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kneelingshadowsalome · 4 months

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I know we're all focused on Satyr/Faun König but that bull comment... I'm quite partial to minotaur's and whats better than a darling who isn't from the area. Oh