

hits different | masterlist

Warnings: main character death, blood, injuries. Spoilers for The Last Olympian!!!

Summary: the one where luke finally realises that he has lost you and can't get you back

Wordcount: 3.2k words

Theseus: stop. give me your hand, I am your friend

Herakles: I fear to stain your clothes with blood

Theseus: stain them, I dont care

“Luke,” you called out his name and he didn’t even flinch. He had his back to you, the shit torn slightly, his skin caked with blood splatter like he had been in the firing line.

There was a sinking weight in your chest as you wondered if he was so far gone that he couldn’t even recognise his own name.

You called his name again and this time watched as he tensed up, turning on his heels to look at you. Standing in front of you was the face of someone that you had fallen in love with so many years ago.

He had the same curly hair that you used to run your hands through, the same scar over his eye even if it seemed to be deeper now. He held his sword the same way, knuckles white as he gripped onto the blade.

He had the same angry look in his eyes that he would have when you would discuss the God yet he was different. They were golden, almost glowing with the fury he felt towards the Gods.

This was not the man that you fell in love with, you were talking to Kronos, King of the Titans.

“That is no longer my name,” his voice was different too, like somebody had looped another voice over Lukes, a gruffer and more hoarse voice. Yet, you could still hear little quirks from him, like he was still in there

“It is,” you knew this was foolish, as you stepped over the body of one of your friends, ignoring the burning in your chest. You walked towards him, never taking your eyes off of him.

He tilted his head, giving you that look you were so familiar with. This wasn’t Luke, you tried to remember that but your heart was screaming that it was.

Being a child of Aphrodite had always made you prone to heartbreak. Luke had shattered your heart over and over again yet he was always there to mend it back together, your heart tied together with a golden string.

“It is,” you repeated, pausing on the battleground, “Stop this, your father is here for you,”

You knew that would make him angry, make that Godly blood boil in his veins and that was why you did it, to get a reaction out of him.

The man in front of you, part Kronos and part Luke, held his arm out, sword in hand. It glistened in the sunlight and was aimed at you. Yet you didn’t flinch. He would never hurt you.

“The gods, they told him that they would be there for him and they let him down,” he reasoned with you.

Your heart sank. Kronos was in control and it was obvious, referring to Luke almost as if he wasn’t there, “They didn’t let him down,” you knew that was a lie, knew that the Gods had let you all down.

“You told him the same, you told me you loved me,” he spat out, the gruffness fading from his voice, his eyes flickering brown.

you froze. That was Luke talking, that was the man that you had fallen in love with and you knew he was still inside of there.

“You said me,”

There it was again, the flicker between gold and brown in his eyes, the way his shoulders went from tense to relaxed. He was shifting in and out of the two people inhabiting the same body, “What?”

“You told me you loved me,” you couldnt help the smile that grew on your cheeks as you felt hope rise up in your chest, “he's in there,”

this was your moment to walk towards him, taking a few steps towards the man that you loved. He didn't move as you got closer and closer, the space between you fading.

Before you could get too close, he tensed up again and you watched as he started to glow. You couldn’t forget that this was the leader of the Titans that you were dealing with here and that he wasn’t going to let you bring Luke back so easily.

”he is just a body,” the voice said, fully deep now, almost like he had pushed Luke far down, like he was drowning him.

“He’s more than that,” you tried to reason with him, holding a hand out and Kronos looked down for a moment, seeing the ruby ring on your finger, the one he had given to you years ago. There was a flash of recognition and then back to the coldness as he stared up at you, “He is Luke Castellan,”

”Mortals,” he spat out.

He squeezed his eyes shut, almost like he had a headache. The headache was Luke who was trying to claw his way out, who was being pushed back down again and again so he couldn’t speak to you.

You were never going to give up. Your hand brushed along your abdomen, along the wound that you had taken earlier in the day. There was a cut on your face, bruises along your back, splatters of blood staining your camp shirt. You were never going to give up. Even if you were getting tired from rising from the ashes, he might have finally dealt the final blow.

You grimaced in the pain as you took another step, ribs burning. You put on a smile as you tried to find a way to reach the man you loved, “I met Luke and he had been at camp for 6 months. We spared and I disarmed him immediately. He smiled at me, a toothy grin and Chiron told me that he had not smiled in weeks,”

There it was again, the flicker of Luke, the small ounce of recognition. He was giving you an inch and you were taking a mile, walking step by step closer to him.

You had given him all of your best moments, your empathy, your love. You had bled dry ever since just to try and bring him back, fighting fo him. Still, it was never enough.

“Quiet,” his voice bellowed out throughout the street that they found themselves in, his word ricocheting off of the skyscrapers and office buidings.

He held his swore out, the one that was half tempered steel and half celestial. It was a killer and it was pressed up against your throat, the blade pressing against your skin so tight it was drawing blood.

You ignored the pain, ignored the blood dripping down your neck, ”we first kissed in the back of the same building. He kissed me against the amphitheatre walls, it was perfect,” you smiled to yourself as you remembered that night, remembered the way he had held you like you were all that mattered.

The sword at your neck faltered and you let go of a breath that you hadn’t realised you were holding. You watched as his eyes turned that deep shade of brown that you had stared into for so long and you felt the relief wash over you.

You didn’t move for a second in case something happened that pulled him away from you again. You were hesitant, the air tense as you waited for him to do something.

”That was a long time ago baby,” he said in the voice you had always loved.

You sighed, “Hi Luke,”

He took a step forward, hand coming up to caress your cheeks as he held you for the first time in three years, “Babe,” you wanted to beg him to do something, to say something that would make you realise he was coming back to you. This was close enough.

you leaned into his touch. For the first time since he had vanished from camp, you felt at ease, like there was nothing wrong with the world. You allowed your eyes to flutter close, the fatigue taking over you as you began to feel the pain of your injuries.

You opened your eyes again and looked at him, almost like it was the last time you would ever get to see him. You traced the curves of his face, the fullness of his lips, the freckles that dusted his cheeks, the way his lashes brushed against the apples of his cheeks.

He had aged since you had last been this close to him, lines in his face that hadn’t been there before, the bags under his eyes had grown. He was still the same person underneath it all.

Before you could say anything else, before you could try and bring him back to you, his eyes shone golden again and his hand whipped past you, knocking you to your feet.

You let out a cry as you hit the ground, the wound on your stomach colliding with the curb. You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the pain take over you for a second.

”you cannot try and coax him out, he is too far gone,” the voice said, all gruff and full of anger. This was Kronos, this was the monster who had stolen the man that you had loved.

You pursed your lips together, letting the pain of the battle wash over you before you stood up and faced him again, “His Achilles heel, it's not wherever you think it is. It's me,” you spat the words out, like all of the anger that you felt was finally coming up. You were done playing nice.

Kronos stared at you without any compassion and you were not going to let this happen. You were not going to let him win even if it kills you.

”Luke, my love, listen closely,” you could feel the tears burning behind your eyes. You knew what you had to say to bring him back to you but admitting it was something that you were struggling to do, “I am going to die. I am going to bleed out here on the steps of the building we were going to call home one day and you will watch,”

His gaze faltered, eyes flickering back between brown and gold like there was some sort of internal battle that you weren’t privy too. It was like Luke was trying to claw his way back out to talk to you, to understand what was going on.

”No, no, you wouldn't do that to me,” there it was. He was here, the boy that you loved and it seemed like he had control for a moment, tears spilling over his cheeks as he processed the words

”I thought you wouldn't betray me and here we are,”

You pulled your hand away from your stomach. When you had hit the curb, the bandage had slipped and you had tried to hold it up but it was no use. You had been dying since the moment that you had stepped onto the street, since you had laid eyes on him.

He watched you as you moved slowly, hand caked in blood. It was staining through your shirt, spreading quickly and he knew that you had little time left.

You fell to your knees as you finally allowed the fatigue to take over you, for all of that exhaustion that you had been carrying around for years to catch up to you, Luke finally noticed how tired you seemed, how your skin had paled and your cheeks lost their rosy colour.

”My love,” he got down onto his knees so that he could look at you properly, one of his hands coming down to put pressure on the wound.

You held onto his hand, letting yourself relish in his touch for just a moment longer. You knew your time was coming to an end, that you would die before the sun set over the city you had grown up in.

“Please, please, there has to be something I can do,” he begged, his voice breaking like a little boy. He hoped a cure would come through but both of you knew that it wasn’t going to. The poison was going to kill you.

Shaking your head, he let out a sob as he realised how final this was. There was no way that he was going to be able to save you. But he could always try.

Before he could figure out a way to save you, he as jerked up, almost like a puppet on a string. His muscles drawn taught and his head held high, “Foolish boy, he cannot finish the job, but I can,”

”Luke, I dont have long left,” your eyes were heavy and you were tired. There was no time for him to be fighting Kronos right now, there was no time for anything, “Its poisoned. The rest of the Apollo cabin are dead,”

A tear slipped down his cheeks, his eyes were still glistening gold and you were confused who it was that you were talking to at that moment. He looked like Kronos, the posture, the coldness, yet here he was crying for you.

“You didn't do this. This wasn't you,” you tried to tell Luke. You knew that when he survived this battle and chose the right path, that he would see himself as the one who had killed you, “When you make it out the other side, please dont blame yourself. I will love you from beyond the grave, and I will see you in Elysium,”

he let out a sob, eyes turning brown as he reached a hand forward. His shoulders slumped and he collapsed onto his knees, unable to hold himself up anymore. He crawled over to you, tears staining his cheeks.

“Please,” he cried out, not wanting this to happen. There had to be some other way around this.

As soon as he got back to you, the fatigue washed over you and you collapsed. He caught you like he knew it was going to happen, holding your limp body in his arms, his hand coming up to support your head.

Your eyes were heavy as you looked up at the man that you loved. Here he was, all of that innocence that had been there when you met was gone and you were left with this, “I love you. Don’t blame yourself,”

You reached your hands up to grip onto something real, your blood stained hands smearing along his armour, clutching onto anything that you could get a hold on.

Luke sobbed again. He was just a little boy again, watching Thalia die in the forest, watching you choose the camp over him over and over again.

There were tears spilling down his cheeks and they were soaking into your shirt. He held you tight, like he was afraid that you would fade away into his memory if he relinquished his grip on you.

”No, no, no, this was not the plan. Kronos, you promised me she would live. We would rule together,” he cried out, almost like he was speaking to Kronos.

You wondered what was going on inside of his mind, as if he was speaking to the Titan himself, holding him away from the body as he had his final moments with you.

“He has betrayed you Luke, and he will do it again,” this was your last chance to try and turn him back to you.

You reached up and placed a hand on your cheek, pulling his face down so that it was closer to you. His face was stained in your blood, a bloody handprint left where you had touched him.

“Kiss me one last time,” you begged.

He let out a sob at the finality of it all. He wondered if you would make it out of this alive. He was going to rule the world by the end of the day, there has to be something that he could do to save you.

The tears spille down Luke Castellan’s cheeks as he thought about all of the time that he had lost with you because of this mission, because of this desperate need inside of himself to change the world.

“You’re gonna live, im gonna get you help,” he promised.

“Kiss me first,” your words were tired, slurred together slightly.

There was some hesitation inside of him, like he wondered that if he kissed you, you would die. He looked down at you, eyes flickering down to your lips and he leaned in.

Luke kissed you softly, chaste. It was like the first time all over again, like the moment that he had kissed you in the amphitheatre.

The kiss conveyed all of the emotions that you had both been unable to say in the last three years, that you loved one another, that all of this fighting was to try and save the other person

When he pulled away, his let his hand brush against your cheek, the blood there smudging as he touched your skin. You opened your eyes after a second, allowing yourself to look at him one last time.

You let your last moments be that of staring into his eyes. His eyes. The deep brown ones that had caught your gaze the first time you had stepped into the camp, the ones that had always challenged you.

“I love you Luke Castellan,” the words spilled from your mouth, the honest gospel.

”I love you more, I did all this for you. I would have burnt the world down and given you everything that you had ever wanted,” he said, a sob racking through his chest at the end.

”I only ever wanted you,”

Those were the last words you ever said. Your head fell backwards in his arms, your body going limp. Your eyes remained open, positioned up to the sky.

He screamed, letting out a sob as he held you. Using all of his strength, he held you up against his chest, rocking himself back and forth as he held your body. He sobbed into your shoulder, hand coming to brush against your hair almost like it would wake you up again but he knew you were gone.

Luke couldn’t stop the tears that were spilling down his cheeks as he held you there. This was all his fault. That was all he kept repeating to himself as he held you against his chest. There was no pulse, your heart having stopped beating. He had lost you.

You don’t ever know what you have until it is gone.

When Luke sacrificed himself for Annabeth and Percy later that day, your name had been the last thing on his lips, a plead for your body to be laid to rest beside his. And so it was.

When he held you again in Elysium, you both agreed for rebirth. This was going to be your chance to find each other again. Maybe in this second life, you would be able to have a happy ending.

#luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan fanfiction #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #luke percy jackson #luke pjo #tw character death #charlie bushnell #percy jackson spoilers #percy jackson fanfiction #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson #pjo tv show

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proxycrit · 1 year ago

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Elesa climbs to celestial tower to ring the bell. Emmet, stuck in between the distortion world, finds his way home.

Part 1/ Part 2

The conductor falls, down, down, down.

“What’s my name?” He calls to the abyss in terror (what is terror?)

He’s a singular being, right? (That’s not right. He’s one of a pair.)

The abyss gazes back. It has no answers to give, in its multitude.

Not to someone that’s so, so alone.

———

Somewhere else, one Elesa of Nimbasa rings the Celestial Tower’s Bell, over and over. Her companion, Chandelure, keeps watch.

Nothing happens.

Elesa’s stomach sinks. The reverberations of Celestial Tower’s brass bell mocks her in its echo. The vibrations of it’s distortion only makes the tears she tries to hold at bay worse.

In the blur of her failure, she sees chandelure’s flames suddenly die. Part of her panics.

The rest of her is apathetic and numb.

What’s the point? It didn’t work. Elesa closes her eyes. Tries to swallow, and fails. She’s so tired. She’s so, so tired. The deal with Azelf, the media storm she’s weathered, the constraints of her job, the almost loss of chandelure-

Emmet has been gone for three months. Ingo has been gone even longer.

They have gone where she can’t follow.

Elesa, the ghost whispers in her head. Elesa shakes her head in denial. She doesn’t want to plan right now. She wants to curl into herself, and disappear, just for a bit.

Elesa!

“I can’t do this,” she croaks. The sob in the back of her throat bubbles outwards. She wants Zebrstika. She wants Skyla. She wants her friends.

The paliphet Azelf forced her forward. It permeates her thoughts, drowning out logical thought.

(Too much willpower, and it will become an obsession, Azelf had warned her once in Ingo’s voice. And then, in Emmet’s voice: And when you fail, it willll break you. And finally, in her own voice: you will not have a choice but to move forward, with this curse.

I accept, elesa and told it back in the lake.)

I’m so tired, Elesa thinks now, two months later.

But she keeps moving forward. The bell rings again as Elesa strikes it, with all the hurt and rage and longing forced by her own hand into her soul-

-And that’s when chandelure screams, and there is a terrible rolling crack, and Elesa feels the sudden lurch in her gut as she looks up, her apathy torn into shreds as-

The sky tears open in a fractal wave.

Elesa gapes.

She can not comprehend the sudden black webbing across the sky. In the distance, sirens suddenly start wailing as people stop to perceive the impossible.

But Elesa does not care, because in that moment, the wrench in her gut is so great she almost staggers off the platform. Chandelure is by her side in an instant, her glass body a warm comfort to the sudden chill, because-

Something white is falling.

Elesa’s doesn’t know what she yells. But the tug in her chest feels like the beat of a drum, and she is helpless to the melody that calls for action.

Azelf’s blessed takes a leaping step forward, off the building. Chandelure lets out a panicked chime and the warmth of psychic cradles Elesa as she reaches out, arms outstretched, falling and flying and-

And Emmet, sparking with white electricity, reaches back.

NOTES:

AU’s Salvaging the Ship of Theseus! Everybody has a Bad Time. (Emmet and Eelektross go to Hisui and learn about the joys of the distortion world. Elesa hunts legends and makes bad deals. Ingo babysits some sneaslets.)

Backstory and explanation:

Prior this scene, Emmet was travelling Hisui with Eelektross before he falls through a mirror and becomes lost in the distortion world for a month. Elesa and Chandelure, meanwhile, refuse to give up on their remaining friend. (Ingo’s fine! He’s in Hisui right now trying to get fired so he can go searching for his memories. Eelektross is… less fine. We will Worry about That Later.)

Disclaimers: Everything’s a work in progress and subject to change!

Part 2!

#submas #submas au #salvaging the ship of theseus #(gives you a drabble)#this fucking scene…. living in my head… HARASSING ME UNTIL I WRITE AND DRAW IT.#BEGONE FOUL DEMONS #emmet #elesa #chandelure #pokemon #pokemon au #hope this haunts you as much as it haunts me #critdraws #critterbitter screams into the void #submas angst #submas fanfiction #fanfic #Spotify

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meanderingwistera · 20 days ago

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Labyrinth

Lost in your current like a priceless wine.- Willow, Taylor Swift

Summary - After helping Theseus through the labyrinth under your father’s palace he promises to make you Queen of Athens. Soon after leaving Crete you are left on the beaches of Naxos where a certain God resides.

When Satoru finds you he decides to help you out of boredom and curiosity but that soon turns into something else.

Pairing - Dionysus!Satoru Gojo x reader

Content - Fluff, angst, smut, murder, depression, Gojo being Gojo, miscommunication (sadly), idiots in love, oral fem receiving, Theseus bashing

Word count - 8.3k

A/N - I would fight Theseus in a waffle house parking lot

Deep under the palace of Crete is a large labyrinth made for a beast.

Some say the beast was a creature with three heads, each with large snapping jaws. Others didn’t even want to acknowledge the beast. But there were many rumors about why the beast was there and how the King might have tamed it.

As the Princess of Crete and only child of Minos you know the full horrible story. The Minotaur was your sibling. Your mother’s blood ran through it. So you could not bear to look at the door to the labyrinth when you walked by.

It hurts to know that you are related to the Minotaur but also that you will never know your younger sibling. There is a bond between you two that you will never understand.

One day a boy arrived with a group of Athenians who would be sacrificed to the Minotaur. Something about him was different. He stood taller and his gaze never wavered like the rest. His grin pulled you in like no other.

You don’t know why you did it. Not even to this day do you understand your heart driven decision. But you carefully slipped into the cell where the Athenian boy was, a ball of string clutched in your hands.

His eyes lit up at the sight of you.

You explained the best way to defeat the Minotaur and how to escape the labyrinth. You feel bashful at the handsome boy’s eyes that trace the lines of your face as if admiring fine silk.

“Thank you-” He whispers as he takes the string. “Come find me after and I will take you from this place and make you my Queen.”

A Queen.

So this must be the Prince of Athens, Thesus. You had only heard his name vaguely once or twice. He seems kind, his hands are rough in yours but you don’t mind it.

“I will wait by the boats for you.” You whisper back with a love struck smile.

That night as your father rejoices as the Athenians are slain by your brother you stay in your room.

You wait anxiously for some sign he has done it. In your doubt you run your hands through your hair and down your robes for comfort. As the moon is at its highest point a shout is heard. The palace shakes and yells ring out. He must have gotten out and slain your brother.

You rush to the boats. The waters are gentle as you run to your love. He is sitting in a boat just off shore with his men. His smile is wide and he stands when he sees you. You jump into his arms and he spins you around in delight.

After years of wanting to be in love, love has found you.

Naxos is a beautiful island.

The ships have come to rest here for a while before they sail on to Athens. You sit content on a rock as the sea breeze takes an edge off the summer heat. Theseus is near you, giving commands to his men.

You feel fatigued. Even though the anxiety that has gripped you after you left Crete. What if your Father found you? What if you threw away your life for something worse?

He walks over to you with a soft smile, drawing you out of your mind, “You can rest if you like. I will wake you when we are to leave.”

You smile up at your future husband.

“Thank you.”

You find a comfortable spot on the shore and doze off for a while.

Hours later you wake to see that night has fallen. You sit up slowly and look around for Theseus. But the only sign of humanity is a long put out fire and Its ashes have long since gone out.

Getting up urgently you search the shore for the boats. They are gone. There are no boats on the horizon either.

They are long gone.

He left you.

You cry and run down the beach in hopes he left something for you. Anything, a reason, an apology, even a scrap of his clothes. But the beach is barren of anything besides the campfire.

With tears staining your cheeks you sit in the sand. Drawing up your knees you hug them for some sort of comfort. You train your eyes on the horizon.

Maybe they will come back for you.

Satoru sips leisurely at the wine in his cup. It has a sweet taste to it, which is the best kind in his opinion. Bitter wine is fine but the sweet after taste makes it all worth it.

The sounds of the party happening around him fades away. He takes another sip and feels the buzz in his head grow. Satoru looks around at all these people around him and sighs. He doesn’t really know any of them.

Shoko rarely comes to parties anymore and Suguru is far too besotted with the goddess of spring to come with him to these things. So he is left on his own far more than he would like.

The party to celebrate the upcoming change of seasons is in full swing.

The star of the party, Utahime, is probably off sulking. But the gods celebrate anyway, Satoru included. Autumn is the season of harvest therefore his domain flourishes during this time so if she wants to throw a tantrum it won’t affect his fun.

As he stands in the corner a dryad walks by him with a tray of ambrosia. With a flirtatious grin he reaches for one. The dryad stops to giggle at him and offer him more. Then she moves on quickly after he takes one.

Most of the nymphs on Olympus know how he is. A notorious flirt but nothing more. It wasn’t like he never slept with anyone but they knew it was rare for him to be that intimate with anyone.

The party doesn’t get any better so he leaves early. He debates going home but he isn’t ready to sleep. Satoru feels restless in his skin as he decides to walk the beaches of Naxos.

He walks out of the thicket he had appeared in. As he approaches the beach the trees thin out and finally end. The sound of the ocean enters his ears. Its soft crashes soothe some of the intense boredom he feels.

Satoru's feet hit the sand and he begins to meander down the beach. As he walks something- no someone catches his eye.

The pale beaches of Naxos are a contrast to the torn purple dress of the woman sitting in the sand. Her eyes are on the spot where the horizon kisses the sky. She looks out at the water longingly, like it was a lost loved one.

Satoru approaches carefully hoping to get a better look at this interesting mortal. He doesn’t usually interfere with the boring affairs of mortals like the others but he is rather bored so why not.

She looks back at him as he approaches, her eyes are rimmed with red and the sun shaped blush on her cheeks is smudged from crying.

“What is a beautiful woman like you crying on the beach?” He asks with a curious smile.

The woman looks down then back out at the sea, “My intended left me here.”

He hums in understanding and sits down next to her on the sand. Her reaction is very different from the fights he has seen over lovers in the heavens. Maybe the Gods are a petty bunch but she seems not the least bit angry.

How interesting.

“He doesn’t seem too fun to be around, why did you choose him?” Satoru asks, long legs sprawled out in the sand and leaning back on his palms.

She laughs without mirth.

“I was stupid enough to love him.”

Tears form in the corners of her eyes.

“He promised me that I would be his love and his Queen. And I believed him because I didn’t know any better.”

Satoru feels uncharacteristic rage fill him. To promise someone the world then leave them when you tire of them is cruel. But instead of getting angry he chooses to comfort her.

“I am sorry,” He says, “I may not be one to be tied down but leading someone on like that is horrible.”

She smiles sadly, “I don’t want your pity. I just want to waste away on this beach.”

Satoru clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“We can’t have that! Come home with me?” Satoru offers.

The woman blinks up at him in pure disbelief, her red rimmed eyes wide. Satoru can’t help but laugh at her bewildered expression.

“I don’t even know you?” She squeaks out in protest.

Satoru stands up and holds out a hand to help her up, “Satoru, God of Wine at your service.”

The woman looks hesitant before taking it.

This should entertain him for a while

The large palace built into the rock of one of the mountains on Naxos was beautiful. It was all white stone and blue accents. Satoru leads you through the palace, his voice fills your silence.

You really didn’t know how much one man could talk until you met him. It was very surprising that he didn’t run out of air as he speaks to you about anything that comes to his mind.

It’s not like you care too much. You just want to find a bed to waste away in. He had been strangely insistent on not leaving you alone on the beach so you gave in. If he wanted to do something he would’ve done it already, he was a god after all.

So you just mutely followed him down the halls to wherever he was taking you.

“-oh I forgot to ask your name!” Satoru remembers and turns back to you.

You tell him your name quietly and also that you are from Crete. He nods and grins.

“I haven’t been to Crete in many years, what is it like?” He asks you in an attempt to get you to talk.

“I wouldn’t know,” You admit numbly, “I never left the palace.”

He raises an eyebrow curiously, “Did you have a high status there?”

You don’t answer for a minute, not wanting this man’s pity for your loss of status.

“I will take that as a yes then Princess.” He says cheerfully.

He must have already known or had guessed at it and was testing to see if he was right. You were glad that he didn’t pity you but you couldn’t really fight him on it now since he had let you stay here.

As the two of you walk you can’t help but stare at the beautiful palace. A lot of it had windows or open archways, giving it an airy feel. The water crashes gently below the half-open hallway he is leading you through. You can see the ocean as it extends for miles from here.

Satoru comes to a halt outside of a room with a blueish green colored door. He opens it to reveal a large room with white walls. It is much larger than your room back home and certainly bigger than the small captain’s quarters on the ship.

He walks in and you follow suit.

The bed is big, blue and beautiful. You felt so tired that the rest of the room didn’t matter too much to you. Crawling into it you hear a soft chuckle from Satoru but it doesn’t deter you from closing your eyes.

You just need to sleep for a while.

When Satoru leaves you have already drifted off to sleep. He knows that you are probably tired, mortals get tired very easily so he lets you rest.

As soon as he is a few feet from the door a group of dryads walk up to him. The ring leader is Cleo, a grapevine nymph who has been in his life for many years. Her light green eyes are a light with curiosity.

“Satoru.” Her voice is nonchalant but he knows her game well. He can’t help but grin as she continues, “You never bring anyone home- so who is that?”

The rest of the dryads nod fervently, backing up her question. Cleo’s arms are crossed as she waits for him to answer.

“I stole a princess.” He replies, his grin widening.

“A real princess?” Helena asks with disbelief in her wide eyes.

“She is very real!” Satoru laughs, “And I would like you to take care of whatever she needs.”

Cleo looks unimpressed but huffs good naturedly in agreement. The other dryads twitter in agreement and interest as he walks off. Before he leaves he throws a look over his shoulder to see them looking in on you.

You will be in good hands.

When you wake up next there is a distant conversation coming from inside your room. You make no move to get up or to open your eyes. The voices are too low to really hear them so you just roll over and hope sleep finds you again.

This bed is more comfortable then anything you have ever been on in your life. It was like sleeping on a cloud.

The soft ocean sounds pull you back into sleep.

Satoru doesn’t have a set “job” like a lot of other gods. His job was really just wine. Not that he complained about the freedom he had. Suguru was tied down to the underworld and Shoko had her coven he would never wish to be tied down in that way.

So he mostly just went wherever he was needed or to check in on his followers. Sometimes he is gone for hours and other times it is days.

This time he was gone for two days. A few worshippers need his help and he mostly just annoyed Shoko after that. But his mind kept drifting back to you and how you were doing.

You had been so weak and tired when he found you so he hopes that you have had your rest. He was also very interested in you in general. Satoru had been without something interesting for so long that you could take up all his attention if he wanted.

Satoru walks down the hall to your room. You hadn’t been up and around in the halls so he assumed that you would be there. As he approaches the dryads turn to him all of them have worried expressions on their faces.

“She hasn’t gotten up or eaten for two days!” Helena exclaims, her voice on the verge of panic.

“We haven’t been able to coax her out of there, poor dear.” Daphne says with a look of worry on her face.

“You need to try to talk to her.” Cleo tells him, a sternness to her expression that makes him barge into your room.

He finds you where he left you two days ago. You are curled around yourself and the pillow you have in a vice grip. The torn dress you had on two days ago hasn’t been changed and he assumes that you haven’t even gotten out of that bed this entire time.

Satoru walks over and shakes your shoulder. It is light but he tries to shake you from sleep. You open one eye slightly and he brightens considerably.

“I have come to make sure you get up and eat.” Satoru says cheerfully in hopes that it infects you.

“Leave me alone.” You grumble and close the eye you had opened.

He can’t help but pout slightly at your refusal. Satoru doesn’t understand what to do now, he turns back to Cleo who motions with her hands for him to try again. With a roll of his eyes he turns back to you.

“You need to eat so you don’t die. Humans need food and water to survive, why you are refusing it is beyond me.” Satoru says with his arms crossed.

Silently you open your eyes and sit up. Your eyes have dark circles under them as you stare at him unwaveringly. It is almost as if your gaze can see through him in a way not people have.

“I am not a pet you can play with when you want.” You tell him, a rage burning in your eyes.

It is the first emotion besides sadness that he has seen from you.

“I don’t know why you helped me but you can go feel better about yourself now and leave me here.”

Satoru blinks down at you, his surprise plain on his face. He never thought about your feelings in this. All he had thought about was how interesting you were and about his own boredom. He feels a twinge of guilt in his chest as he looks down at you.

“I am sorry for not taking your feelings into this.” He says to you. “I would genuinely like to be your friend and help you.”

You debate it. Satoru watches the split second emotions that cross your face as you think. He hopes that he can get through to you, it makes something ache in his chest to see you wilt like this.

“Sure, we can be friends.” You say and he smiles wide.

His smile drops as you lay back down and hold the pillow back to your chest. With a huff he tries to think of a way to coax you back out of your shell. An idea comes to his mind and he is quick to act on it.

“Well-” He hooks his arms under your back and knees to lift you up. “-as your friend I am making you eat to take care of yourself!”

You struggle in his grip as he turns to where the dryads have been watching the whole thing. They look horrified as he basically drags you out of bed kicking and screaming.

“Put me down!” You yell at him and hit his shoulder.

“Nope!” Satoru refuses.

You continue to struggle until about halfway to the dining room. After that you sit in his arms with a sour look on your face.

Once in the dining room he sets you down gently in a chair. You cross your arms and don't look at him like a child. He wonders if this is what it is like to deal with him when he is in one of his moods. Daphne sets down a bowl of oranges in front of you.

You just stare at them, unmoving. She quickly exits the room but gives you a sad glance as she leaves. You are a sad sight, all sunken and exhausted like this. All because of that stupid prince, he should pay him a visit sometime.

Satoru takes one of the oranges and peels it. He had never cared for oranges, they were so hard to eat. Their skin makes it hard to peel them open. Grapes were much easier to eat but maybe he is biased.

Still he gets little pieces of the rine under his nails for you. You watch him quizzically as he splits the sections in half to make it easier for you to eat. He slides them over to you with an expectant look.

Your eyes soften slightly around the corners as you pick up one of the sections. He watches with a grin as you eat.

Satoru may not know what it is like to be completely helpless or unable to get out of bed but he can be careful and patient. As a god he has time and patience in abundance so he will let you take the time you need.

After that first day Satoru eats with you to make sure you actually eat. You feel very much like a petulant child when he forces you to eat and take care of yourself. Even if you recognize that you need help, your deep set pride makes you want to hide your weaknesses from him.

You know being this broken after a fleeting infatuation is stupid but you feel so worthless. That’s why Thesus left you on Naxos right? You had served your purpose and no longer mattered.

So why should you even try to get up again?

But Satoru doesn’t let you not get up. He pushes you and lets you take your time to regain yourself. For being a god he is gentle with you when you need it. He no longer tramples over your feelings, he helps you to feel them.

After two weeks at the palace it starts to feel like a home to you. The little balcony outside your room has two couches and a table for when you want to sit next to the sea. You have begun to move things to your liking in the room Satoru gave you.

Helena was a big help to you when you were rearranging things.

When Satoru was out she was with you. Her bubbly personality made her extremely likeable. You couldn’t help but smile at her when she rambled about her sisters.

As much as you enjoy the company of the dryads you have begun to enjoy Satoru’s company. It was annoying at first but when he leaves you begin to miss the shape of his smile or that gleam in his eyes that tells you that he is up to something again.

Satoru frequently walks with you around the palace and down to the beach. He has many stories about the rest of the gods. You ask him many questions about them and he is more than happy to tell you. He also asks you about your life back on Crete.

“It was lonely.” You admit softly, looking out at the sea. “I never really talked to anyone, my father was protective and never let anyone but my suitors around me.”

“You had suitors?” Satoru ask you with interest.

“Many!” You remark, “I have heard so many stories of “great feats” done in order to win my hand over the years.”

Satoru laughs a bit and you continue,

“One man had been fifteen years older then me at the time, he had just lost his wife. And his bright idea to make me accept his proposal was to tell me that he had a daughter around my age.”

Your stomach twists a bit as you tell him about it. You had meant for it to be a funny story but it now is all coming to the surface of your mind. The man had been rejected quickly but his very presence made you feel anxious.

“Other than the suitors it was fine, a little lonely.” You shut down the conversation quickly.

It is quiet for a while before Satoru speaks again.

“I hope that here is better than Crete.” He says, his blue eyes search your expression for any form of discomfort.

“Much better.” You agree with the first genuine smile you have had in weeks.

It feels good to smile again.

For the past two weeks Satoru has been more content than in the past few years. You are slowly opening up to his gentle prying. It was almost mesmerising to watch you get closer with the dryads or even delve into his library which he hasn’t used for years.

His favorite moments are when you are reading. Your eyes flit across the page with fervent curiosity and he can’t get enough of that life that is slowly coming back into your eyes.

It’s a peaceful day, you are sitting down on one of the couches Satoru had brought onto the balcony. The wind brushes past your face and ruffles your hair. He lays down on the opposite couch and stares at you.

Lowering the book in your hands you look over at him with one brow raised. Satoru can’t help but grin as he gets your attention.

“Continue!” He chirps and pulls your legs into his lap. “I’m not even here.”

“You are going to get bored of this soon.” You tell him with an unimpressed look.

“I haven't been bored in two weeks, I don’t think I will start now.” Satoru says back, waving off your concern.

“If you say so.”

You go back to reading your book and Satoru can see you being pulled back into its pages. He watches a small crease form in between your eyebrows. Satoru almost wants to smooth it out with his thumb.

“So-” You look up from your book as he stares at you intently, “I wanted to know if you wanted to go to a party with me?”

“A party?” You ask.

He hums in answer and taps your knee, “I’m supposed to attend- but if you don’t want to go I don’t feel like it.”

You huff, “You shouldn’t not show up if you need to.”

“But you won’t be there! How am I supposed to be there if you’re here, completely unbothered and alone?” He groans and flops back against the couch dramatically.

“You are perfectly capable but if it is as bad as you say I will tag along.” You relent with a smile.

Satoru’s smile turns blinding as you go back to reading, a pleased look on your face.

Looking at yourself in the mirror you are convinced you are a different person. The e kohl under your eyes makes the color more prominent. Your lips are lined in a deeper shade of red than before and the blush on your cheeks is lighter.

“Do you like it?” Daphne asks with a smile, her hands helping to pin up your hair.

“I look so different.” You remark with awe.

She giggles at your disbelief and pins the last section of your hair up, “Perfect.”

“Thank you.” You tell her and get up from your seat.

“Lord Satoru will love it.” Daphne says and takes both of your hands in hers. You must look confused because she laughs and guides you to the door, “He has a penchant for beautiful things and you more than fit that description.”

It makes your stomach do a little flip at the thought of Satoru finding you beautiful. You had never even considered he might, you hadn't felt beautiful since Crete.

Satoru had always seemed so emotionally distant and only close enough to meet your needs. Sure, you have seen his happiness or his flippant nature but nothing besides that. Now you want to know more about him as a person.

Maybe this evening you might.

As you exit the door with Daphne, Satoru is waiting. He looks almost the same except his robes are a more vibrant purple color and the crown of grape vines in his white hair. It was the most dressed up you had ever seen him, besides the night he found you. Hearing you coming, his blue eyes rise up to meet yours.

Satoru’s eyes blink a few times before he makes his way over. He seems to compose himself and his regular grin spreads on his face as he meets you halfway. Daphne leaves the two of you alone with a knowing grin. She rushes off, most likely to tell all the other dryads about this.

“You look good.” He tells you and offers you his arm.

You take it and try your best not to flush red under his gaze, “Thank you, you do as well.”

If he notices your cheeks being a shade brighter than before, he doesn’t say anything. You are thankful that he doesn’t tease you for it.

“Let’s go Princess.” He says with a wink and the two of you are gone in a flash.

You had only heard stories about the hall of the gods. Its large white marble walls reached up into the soft clouds above the mountain. But this was somehow grander than what you had imagined.

People- no, gods crowd its halls and walk past the two of you. You get a few looks, mostly confusion and some look interested. Satoru keeps you by his side as he walks in, his grip is grounding to you as the two of you navigate around all the gods.

Nymphs of all kinds walk around with trays of food and drink. You accidentally brush past one and apologize but she was already whisked away by the crowd.

“It’s so crowded!” You exclaim to Satoru.

“It’s a lot the first time but eventually you get the hang of it.” He says and guides you to a far wall where the crowds are more scarce.

Once you are along the wall you feel like you can breathe again. Satoru’s eyes search your face as you try to calm down your racing heart. He holds your hand as you breathe.

“Do you need some air?” He asks you, a crease in his eyebrows.

“Just a minute but I can find a balcony-” You wave off his concern, “You do what you need to do and enjoy.”

Satoru looks like he wants to say something more but just nods and lets go of your hand. You mourn the loss of contact but walk out the archway to find a place to get some air.

The gardens here are extensive and seem to go on forever. You can see almost every type of flower and tree here. All of them are frozen in their prime, their leaves and flowers in full bloom.

You pass by a small garden with a large fountain. Water lillies cover most of its surface and the water spilling from it has the same calming effect as the ocean.

Walking into the garden you don’t notice the woman sitting on the edge of the fountain. She stares at you with a gleam of intrigue, her eyes looking you over. Her deep purple dress is so long that it drapes on the ground.

“Hello.” She says cheerfully and pats the spot beside her, “I haven’t seen many humans on Olympus, let me have a good look at you.”

You oblige her gentle pull and sit down next to her. She looks you over with an appreciative hum, pleased with what she sees. A few pieces of blonde hair fall from her intricate hairstyle and into her face.

She is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen and it amplifies every insecurity you ever had about yourself. You don’t think you should be here, next to Satoru when he could have someone more suited to him then you.

Sensing your distress the woman takes your hand in hers, lightly brushing a thumb over your knuckles.

“What is bothering you dear?” She asks sweetly.

“I don’t think I belong here.” You admit to her and look down.

“I thought the same way for a while.” She tells you. “When I first came here there was a big fuss made about it. I was fought over like a prize that everyone wanted. I eventually found someone who helped me feel like I belonged. You will find that too.”

You think back to Satoru and how he had held your hand to try to soothe your anxiety, his eyes searching your face in concern. His gentle coaxing and prodding to get you out of your shell. With Satoru you have never felt more at home.

The realization hits you like a ton of bricks.

You are in love with Satoru.

All the feelings you tried to deny bubble up to the surface. You want to stay with him and have him pry you open gently. You want him to help you through the bad days and the crying. You want him.

Standing up the woman grins, a dimple forming in her right cheek.

“It looks like you have found that person.”

After that push you practically run back to the hall to talk to Satoru. You need to tell him how you feel, even if it ruins what you have you need to get it out.

You push through the crowd of people to try to find him. Most of the people get out of your way but you do bump into a few of them. All you give them is a rushed apology and continue trying to find him.

When you finally find him he is against the same wall that you were at before you left for the garden.

“Satoru-!”

Your voice cuts off as you see him give a crooked grin to a pretty water nymph. She trails a hand up his chest and your heart shatters on the marble floor below you. In your brain you know he isn’t yours, he never promised you anything but your heart screams that it’s been betrayed again.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes as the nymph whispers something into his ear. He throws his head back with a laugh at something she says.

You don’t belong here, that woman was wrong.

You want to go home.

Satoru can’t find you.

He has checked almost everywhere. His heart beat picks up as he frantically walks around the gardens. He looks in one final place, a small garden.

Much to his dismay he only find Yuki, sitting on the edge of a fountain. She has a sour expression to her face as he approaches her. His brow scrunches in confusion as she raises a perfect eyebrow.

“Have you seen the woman I was here with?” He asks her, a hint of panic in his voice.

“She wanted to go back so I took her back to your palace Satoru.” She says, her eyes all too knowing.

“Why didn’t she come to me?” Satoru asks her.

“You should ask her, she will have an answer for you.” Yuki deflects.With a huff he walks away from her, she was of no help to him now.

One step Satoru is on Olympus, the next he is in the hall where your room is. You should be here if not he will check the library. He feels dread seep into his chest.

When he approaches your door Cleo is outside, her posture rigid. She looks over at his approach, her face cold. Her lips are pressed into a hard line and her arms cross over her chest.

“What happened to her?” He asks.

Cleo doesn’t say anything for a moment before opening her mouth to speak, “I should be asking you that.”

Satoru looks confused, “I don’t know what happened.”

She gives him an almost pitying expression.

“My Lady doesn’t wish to see you at this moment, please come back in the morning.” Cleo says and slips back into the room.

He can see you for a split second through the door, you are surrounded by the dryads, each of them comforting you. You look down at the ground, as broken as the day he found you.

Satoru’s heart breaks as the door shuts him out. He needs to know who hurt you, who did this to you, so he can make them pay for this grievance sin. His mind goes back to Theseus, maybe now was the time to pay him a visit.

He must have hurt you again somehow.

Satoru appears on a cliff overlooking all of Athens. A king, graying at the edges paces at the edge of it. His hands are clasped behind his back so hard his knuckles are white. The king’s eyes are trained on the ocean, much like you were that day two weeks ago.

Then on the horizon a ship comes into view. A large black sail on its oak mast. Satoru sees the relief on the king’s face as the ship sails in.

Satoru may not have the scariest domain but one thing that many people forget is that he is also the god of madness. He may be peaceful most of the time but he has his moments of cruelty, this is one of them.

Getting into the old king’s mind is easy. He slips in and changes his perception of the sails. The black sail doesn’t mean Theseus is fine, it means that he is dead. His son is dead. The king wails at his son's death, he tears at his hair and teaters too close to the cliff's edge.

Satoru watches him fall, no remorse in his icy blue eyes.

You are a ghost of your former self.

Depression has its hands on you again as you try to continue on. It wraps around you to pull you down into bed. Your head is only quiet when you sleep, when you are awake it whispers that no one will ever want you. You feel foolish for ever wanting a god, for ever wanting him.

Satoru had told you that he wasn’t one to be tied down and your heart had skipped right past that. Gods are forces of nature, fickle and beautiful but never yours to keep. It is like trying to catch the wind with your hands, all you have is air.

The dryads have been over protective of you, Cleo especially, who shoos Satoru away from you multiple times a day. She is stern with him when he attempts to talk to you, her voice carrying a hint of cold anger.

And thanks to them you didn’t fully slip back into the depressive state you were in before. You can still stand and move but going outside the safety of your room is too much sometimes. Satoru will stare at you from afar and you feel his eyes digging into your back as you pass him.

So you stay in your room hoping to weather the storm that is your broken heart.

Satoru can’t stand this anymore.

He hasn’t fully seen you for days and it is eating away at the edges of his sanity. His mind calls out to remember the curve of your smile and the light in your eyes. He is constantly thinking of you and can’t sleep.

At first he thought it was Theseus somehow but then you stopped speaking eto him. Now he is so close yet so far from you, his fingers just out of reach of your skin.

It is maddening.

The underworld is as cold as he remembers as he storms into the throne room of the dead. Suguru sits on his throne with the Goddess of spring on his lap and her hands gently comb through his hair.

“Suguru.” Satoru tries to sound like his normal self but it falls short.

“What brings you here, Satoru?” Suguru says with an air of intrigue.

“I need- help.” Satoru gets out but it hurts him to say it. He has never been good at asking for help from anyone.

The Goddess of Spring presses a kiss to Suguru’s cheek then leaves to give them privacy. He is thankful to only have Suguru here to witness his humiliation. If Shoko was here she would most likely be laughing by now. Once they are alone Suguru walks over to him with an expectant eyebrow raised.

“What do you need help with?” Suguru asks him.

“I have wronged someone and I don’t know how.” Satoru admits, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“When did this happen?” Suguru questions and crosses his arms.

“Five days ago, I brought her to a party on Olympus and then she was upset with me.” Satoru explains, his voice fraying at the edges.

Suguru hums in thought. Satoru waits for his opinion with bated breath, he needs to know how to fix this.

“Is this the woman you found on the beach?” Suguru asks further.

“Yes, she has been living in my palace for almost three weeks.” He exclaims with exasperation.

Suguru sighs deeply, a hand at his temple, “You brought a woman home, helped her and even flirted with her for over two weeks. Now she won’t talk to you. What happened at the party to spur this on?”

Satoru thinks back to the party, his mind goes through every moment. He tries to find something that might have happened to make you upset.

His mind catches on a moment where a water Nymph propositioned him, did you see that? He had laughed and turned her down because of you. Satoru had barely been able to keep his eyes or hand off of you that night. But if you saw that interaction at the right time it would have looked a certain way.

“Do you have your answer?” Suguru chuckles at him.

Satoru doesn’t even acknowledge it as he leaves with a quick goodbye. Suguru doesn’t look surprised as Satoru stalks off to fix his mess and get back on your good side.

The night of the sixth day since you had your heart shattered again Cleo comes into your room. She has a slightly worried expression to her face and her lips are pulled into a straight line. You look up to see her walking over to you.

“My lady-” She hesitates, it’s the first time you heard that in her voice. “Satoru would like to see you and apologize.”

You look at the door then back at her. She gives you a nod, letting you know that he is outside the door for you. With a sigh you throw on a robe over your night dress and head for the door.

Cleo gives your shoulder a squeeze as you pass. You smile back at her in thanks as you continue to the door. Before opening the door you take a deep breath then open it.

Satoru is on the other side. Dark circles have made themselves at home under his bright irises. You feel conflicted by his appearance and his actions.

“I have something to show you.” He says barely above a whisper.

Nodding slowly you let him take your hand and lead you out to the balcony you love. The moon is bright in the night sky and casts shadows on Satoru’s handsome face. He looks almost nervous as he comes to a halt right before the rail.

“I know you are angry and hurt but I want you to listen to me-” He starts, “-in the beginning of you staying here I was mostly curious about you. I wanted to know everything about you to satiate my own boredom. But it soon spiraled into something else. An emotion I couldn’t control.”

He takes the hand he is holding to put it against his heart, “I thought that my heart was incapable of being this devoted to anyone but it beats for you- and no one else.”

Tears prick the corner of your eyes. You want that to be true so badly it hurts. You want that type of love and you want him. But your mind brings up the image of that nymph, other worldly beautiful and probably more deserving of him then you.

“What about-?”

“The nymph propositioned me yes, but I laughed off her request because I had you. My eyes could never leave you even if I wanted to. I could barely keep my hands off of you that night.” He explains and uses his other hand to wipe a tear that spilled over.

Your heart feels like it might burst out of your chest. Every single emotion you have felt since coming here swirls in your chest as you look up at him. But your hand on his heart, feeling its beat under your fingers helps to soothe the fears and sadness you have felt.

“I also wanted to show you something more than words.” Satoru says with a soft smile.

Pulling back he pulls out a circlet of pure gold.

You recognize it as yours from when you first came here. It was one of the last things you had from Crete. You had conflicted feelings about what it represented for you. It was as much a reminder of home as a chain. The crown chained you to your past self and to the cage like walls of the palace on Crete.

“I hope that this will make you remember how my heart longs for you.” He tells you and holds the circlet up to the night sky.

One second it is in his hands, the next it is replaced by a semicircle of six bright stars in the sky. They shine down brilliantly on the two of you. You look at it in awe.

Satoru watches your reaction with anxiety. His hand cups your cheek as you look at the sky he has changed for you. He has changed the sky to show you his feelings and you can’t help but to respond with your own.

Turning back to him you lean up to kiss him. He is stunned for a second, his lips parted as you kiss them. Then he kisses you back with more intensity then you have ever felt. His lips are soft and taste of wine and sunshine. An arm snakes behind your back to hold you close.

When Satoru pulls back from you, his blue eyes shine brighter than the millions of stars above you. He looks down at you as if you were the one who set those stars into the sky. You could melt right then and there into his touch.

“Do you want to come back to my room?” Satoru asks you.

Very much aware of the implications you blush bright red, “Yes.”

He takes you by the hand again and guides you to his room.

Satoru is enraptured by the image of you under him.

Your body slots against him as if it was made to be there. He can’t get enough of the soft moans he can coax out of you when he touches you in certain places. This is so different from his previous experiences.

Before it had been more for his pleasure. Sure he made sure that his partners reached climax but it was more about him. Now he couldn’t care less about his pleasure when you whine so sweetly under his fingers.

Your hand tangled in his hair as his presses gentle kisses trailing down your neck. He stops to suck and bite a spot on your collar bone which makes you arch up into him.

“So sensitive Princess.” He teases you.

Usually you would meet his teasing with a glare but you seem too needy to care right now. He smiles against your skin and continues down to your chest. His eyes darken as he sees your nipples through the flimsy nightdress you have on. Satoru carefully unravels the dress to drink in all of you.

“What are you waiting for-?” You ask breathlessly and his lips pull into a smirk.

“You are so demanding this evening.” He chides and runs a hand up your inner thigh.

Satoru hums in satisfaction as you shiver under his touch. His fingers reach your cunt and your breath catches. You are more pliant after he gets his fingers in you. Your demands slowly give way to moans and whimpers.

You are mesmerising in your pleasure. He can’t get enough of it, watching you arch and claw at him as the pleasure consumes you entirely. His cock strains against his clothes, he feels like he could cum just by watching you come undone by his fingers.

Satoru’s kisses get closer to your core. He presses an almost chaste kiss to your inner thigh. His eyes on yours as they go half lidded. He shifts himself down between your thighs for better access.

When he gets the first taste of you on his tongue he is sure that he is addicted. You taste so sweet, sweeter than any wine or cake he has ever tasted. He worships at the altar between your legs like a man dying. Satoru is sure he could stay like this for hours. He would love to watch you cum on his tongue over and over and over again.

In that moment a selfish part of him is glad Theseus left you here. Now you were his alone and he can only thank that boy’s foolishness for leaving you to him. But then he remembers how heart broken you were. He would never have you be that way again even if he got you out of it.

You grind down on his face, chasing your high and Satoru groans as you use him. Your pretty thighs close around his head as you get closer. He’s almost there without you even touching him, practically rutting into the bed as you reach your high.

Satoru watches with awe as you cum. Your body shakes with ecstasy as he continues through your orgasm. He climbs back up so he can slide his cock in between your plush thighs. You must be sensitive there because you whine as he thrusts between them.

“Just a little longer- hah- then you can rest-” Satoru grits out.

You reach for his hand and he interlaces your fingers with his. As he does you smile up at him, it’s a little tired and fucked out but so beautiful. He wants to remember this look on your face forever, hopefully you will let him. Satoru cums, painting your thighs and lower torso.

Careful not to hurt you he lays down beside you and you cuddle up to his chest. Your breathing has evened out as you wrap your arms around him, holding him even closer. He lays his head on top of yours. As the two of you lay there Satoru realizes he may never be bored again if you are by his side like this.

“I love you.” He whispers into your hair.

You sigh in contentment, “I love you too ‘toru.”

Satoru has never been more content in his life than with you in his arms, you are more than enough for him for the rest of his days.

#blue’s fics <3 #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu gojo #jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #Dionysus!Satoru Gojo x reader #gojo x reader #gojo smut #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru

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saintsstranger · 8 months ago

Text

the art of lies | t.s. (fantastic beasts) - chapter three

Chapter Summary: secrets are meant to be unraveled

Pairings: Theseus Scamander x Fem!Reader

genre: romance, mature audience intended

warnings: mature themes, implied sexual content, sexworker protagonist, pleasure house (brothel), smoking

the art of lies masterlist

BENEATH THE STEPS OF THE ARCHWAY and golden street lamp, Theseus would’ve thought you looked heavenly. Almost resembling an angel.

With your hand holding onto a luggage with all your belongings, waiting for him.

“Run away with me?”

You would’ve asked. And right at the moment, Theseus needed not to think about the future, he would say yes.

He didn’t understand why or how it came to be. You were an angel of seduction, smiling at him with a hand outstretched. Only for your eyes to not gleam like he wanted to.

This was a sweet— sweet lie.

What stands in front of him was not you. Merely a shadow of wistful thinking. This was just Theseus’ imagination playing tricks on him. A mere wish from the heart.

Is it because he has been through war for years, and the only sign of romantic attraction he had was back when he was still in Hogwarts, rejected because he was not from the House of Slytherin. This was not a school-boy crush; this relationship—whatever it is he is threading into is such a dangerous game. And this far surpasses such simple childish attractions.

How easy it is for you to tear him apart, break his mind, graze your teeth on his pulse, and make him bleed, but instead, you chose not to. It was pathetic to think he came apart so quickly, he wasn’t always like this. He was a child of war, and he had seen it first hand. And Theseus trusted you fully, baring his heart, mind, and soul.

You only wanted one thing: safety. He can see right in your eyes, the freedom; the ability to walk out of this unscathed. And Theseus would gladly give it to you if it meant the world. The responsibility of keeping you safe didn’t feel like a burden; it was a promise he was willing to burn the world for.

And for his vow to be true, he needed a way in—just like you thought him, he needed leverage to offer to Madame Blanche, something she does not have. If this was the only way you’d ever get to leave, then he was ready to get his hands dirty.

To be standing right where it began, he looked at the looming structure of Amour Délicat. The over-nauseating scent of floral-filled his senses, the bite of the cold air was fueling his nerves to a full. This time, he feared, let him grovel to the ground and beg to let you go. He would look into your eyes and, this time, he will ask for you to run away.

Running away with him? Might be a fool's wish.

Then consider him a fool.

Although there seems to be quite a predicament, Theseus is currently facing two problems. The first is that there is a recent development about the case of the missing delegate.

Charles Moore had been found. A big problem is that he is dead, located in the muggle world with traces of cruciatus curse lingering on their mangled body. When Theseus and Torquil Travers heard the news, they immediately knew that this was done by someone who wanted to know that their threats were not to be taken lightly. If they had dumped his body right on the grounds of the muggles, then they were a threat, someone who is not afraid to showcase magical acts in front of non-magical people. Someone who wants the world to know about them, the wizarding world.

And the biggest problem he is currently facing is that you haven’t talked to him in two weeks, no letters or planned rendezvous. You must have known what happened to the missing delegate and presumed that your job with Theseus was done, therefore, ceasing contact. Theseus vowed he would provide you safety, and right now you had gone back into hiding; you must have felt disappointed with him. And Theseus who never grew desperate, who always has his head on his shoulders, is running out of options.

Just like the first week he had met you. He came barging right in, and the receptionist's eyes widened in recognition at the sight of the auror. Madame Blanche had posted details about being wary of British Aurors getting information, but it did not pass by the woman’s mind. Since the auror came alone, it must be just another customer wanting a night of debauchery, giving him her customer service smile.

“Welcome to Amour Délicat, where the finest maidens and bachelors are always catered to your liking. How can we be of service?”

Like a practiced mantra, the receptionist did not miss a beat. Theseus looked at her, then the surrounding areas, not scanning like it was a crime scene rather looking for something… or someone.

“You wish to avail a particular flower, then?” Her voice became white noise to Theseus' senses as he looked for you in the nook and cranny of the lounge. After a minute, Theseus returned to his senses and stared right back at the woman before him.

“No. I am here to gather an audience with Madame Blanche.” That was unpredictable.

“Oh! Then I’ll put you on hold. I need to talk to Madame about your presence. I’ll let you know if she declines your request.” It was clear to Theseus he was unwanted here. After making a ruckus the last time he was here, the young lady at the receptionist must have thought he was here for a service. With a nod, Theseus waited as the young woman walked towards the backroom.

Theseus turned around once more; even with broad daylight Amour Délicat was still full of clients roaming about. If it weren’t for the kind of establishment Amour Délicat has, this would've looked like a regular instance, but the patrons that walked in and out were enshrouded in the anonymity of their privacy. Faces covered by hoods were probably from a line of work that valued discreteness; meanwhile, Theseus and many others were unprepared or were simply here for pleasure, their faces evident in the light, unaware of the possibility of showing face.

Right at the main lounge, the dooming sound of the elevator from Madame Blanche sounded turning around Theseus expected it was Madame Blanche, but the footsteps were far heavier. Far too commanding.

As soon as the piercing gray eyes of the man landed on Theseus, his eyes lit up with recognition.

“If it isn’t the world-renowned war hero, Mr. Scamander.” The man smiled as he stepped straight towards the auror. As soon as the man looked Theseus eye-to-eye, the auror couldn’t but list all the people he had known throughout his lifetime.

“I apologize. I might’ve come off as brash. Could not help myself to be ecstatic to meet the man who violated Archer Evermonde's emergency legislation. Takes a lot of nerve to help the non-magical people and be an enemy of the wizarding world.” The man held out his right hand, ready to introduce himself. “I’m Baudelaire, Pierre Baudelaire.”

André Baudelaire, the French Minister of Magic. Theseus has only seen him twice in his lifetime, and it was evident with their eyes that Pierre was his son. Eyes that loomed over anyone who looked their way. 3

Theseus gave him his professional smile and shook Pierre's hand firmly.

“I wouldn’t say I was the enemy of the wizarding community; I did what I had to do to help those in need.” Theseus, ever the hero, replied. Letting go of Pierre’s hand as the other man hummed.

“A noble cause for their people… and to be awarded as a hero.” Pierre hummed. “I say the muggles certainly live a different life, wouldn’t you say so? Passing their time through a game of darts.”

“That I would not deny, they taught me how to play a game of cards. They certainly know how to amuse themselves. I assume you to had a fair-share of their cuisine as well?” Theseus, merely inquiring, looked at the man in glee.

“Their liquor was not strong… that I would remark. Although, I was not able to stay for long unlike you had done. A simple tavern.” Pierre smiled. “Alas, I hope I am not wasting your time Mr. Scamander. You must have been here for important matters.” The man started to end the conversation and gave one last pointed look at Theseus.

“I do not mind Mr. Baudelaire, it was nice talking to you.” Theseus nodded, as soon as the man was out of sight. The faint footsteps of the faint footsteps of the receptionist came to call for him. Just like the first-time Theseus walked into the halls of the establishment, he was led to lift that had a painting of white flowers dancing in the breeze.

For his second time being in the establishment, he realized what the flowers represented. All the small details, from the catalog of the courtesans being flowers and how your floor was decorated like the night sky.

And there in the middle of the room sat Madame Blanche, hands on her head as she stared at the papers scattered throughout the desk. It was a far cry from what she looked like the first time they met. Instead of the refined successful woman that greeted the aurors back then, what sat at the chair was a lady far too unkept and stressed beyond her years. Madame Blanche looked like she had too much on her plate as she stared at the unopened envelope with such intensity. And right at the floor was the lone flower out from its vase, water spilling right through the carpeted floors.

“I presume you are here for another problem, pray tell and hurry on with it. I don’t have all day to deal with you Englishmen. What do you want?” With a wave of her hand, she stared at Theseus annoyed by his presence.

“I am here to talk about—”

“Here to propose to me your grandiose dreams of buying the indenture of one of my Bouquet de Blanc? Spare me the details Mr. Scamander, she is not for sale, never will be.” Madame Blanche procured a bottle of fire whiskey.

Theseus' eyes narrowed, straightening his tie.

She is not for sale, never will be.

It was easy like that to claim your freedom and yet far from your reach, far from Theseus’ fingertips were the vows he promised you. You did not deserve that, your eyes craved the walls of freedom, the breeze of the wind as you ran away without looking back to your former job. You deserve to be free, to love like a normal human being and yet you are chained body and soul to a job you must have grown to hate.

From surviving the streets, begging crumbs off the hands of the wealthy, and now you were bound to be here forever.

“And why is that? May I ask. You let the other courtesan go easily? Why can’t she?” Theseus argued, eyes fueling with rage as the woman who sat before him only drank in her cup. With a deep sigh, the piercing stare of Madame Blanche went straight at Theseus, legilimency cursing through his veins as he felt the woman crept into his mind but Theseus knew not to yield. He had prior training, and to see what is in his mind is what his weakness scares him, you taught him that he needed leverage in every fight and he is fighting like he was back in war to protect his mind, to protect you.

“Because with you being a simple lowly auror could never afford her Mr. Scamander.” Madame Blanche scoffed, as her attempts to pry the doors of memories, thoughts and feelings remained unopened to the keys of her legilimency.

Her words as sharp as knives, as painful as the unforgivable curse spat right out into the open air.

“You are here to offer her love? What can that feed?” Madame Blanche stood up glaring right at Theseus.

“Oh! You wish for a home? Do you think you can protect her with brick walls made of love? Or you wish to have a family consisting of three? Do you think your children will ask why her mother kept so many secrets? Or how about enemies? You think with all the secrets she knows, there would be no one in the world who would want her dead the moment she stepped foot outside of these very walls? How about when she becomes a mother? Do you think she can handle caring for a child when all she has known in her life is to fight for what she needs… to beg in the streets… Do you think she will be gentle like how your mother was to you? How about you, will you be able to stay through her worst throughout your whole life?”

Theseus was silent.

“Foolish, that’s what you are Mr. Scamander. I have met the exact fools like you once, and he ended up being a disappointment.” Madame Blanche whispered, her words growing cold in the wind as did her fingertips that grazed lightly in his shoulder.

“You’re wrong.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I came here for her freedom not for love. I came here not to act as a hero rather as a helping hand. Yes, I am foolish but I’ll fight through Azkaban and back to give her what she desperately wants… and if you can’t see that then you must be the foolish one.”

Madame Blanche paused when Theseus stood up and looked at him straight in her eyes. He is indeed a respectable young man, too heroic for his age, too naive of the hurt he will walk through as soon as he opens the doors of Pandora's box of letting you free. Yet, Madame Blanche admired him for that.

“As much, as this meeting is amusing to me Mr. Scamander, I do commend you for standing your ground. You are too naive—” As Madame Blanche walked towards her chair.

Theseus has seen it, Madame Blanche’s eyes. “You two are the same.”

“You are great liars, but there is a slight tell-tale of the both of you lying. I can see right through it without needing to pry your mind. Like mother… like daughter.” The truth coming right off Theseus lips like waterfall as the whole room has gone cold.

“What did you say?” Madame Blanche remained steadfast unlooking towards Theseus' revelations.

“That’s why you have gone to great lengths to find her, you wanted to protect your own daughter, and the only way for you to see her safe is to add her in your catalog. You didn’t want anyone prying into your weakness and using her against you. Yet here you are, bare to the world as you remain not looking at me, it’s because it is the truth. Isn’t it, Madame Blanche de Roux?”

Madame Blanche's jaw went rigid.

“Who was it? How did you know?” Madame Blanche’s stare was far from what she looked earlier, this far by surpass the anger that he had seen earlier.

“From her.” He didn’t mean it, Theseus never did but whenever you are traversing his minds as you are giving him your memories, another door opens and this time he had seen what looks to be an old door.

In that memory, curiosity got the better of him as he had seen what seems to be Madame Blanche cooing at the young babe in her arms. But the words he could never understand as the couple before him fought, the only notable about the man was his own uniform of the french auror. There stood in front of him a nameless man, worried lines written all over his feature as he kissed her daughter goodbye. Daughter which features the same face that stood before Theseus. One could never forget.

“Your own daughter unknowingly showed me a memory.”

a/n: prepared for the long-due author's note

#theseus scamander #theseus scamander x reader #theseus scamander x y/n #theseus scamander imagine #theseus scamander oneshot #theseus scamander fic #theseus scamander smut #theseus scamander x you #fantastic beasts fic #fantastic beasts imagine #fantastic beasts one shot #callum turner

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oncasette · 2 years ago

Note

𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐂. send in a character + a scenario for a blurb + 𝗨𝗠𝗕𝗥𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗔

ok theseus request!!!!! what about some hurt/comfort, maybe him reacting to you crying? + [ CUP ]: bringing both hands up to cup the receiver’s face, the sender draws them in closer to them in order to get a better look at their face. (I feel like this prompt fits the scenario perfectly so yeah <3)

𝗦𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗧 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥, 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗗’𝗩𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗘 𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥

summary: 1.7k

It’d been all his stupid idea, one you vehemently wanted to run away from. One that struck fear up your spine like lightning and sent fire licking at the base of your skull. An idea that, now, led you to be standing outside his old flat’s front door with ice-cold rain sticking your clothes to your skin and hot tears streaming down your cheeks hours after he’d left you reeling in your own flat.

or the three times theseus asked you to move in with him and the one time you asked.

warnings: implied smut

masterlist | taglist

Moving in with Theseus hadn’t been your idea. It’d been his. Totally, completely, and unarguably his idea. One he’d spent weeks, at this point, convincing you to go through with. An idea you’d initially been so adamant about turning down. But he was nothing if not persistent.

He’d presented you with a key the first night he’d asked. Just a key, warm from where he’d kept it in his coat pocket pressed tight against his chest over the course of his work day. He’d dug it out of the jacket that had been hastily tossed off to the floor near the side of the bed when you’d nearly jumped his bones after he’d apparated back to his flat. You’d already been home–his home, that is–snuggled up in his bed with a cup of tea and a sleep shirt he’d had since his seventh year.

“What’s this?” you asked as he’d handed it to you. His hands shook, and he’d been grateful you failed to make a comment on it.

“A key,” he hummed as you took it.

“But… Thes, I already have a key to your place?” Your eyebrows knitted across your forehead as your statement quirked into a question.

“I know,” he said. “My lease comes up in a month and I…”

You brought a hand up to the side of his jaw, urging him to continue as his lips pressed kisses to your palm.

“I know yours does, too. A week after mine, but I was hoping you’d think about letting it.”

It’s a wonder it hadn’t clicked for you yet. His beautiful, bright girl that amazed him every day, who was making him spell out this question for her, letter by letter, while his heart threatened to give out in his chest.

“Letting it do what?” you asked.

“Run out,” he exhaled. Merlin, his lungs felt heavy.

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” you asked, hand dropping to your side as you sat up fully. You brought the top sheet with you, covering the skin Theseus had spent the last hour and a half marking with his teeth. His eyes burned as he followed your movement and leaned his back against the headboard.

“I’d been trying to, yes,” he said.

“Don’t you think it’s a little… I don’t know,” you swallowed, throat dry with a lack of an answer. “Fast?”

“Love, we’ve been together for nearly two years. I thought–”

He’d been cut off with your legs being thrown over the edge of the bed, feet scrambling to hold your body up as your hands reached for the clothes you’d been wearing earlier in the evening.

“I can’t.” With your eyes screwed shut, you tugged your slip back up over your body and crossed the room to grab the shirt you’d come to his flat in–not the one of his you’d been wearing when he’d come home, a sight that has his jaw aching. It’d taken you a minute longer to find your wand, white knuckling it as you pressed a kiss to your boyfriend’s hairline. You were gone within the minute, with the key left at the foot of the bed.

He hadn’t even had the chance to move from the spot you’d left him in.

He’d left it alone enough after that, though his heart had ached each time his hand passed over the weight of the key he still kept in his pocket.

The second time he’d asked–more insinuated, this time–had been at breakfast two weeks later, thankfully, in a less vulnerable state of dress.

“I saw the flat yesterday,” he said, though his eyebrows were raised with the hint that there was more lingering under that statement than you’d wanted. “Unfurnished, that is. I saw it a couple weeks ago when I bought it and everything, but I saw it for the first time since I’d signed the lease on it yesterday.”

“Theseus.”

“Look, I know. I know.” He drew his fist tight as he inhaled. “I know you think it’s too fast, darling.”

“Then why are you doing this?” you asked.

You weren’t even sure why you were fighting it this hard at this point anymore. It was all you’d thought about since he’d asked the first time. And you weren’t going to lie, you’d warmed to the idea. Not that you were ready to admit that, apparently.

He brought your hand up to gently lay kisses on your knuckles. “Just come see it with me, yeah?”

You offered him a pointed look. “Don’t have to make any snap decisions,” he assured you. “Even though I’m desperately hoping that you will.”

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay?”

“I’ll go look at the flat with you,” you said.

He’d been so eager, the smile he’d given you had been enough to allow him to convince you to stop by the next morning.

It was a lovely flat, honestly. It had a kitchen large enough to house an island, a bedroom much bigger than you’d been anticipating, and a view that had you fully leaning out the window to get a better look at. And, it was a five minute walk away from your office. A fact Theseus had mentioned thirty seconds into your initial walkthrough. A walkthrough that had unsurprisingly consisted of all the reasons Theseus had picked the place. Or, better worded, all the reasons Theseus thought the place would be a perfect fit for you. For the both of you.

“The living room’s the perfect size for your couch, you know. I was thinking you’d want to bring it along if you ever ended up here since you spent so long picking it out and everything…”

“Thes, it’s beautiful. It really is,” you said, stepping closer to him as you watched the corners of his lips twitch into a grin.

He fully bridged the gap then, hands falling to your hips to tug you into his chest. “So?”

“I’ll think about it,” you hummed and he leaned down to kiss you fully.

“Improvement,” he said. “I’ll take it.”

The next couple days had been a constant barrage of dropped hints. It felt like you’d been suffocated beneath the weight of the question, one that hadn’t been asked in its entirety since that first night.

He’d been halfway through one of his… less subtle hints when you snapped. All you’d wanted was time. A bit of time. A tiny, miniature, speck of time to organize your thoughts, and he’d given you just short of what you’d needed.

The key had been dangling from his fingers, for Merlin’s sake, and it took all the strength in your body not to snatch it out of his hands and throw it out the window of your own flat, the one the two of you were currently curled up in.

“Stop it!” you spat. “I said I would think about it, right. I can’t think about anything with the way you’re keeping this up.”

He stalled, fingers wrapping around the gold key to hide it from view. His jaw snapped closed as your own clenched.

“I’m sorry, I just…” you sighed.

“No, I get it. I’ll give you some more time,” he said, a crack of thunder in the distance rumbling overhead as you watched him pull away from you to gather the few belongings he’d brought with him.

He left with little more than a muttered goodbye as he slipped out the door. Not even a kiss, one you’d been hopeful enough to think would come despite your current situation.

You knock on the door with feeble fingers, toes curling in your shoes as your socks meld to the skin of your feet. You wait a minute. Two minutes, nearly three before he throws open the door with only a pair of trousers on.

“What are you-” he cuts himself off. “My love, are you crying?”

You barely manage out a shake of your head, a piss poor attempt at a lie, as a shiver rumbles through your torso.

“Come here, come inside,” he steps aside enough to let you in. He shuts the door once you’re inside, immediately tugging you into his chest where the warmth of his skin does wonders to calm the tremors wracking through you. Both of his hands come up to cup your cheeks, drawing your face into his direct gaze no matter how much you want to shove your nose into his neck and hide from his worrying eyes.

“What is it, darling?” His eyes scan your face as his hands hold the weight of your head up under your jaw. His thumb clears a tear off your cheek before it has the chance to fall. “C’mon, love. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“Please let me live with you,” you sniffle, hands coming up to grasp at the waistband of his pants. The way you’re clinging to him feels desperate, like he’d slip away if you managed to let go.

“What?”

“I’m so sorry I let it go on this long. I’m sorry I ever made you think I don’t want this, want you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted,” you sob. “Please let me live with you.”

“I thought you wanted-”

“I thought I did, too,” you hiccup, and Theseus has to fight to hide the smile that’s working its way up his face. “But, then I realized what I really wanted was you. This. All of you.”

“You have me. You’ve always had me darling, promise,” he says. “And obviously I want you to live with me… but are you sure?”

You nod.

“I need to hear you say it, lovely. You’ve kind of been fighting me on this since day one,” he says. “I’m sure,” you say.

#theseus scamander #theseus scamander x reader #theseus scamander imagine #harry potter #fantastic beasts and where to find them #r's 2.5k #callum turner #callum turner x reader

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justanoasisimagines · 10 months ago

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Fluff Alphabet

Requests are open! Request guidelines are pinned to the top of the page! Credit to @cafekitsune for the banner and the divider

A = Affection - How afectionate are they? Do they like recieving affection etc?

Theseus is moderately affectionate with you. He's going to kiss you in a greeting and goodbye. He likes to hold your hand. Theseus likes to receive attention from you. He enjoys knowing he has you to seek affection from you. For example, when he's up late working on paperwork and you press a kiss to his cheek.

B = Bathing - Do they like to bathe or shower alone? What's it like to share a bath or shower with him?

Theseus enjoys taking a bath with you. It allows you to catch up, to talk about your respective days while soaking in the bath. Theseus even reheats the bath if it gets too cold. He likes to rest in the tub tracing lines over your body. It's the perfect time for you both to relax.

C = Cooking - Can they cook? Do they like to cook? Would they cook for you? What type of dishes would they like to cook?

Theseus loves to cook, it's one of the ways he relaxes. Theseus has a range of cookbooks in his kitchen. Whenever he gets the opportunity. Theseus will try cooking, a new recipe so you can try it together. Cooking for you could be considered as one of Theseus's love languages.

D = Dates - What type of dates would they like to go on? Do they like to plan dates? Be taken on dates? How frequently is date night? etc Theseus likes to take you out for dinner. He also likes to take you to the movies and late-night walks. He likes to plan date nights. Sometimes his work schedule gets in the way. He's going to make time for date nights. He tries to make a date night at least once a week if it's possible.

E = Effort - How much effort do they put in? How do they show their efforts? Are they either an all out or all in kind of person?

When you both become serious, Theseus is one hundred percent in. He's going to send you flowers when he's busy with work. He's going to try to see you even if it's for a little while. Also when it comes to your relationship Theseus is always thinking about your future.

F = Family - Do they want to have children? What would family life look like? How many children do they want? etc?

Theseus wants the family life. he wants to get married, he wants to settle down. It's one of the reasons he works so hard so he can provide for the life he wants. Theseus would want between two and four children. Although Newt and himself aren't particularly close he'd want his children to have siblings.

G = Gentleman/Lady - How much of a gentleman/lady would they be? Would they hold out doors for you? Pull out your chair? Walk on the road side? etc

Theseus would consider himself a gentleman. He brings you flowers, opens up doors for you and always pulls you out chairs for you. He's protective and willing to provide you with whatever you need.

H = Honeymoon - Where would they like to go on honeymoon? What would it look like? etc

Theseus would plan to take you somewhere warm for your honeymoon. He'd plan for lounging on the beach, relaxing in the sun. You'd both go swimming and enjoy the new surroundings. It's a time for you both to enjoy the first few days of married life while taking time off work.

I = I love you - How long would it take them to fall in love with you? How would they confess? Is it a big deal to them etc?

It would take several months for Theseus to fall in love with you. What makes Theseus realize he's falling in love with you is a moment. One day he notices something different about his feelings. He knows then how deep his feelings go for you. It's a big moment for him to say I love you, although it is subtle.

J = Jealously - How easily do they get jealous? What makes them jealous? How do they react when your jealous? etc,

Theseus is not easily jealous. To make Theseus jealous it needs to be someone persistent. They need to keep crossing boundaries. They need to ignore your relationship and continue to pursue you. This leads Theseus to be jealous. He's quick to remind someone you're together and nothing is going to change that.

K = Kisses - What kisses are they more likely to give? What kisses do they like to recieve? etc

Giving; Forehead kisses, cheek kisses, temple kisses, neck kisses, i missed you kisses, lazy kisses.

Receiving; Good morning/ Good night kisses, smiley kisses, jawline kisses, reassuring kisses,

L = Love Language - What's their love language(s)? What languages are they most receptive to?

Theseus's love languages would be acts of service and gift-giving. He wants to do things for you to prove how much he loves you. He believes words can be used casually, yet actions reinforce the intention. Also regarding gift-giving, gifts can be thoughtful and memory-provoking. Buying you your favorite flowers can show he's listened. buying you a random trinket that may appear obscure to someone can reflect a memory or a private joke between the two of you.

M = Marriage - Do they want to get married? What would being married to them look like? Do they want a large or small wedding? etc

Theseus does want to get married. He doesn't want a massive wedding ceremony something small with your nearest and dearest. Theseus would be a dotting husband, always wanting to do right by you. He'd want to learn and grow with you as you move into different phases of your life together.

N = Nicknames - What nicknames would they use for you? Do you give any to them?

Nicknames for you; Love, Beautiful, Sweetheart and Honey

O = Obvious - How obvious are they? What gives them away? Their face or actions?

Theseus attempts to deny his obviousness. However, to everyone else it's obvious. It's the tenderness in the way he looks at you. The way his eyes can never leave you when you enter a room. He's more protective and considerate around you. Theseus smiles more and his happiness appears to generally improve.

P = Public Displays of Affection - Do they enjoy PDA? How comfotable are they with PDA?

Theseus is okay with moderate affection. He's more reserved when he's in public, however, he's still going to hold your hand and press a kiss to your temple. His reserved nature makes those affectionate moments between you more special and intimate.

Q = Quality Time - How do they like to spend quality time with you? How do they make time? Can they communicate effectively when they need quality time with you?

Theseus is always wanting to spend quality time with you, regardless of how that may look. Even if it's relaxing at home. It could be for half an hour during both of your lunch breaks. Theseus is good at finding those pockets of time. One of his skills however is communication. If he doesn't believe you're seeing enough of each other he's going to vocalise it.

R = Romantic - Do they consider themselves romantic?

Theseus would consider himself romantic. He knows how to plan romantic dinners and dates. He likes to bring you flowers home. It doesn't matter how long the two of you have been together, he'll still treat it as if you're dating.

S = Security - Do they feel secure in your relationship? What would they do if they didn't feel secure?

Theseus does feel secure in your relationship. He wouldn't be with you if he didn't feel secure. His security in your relationship is based on you two communicating when things need to be addressed. If Theseus didn't feel secure in your relationship then he'd vocalize it or perhaps he'd talk to someone about it. He wouldn't want to create an issue if they're wasn't one.

T = Tease - Do they like to tease you? If so, how?

Theseus doesn't tease you. Sometimes he struggles to let things go. He needs to have more fun. However, if anyone is going to tease anyone it's you. You're going to attempt to lure out that playful side for him. It could take years for it to happen but eventually, it does happen. Theseus could learn to become more playful with you.

U = Umbrella - Would they hold an umbrella for you? Would they kiss you in the rain? Dance with you in the rain?

Theseus prides himself on being a gentleman so he's going to hold out an umbrella for you. He'd rather himself drenched from the rain than you. If Theseus found out you wanted to kiss him in the rain then he's going to do it. Although he would be worried about you catching a cold.

V = Vanity - How do they see themselves? Positively or negatively? What's their favourite part of their body etc?

Theseus seems to himself quite positive. He's aware there's plenty more he could do to become a better person. He is quite harsh on himself in regards to his job in the ministry. If you asked Theseus what his favorite feature would be on himself he'd say his smile.

W = Whole - When you're apart do they feel like part of them is missing? How do they deal with being apart from you?

Theseus does miss you when you're gone. However, he does cope relatively well. He doesn't see the point of pinning after you when he could be busy allowing the time to slip away. He does plan a date for you when you return home.

X = Xtra - An extra headcanon

Newt's opinion of you is important to him. He knows his brother is a good judge of character and having Newt's approval is important to him. When the two of you meet for the first time, Theseus is the nervous one. He's the one who wants everything to go off without a hitch because he values his brother's opinion more than he lets on.

Y = You - What do you they like most about you? Favourite body part etc?

Theseus has a list of things he loves about you; your work ethic, your patience, your kindness, and your communication ability. Theseus generally admires you as a whole because he can't imagine a life without you. His favorite body part of yours would be your hands because they can provide a tender touch after a long day. They can massage his shoulders when work gets too much. Even to pull him away so he remembers to take a break.

Z = Zzzz - Sleeping headcanons

Theseus likes to hold you in his sleep. He likes the feeling of being close to you. He likes knowing you are safe and in his arms. It all brings comfort to him. You either curled up around him or he's curled around you. Theseus is the big spoon the majority of the time.

#Fantastic beasts and where to find them imagines #Fantastic beasts and where to find them imagine #Theseus Scamander imagines #Fantastic beast and where to find them oneshot #fantastic beast and where to find them one shot #Theseus Scamander oneshot #Theseus Scamander one shot #Fluff Alphabet #Requests are open #Theseus Scamander x Reader #FBAWTFT imagine #fbawtft imagine #fbawtft oneshot #fbawtft one shot

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peoplegettingreallymadatfurries · 3 months ago

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What is a Minotaur?

I've been fascinated by the many different takes of the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur. It is possible to depict these two as star-crossed lovers, through the level of intimacy shown in Theseus' execution of Asterion. It can also be a moment where we reflect on the features that make one different, but understanding the relationships of the world around us. As an artist, often you take a long time flowing into the precise details that are meant to be included in a final work. While it would be irresponsible as a literary critic of these artistic pieces to insist the artist's intent, there is a definite form of intention that goes into sculpture. Of Theseus and Asterion, I notice that there is a hidden story with many pieces, that go beyond the simple translation of the classic myth to page.

My favorite being Canova's, which depicts an almost intimate scene between the slain Asterion and triumphant Theseus.

This reading benefits from the club sitting beside Theseus. Seeing this as both the phallic object with which he defeated the Asterion, as well as the way it rises high to his eye, there is a latent sexuality in this piece. Asterion's mouth lies agape, either in pain or pleasure, we will never know. However, many of us who have seen this piece on Tumblr agree that it's definitely some form of sexuality. This is a triumph of brutishness, sure, but why are these figures nude?

Oftentimes, as I have done more research for this random essay that popped into my head, I find that often both the hero and monster are nude. This is both to show the raw power of both forces, as if they come from a place that goes beyond humanity, as well as the story that led to how they came to be. Asterion, sure he's unclothed in every depiction. He's an unwanted child, left to die, or at the very least fend for himself against 14 Athenian prisoners of war every 7 or 9 years. Theseus being unclothed is something that I need to actually look up and won't, being that this is not up for peer review in a prestigious journal.

Some depictions show him strangling Asterion to death (Pindar), others say Theseus stabbed Asterion in the throat. Either way of execution provides an overpowering of the smaller, young Theseus. Either he uses a phallic object to murder what he sees as a monster, or perhaps gets to know him better while he struggles under the weight of his hands on the bull's throat. Using a sword to penetrate is one of the gayest exchanges one can use to symbolize a sexual intercourse. (See some readings of Romeo and Tybalt). Laying hands on this monster (especially if nude as often depicted), he likely faced him, giving him some semblance of touch between himself and another human.

Upon further research of these type of sculpture, I found François Sicard's bronze statue on Archibald Fountain in Hyde Park in Sydney, Australia. Though there is a brutality between the two, here, where Theseus in his Western European features manhandles an Othered subject, there also exists an intimacy. Grabbing the Asterion by the horn, kneeling on his thigh, offers a sense of touch that Asterion likely never would have been able to experience prior. Though one can imply a suggestive nature to Asterion's pose, it's important to also see that Asterion's head is turned to look back at the man who is touching him, and moments from giving him his greatest mercy.

Asterion never asked to be born what he was. Many newer interpretations of the myth, mainly those depicted by @hellenhighwater and @avocadolaw, depict a person underneath his features, stuck inside a prison for which he is unjustly placed. Highwater's piece, A Crack in the Labyrinth, in particular, reaches for a pathos that I find unrivaled in any solitary piece of Minotaur work.

Though Asterion has unrivaled strength -- enough to kill 14 Athenians every 7 or 9 years depending on your retelling of the myth -- enough to break down the walls of his prison, he also remains an emotional subject, born of a curse of his mother's relationship with Zeus, and his father's vanity. He was shut out for being born a monster, but he is still a child, who did not deserve this imprisonment.

@avocadolaw's interpretation of Highwater's piece demonstrates another angle to this myth that continues to drive empathy into the heart of the story. Asterion is Ariadne's older brother. It is Ariadne who supplies Theseus with the clew that he can use to escape the impossible labyrinth, doing this out of an act of love for the Athenian, and not the Cretan. By depicting Asterion in a moment of solitude and depression, the audience sees a beast in its weakness -- in its solitary confinement. Using the same skyphos, also depicts a relationship between these siblings that the myth itself neglects to mention.

These solitary depictions move away from a sense of queerness as this essay threatened. However, their intimate tenderness for a misunderstood creature curates an understanding of queer solitude. Asterion's difference from anyone he may have known doesn't sexualize him. It humanizes him.

I have seen intentional gay pieces of art between Theseus and Minotaur, both using art as a form to share intimacy, as well as queerness. Of all of these, though, I am drawn toward the monstrous depiction of identity in @h00f's piece T4TM

Title and depiction here, implies a specifically trans reading into the subject of The Minotaur. The image alt text of the post refrains from using pronouns for the Minotaur (see the alt text for the included image). The trans reading of this piece bares entirely features that may be interpreted through a bifurcated understanding of gender, or it can blur the line between the two well enough to absolve itself of any gender. In refusing to use pronouns for the Minotaur at all, the artist also refuses to define this depiction into a secret third option. In all of this lack of gender, there is still a form of intimacy between the two subjects, especially given the assumed shared history of Minotaur myth.

Overall, I just love the way Minotaur are depicted as a misunderstood beast and given a form of intimacy that formerly had been left out in the understanding of the myth. If you managed to read all of this essay, I'm proud of you for putting up with this. My mind wandered while I was researching an essay for the furbait blog. I wanted to jump on this impulse while I could. When you see the other essay, I hope you find it to be just as worth it as I did, spending the last 4 hours drafting this up.

#artistic nudity #suggestive #minotaur #theseus #asterion

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apollosgiftofprophecy · 11 months ago

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this was pulled out of my head on the Discord and decided to share here ^-^

My ranking of godly parents

1) Apollo

this just goes without saying. do i even need to explain?

ONWARDS!

2) Dionysus

cried when his son was killed. asked percy to keep other son safe. is seen eating with his sons in CHB.

3) Aphrodite

helps Piper and her friends on their quest. helps the Seven on their quest. the only bit of bad parenting i remember is forcing piper into clothes she doesn't like.

also Aphrodite is a good mom in the mythology so

4) Hera

#unpopular opinion with wider fandom

Juno is Jason's mom. fight me.

She is actively mourning his death, something Zeus DID NOT do, and helped Jason out as much as she could.

also Hera gets way too much flak from the fandom

5) Hephaestus

keeps an eye on his kids. points taken off for little contact with them, but it's kinda understandable because of his social awkwardness.

6) Ares

#unpopular opinion with wider fandom

"he was gonna hit Clarisse!" was he though? or is it implied Clarisse was raised in an abusive home so when Ares made any sudden movements she would react like she would be hit?

also he gives her not one, but TWO electric spears and his blessing. he provides her armor when she has none.

Ares is a good dad fight me. also it's canon in mythology

Mars is also a good dad, but everyone already knows that.

7) Poseidon

#unpopular opinion with wider fandom

first thing he tells percy is that he wishes he was never born. granted, it was more foot-in-mouth but come on. you've had kids for a WHILE Poseidon you should know not to say things like that.

points for saving Percy a few times (The Arch, Princess Andromeda) but it's probably really easier to give a helping hand to your mortal kids when you only have one mortal kid who hasn't done anything to screw up his or your name. eyes what happened with Theseus

i have other points of contention but i'll stop here.

8) Hades

#unpopular opinion with wider fandom

said he wished Bianca was alive instead of Nico. granted he regrets it so points there but YOU DO NOT SAY THAT TO A CHILD DAMMIT

i don't consider tsats canon but what the fuck was up with that shit. be glad i didn't consider that or he'd be sent towards the very bottom of this list for sending his son to hell on purpose.

9) Hermes

#unpopular opinion with wider fandom

bro fixated WAY too much on Luke and ignored his other kids. coughs in Didn't Claim Chris coughs in Ignored Connor and Travis when they were right in front of him coughs

10) Demeter

absent parent. didn't bother to help Meg or Lityerses, resulting them being raised in abusive households (Nero & Midas/Commodus)

11) Athena

in the words of Stixlx on the Discord: "she sends her kids to die like soldiers rather than kids"

12) Zeus

an abuser is an abuser. therefore he gets dead last.

he also saved thalia but didn't save jason, so there's that too.

#the trials of apollo #trials of apollo #ramblings of an oracle #pjo apollo #pjo dionysus #pjo aphrodite #pjo hera #pjo hephaestus #pjo ares #pjo poseidon #pjo hades #pjo hermes #pjo demeter #pjo athena #pjo zeus #percy jackon and the olympians #the heroes of olympus #heroes of olympus

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gotstabbedbyapen · 4 months ago

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Penelope & Athena headcanons because a certain moot (yes it's YOU @dootznbootz) infected my brain with them :)

Athena knew of Penelope before Odysseus, as she is the patron of Sparta and has been watching the Spartan royal lineage for the longest time.

Weaving is Athena's love language, and she weaved with Penelope a lot as the princess grows up. Don't tell Artemis and Persephone this, but Athena enjoys this activity with Penelope more because she is actually skilled with it and is delightful to teach.

In the Hyacinthia festival, women would offer their woven chiton to Apollo. Athena would not shut up about how Penelope's chiton is the prettiest out of the bunch and Apollo rolled his eyes like, "Yeah, yeah, I know your human is the best weaver. How about I give you her chiton???"

Aside weaving, Athena also trained Penelope in sport and some fighting skills. As a girl, Penelope isn't required to undergo heavy military training, but she still must participate in physical training to stay fit.

They play a lot of petteia (an ancient Greek board game). Penelope is smart but never stood a chance against the goddess of wisdom herself, but she's too competitive to give up. Athena very much indulged her lmao

They talked about their family a lot, from their sisters' silly frolics to their brothers' stupid antics. Penelope is one of the few who knows how much of a gossiper Athena actually is.

Mutual understanding over bystander's guilt. Athena witnessed Persephone getting kidnapped as a young goddess and Penelope saw Helen getting stolen away as a child. Both failed to save them and had dreamt of being able to do something, anything to stop the tragedy.

Silly arguments about whether saltwater or freshwater is better between half-Naiad Penelope and half-Oceanid Athena (Metis was an Oceanid and Athena had lots of connection with the ocean)

One time Athena took Penelope to the mouth of the Eurotas River at the Laconian Gulf to settle the debate by swimming and... taste testing the water.

They finally found a common ground in deciding that the brackish water at estuaries isn't actually as great as they thought. And so they decided to respect each other's opinion.

In another universe where Odysseus never came to Sparta, Athena welcomes Penelope to become her priestess.

Despite not having the best relationship with Aphrodite, Athena still brings herself to ask the goddess for tips and helps on how to matchmake Penelope with Odysseus when she found out her two pets are smitten with each other.

"Do you think I just start a fight between them so they get to speak directly?" - "Athena, sweetie, just no."

A lot of people joke about Athena thinking Odysseus gave birth to Telemachus via his head because that's how she was born, but we don't talk much about Athena's potential hidden trauma of her father swallowing her mother before that.

Even though Athena knows Odysseus would rather die than hurt Penelope, there's a tingling intrusive thought at the back of her head that she should keep an eye just to ensure the smallest of chance wouldn't happen.

When Penelope went into labor, Athena dragged Artemis to support her. The composed goddess lowkey panicked when her pet human is giving birth lol

Penelope called Athena by her epithet "Soteira" (Saviour) two times in her life: when Helen was stolen by Theseus and when Helen was taken by Paris which led to Odysseus having to leave for war.

It was a half desperate cry for help, half bitter sarcasm that The Saving Goddess could not save those whom she claimed to watch over, and not to mention Athena was part of the Golden Apple drama that eventually led to Helen being given to Paris.

Athena was immensely guilty for having a hand in the events that led to Penelope having to watch her husband depart for war and Telemachus having to grow up without a father. She tried to spend as much time where she wasn't participating in the war as possible to help out Penelope in raising Telemachus, basically becoming a temporarily stand-in parent for the boy.

Another reason for Athena's constant involvement in Telemachus' upbringing is that, deep down, she didn't want the boy to grow up half-orphaned like she was.

Penelope asked Athena why she didn't make the suitors suddenly choke on their food and die. Athena replied (for the 7635th time) that her father is the Lord of Xenia and her doing so would not please him.

Penelope: We can stage it like an accident.

Athena: I already told you, I cannot violate my father's domain!

Penelope: You started a rebellion against your father but draw the line at making a guest die because it'll disrespect him???

Athena: ... Be quiet.

#that's all i have for now #might add more later if i got creative again idk #penelope #athena #odysseus #telemachus #greek mythology #greek heroines #greek goddesses #greek deities #greek heroes

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seoafin · 2 months ago

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ship of theseus pt. III pairing: dick grayson x fem!reader ; bruce wayne & reader warnings/tags: word count: ~2.2k one two

You have roughly twenty five minutes to leave. When Dick comes back, he’ll be expecting a morning after conversation. What are we hangs in the air. It’s a conversation you never thought you’d be having. It’s oddly mundane, like the scent of Dick’s aftershave, or the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on your wrist last night as the two of you waited for your popcorn.

You reach down, grab your jeans—

A knock at the door stops you. You pause. It could be anybody. Dick's elderly neighbor who dotes on him with baked goods and stories of her late husband. A wayward friend (Dick has many friends) in need of assistance. One of his brothers (he has four). Dick is out getting breakfast, and you are contemplating leaving through the fire escape. A litany of excuses come to mind. Emergency shift at the library. Someone broke into your apartment. Your elderly neighbor got stuck in the out-of-code elevator and called the fire department.

You're a secret. You should stay a secret. Which means you should leave now. Swiftly slip away, and send an unimpressive text about how you thought you could, but can't. A generic statement about how it's all been fun, but you've never been meant to settle down. Something he'll laugh about in a week.

Dick would understand. You imagine him reading your text: that dip between his eyebrows, his lips edging into a disappointed frown. The glimmer of hurt in his eyes.

You open the door.

The man at the door stares at you. Tall, broad, and undeniably striking. Fitted in a perfectly tailored suit. Armani. From the platinum watch encircling his wrist (Philippe Dufour) down to his ridiculously expensive leather oxfords ( Italian), the man in front of you looks out of place in the deteriorating hall of Dick’s rundown apartment considering his watch could buy the building several times over. You make sure your gaze doesn’t linger on his hands, but a glance confirms everything you thought. Large and scarred from years of crime fighting. Jagged lines that run down his knuckles.

Hands. They always tell a story. The calluses on Dick’s hands speak to weapons. The scars on this man’s hands speak to brute force, telling an incriminating story of crushed bones and teeth.

Hello, Batman.

Bruce Wayne blinks in surprise exactly once, before immediately masking it with a perfunctory friendly smile that reaches his eyes just enough that most people will never notice the assessing gaze behind it.

He's a handsome man, a face made for the magazines and tabloids. You know this because you've seen Brucie Wayne, grinning face plastered on one too many glossy covers with his arm around a beautiful woman, one too many times.

"Hello," Bruce says, voice all dulcet tones, and perfect enunciation, like any respectable upper class Gothamite. "My name is Bruce Wayne. I’m looking for my son."

Son. There's an implicit warning in the way he says the word, a possessive wrap around that doesn't surprise you in the slightest. It's barely perceptible. Gotham is the Bat's city, it's said. Batman guards her zealously. I'm looking for my son. Who are you?

You stare at him. He hasn't looked down your tank top once, not even a perfunctory glance to keep in line with his famed lady killer image. You suppose it wouldn’t be appropriate in this context, and that this is a line he’s not willing to cross, but it’s difficult for most men to resist the temptation. Especially when you aren't wearing pants.

He keeps his gaze level.

You break into a wide smile. Let him think you a bumbling, empty headed fool. You don't plan on becoming a permanent fixture in Dick's life.

"He just went to get breakfast, but he should be back soon. But come in, come in! Do you want some coffee or tea?"

You step out of the way to let him in. He smoothly makes his way to the expensive couch he probably bought himself in the living room. Every step is purposeful. He's been here before.

Bruce smiles. "Just water please, if you don't mind."

You pour a glass of water and stride back to the living room. If he’s surprised you didn't put on clothes, he doesn't let it show. Placing the cup down on the table in front of him, you make yourself comfortable on the couch.

When you make it clear you aren’t going to speak first, he inclines his head.

"Thank you. I apologize for the sudden intrusion," he says lightly, expression pleasantly congenial. He could easily be dining at the Ritz with his expensive clothes and perfect posture, but he seems overall unfazed by your bare appearance. A man used to the female presence. “I didn’t realize Dick had a guest.”

“Guest!” You laugh obnoxiously, waving a hand. “That’s me, I suppose.”

Who do you want to be right now? You eye the man next to you. Who do you have to be to garner a reaction from the Batman? There’s an itch in you. You want to peel the layers from this man, and disturb the impenetrable facade behind that calm smile. This is a familiar feeling, and it’s dangerous. Last night with Dick was dangerous.

You want to put this world’s greatest detective up to the test against you.

You’re still you. Even here, alone in a strange new universe where masked vigilantes in spandex swing from buildings and mete out justice with their fists. The concept is not entirely new to you. New York had its fair share. You called some of those vigilantes friends. Your sister called one a lover. You’re here though. You’re not dead. It’s been so long since you felt something pervading that encompassing numbness.

You almost feel like yourself again.

You hear her laughter in her ears, gentle like a spring breeze. A fleeting pressure in the crook of your shoulder where she would always rest her head. A ghost touch. Bad habit, she says, achingly amused. You just can’t help yourself can you? Everyone is a puzzle to you. Have you figured me out ptichka?

I know you better than I know myself.

You slow your breathing, feeling your heartbeat settle back into a sedate rate.

“You’re family. ‘Sides, I’m sure it’ll be a nice surprise. Dick is going to be so happy to see you!” By now, you'd guess he's trying to place your accent. An odd unidentifiable mix of different cities, combined with a New York drawl.

You lean back, and feign a yawn.

“Late night?” He asks, concerned. You recognize the question for the calculated prodding it is.

“Don’t you know it,” you contort your voice into a drawl, lowering it into a conspiratorial whisper as you pointedly wiggle your toes. “My feet are just ‘bout killin’ me!”

His gaze follows the line of your leg up to your bare thigh, before it swiftly darts back to your face. Your smile widens when he imperceptibly freezes, a tensing so quick that it could be a sneeze. "I…see.” He clears his throat. A few paces of silence. “How long have you known my son?”

You shrug, absentmindedly tugging at a strand of hair. “Not long. I wouldn’t say ‘ know’… I mean. It’s not like we were talking much last night.” You meet his gaze. “I dance, here and there. I get to meet all kinds of people. I’m sure you know.” You inch closer. “ Bruce Wayne. A man like you..." your gaze appreciatively lingers on his watch. "You must get around!”

An easy chuckle. “I’m afraid my days of 'getting around' are behind me.” Somehow, the latest gossip magazines easily dispute this claim. “I find myself more preoccupied these days with the things that matter the most.”

You tilt your head.

There’s a glint in his eye. “Family.” He meets your gaze discerningly. A statement fit for a newscast. Yet, it's the most earnest thing he's said so far. “Do you have family here?”

The serene smile on your face doesn’t falter in the slightest. Whatever he’s looking for, he won’t find it. There are no weaknesses to be exploited in your demeanor. You’re a professional. “No.” You don’t elaborate.

You receive a faint nonplussed, if not artistically pressed sympathetic smile in response. It lacks judgement, despite the judgement you know must be forming from all the subtle implications you’ve dropped.

He hasn’t touched his water.

If you were religious, you'd say it's divine intervention, the way your phone on the table vibrates. Your face clouds over when you read the boring work email. “Oh god,” you say, standing. “I’ve gotta go. My elderly neighbor—she’s not at all right in the head, bless her—got herself stuck in the elevator. Again!” It's a bald faced lie and the both of you know it. A bad lie here and there only gives you authenticity. You give him a look of knowing exasperation as he schools his face into something politely commiserating.

“A shame,” Bruce says.

“Well. Tell Dick I’ll be seeing him, yeah?” You lean in close, and put your hand on his shoulder. Strong from years of training. Friendly verging on flirtatious. You wonder what story he tells the women he takes to bed. His is not the build of any casual boxer.

You could see him in public, during some Wayne gala. It’d be easy enough to slip in, to observe. You imagine a whole new man who walks with the lazy yet strong gait of a man who has more money than time. He touches women and men easily, flirting against boundaries of propriety just enough for people to begin speculating. He’ll drink two glasses of champagne before some grand show of public inebriety that would be improper if it were anybody but him. A lightweight, people will laugh. But it’s Brucie Wayne, and Brucie Wayne is harmless .

Bruce maintains his composure with an affable expression, but you can tell he’s scrutinizing you just as hard as you are him. You look him in the eye. “It was so nice to meet you Bruce.”

I know exactly who you are.

You think about texting Dick an apology on your way to your apartment even though it doesn’t matter. You don’t think he'll want to see you again.

Three hours later, Dick calls you while you’re reading a book. You stare at the ringing phone on your nightstand and wonder if you should answer it.

Eventually, curiosity wins out.

“I was wondering if I’d have to stake out your apartment,” Dick jokes. “Bruce is under the impression you’re a stripper. Care to explain?"

"Well," you say, not exactly caught off guard. “I thought it’d be fun.”

"Fun," Dick repeats.

"Did he believe me?" Of course he did.

There’s a beat of silence. Dick bursts out laughing. You think if she were here, she’d roll her eyes. What are you doing with a pretty boy like that? He even laughs pretty. You and your pretty blue eyed boys.

“He told me I was too old for teenage rebellion!” He relays gleefully. “In less words, but that’s Bruce. I think there may even be an intervention in the making. If I disappear for a few days, don't worry.”

You hum. “Glad I made an impression.”

“I told him he really doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to relationships, and to butt out of mine.” There’s a pause. “Don’t tell me all that was a convoluted way of breaking up with me?”

You stay silent.

“Wow. You sure know how to make a guy sweat. And hurt his ego. I don't think anyone's ever broken up with me before we started dating.”

There's a confidence in his words that belies his tone. Before we started dating. An innate confidence only possible with a certain self awareness of one's charms. Of course he knows.

You stare at the book in your lap. “Would it matter? If I was a stripper?”

"Not if it made you happy," Dick replies easily, and you believe it. You can see him, lips curled into a grin. "Something you wanna tell me?"

Everything.

The thought surprises you. Brings you pause. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” you say softly. “You should listen to your father.”

“Those are fighting words. If you knew that man’s romantic history, and every hookup I’ve had to witness as a child you’d think twice about saying that.” He exhales, and you think about running a hand through that dark tousled hair and lightly tugging it in a way you know would make him moan. The way the moonlight framed his face last night. The gentle brush of his touch. He thinks you’re normal, you think. As normal as you can be. You liked being fucked like a normal person. No fate of the world on your shoulders, no secret government agencies, no so-called conflicting loyalties, no sisters, no sorcerers with malfunctioning magic circles wearing ridiculous red capes who got you into this predicament to begin with.

You don’t need to think about her here. She is neither here nor there. In this world where she never existed, you have no reason to mourn. You don’t exist here either.

“So tell me. Over dinner, of course.”

“Those are fighting words,” you repeat. It’s not until you raise your fingers to your lips that you realize you’re faintly smiling.

#dick grayson x reader #dc x reader #nightwing x reader #m.dc #sot

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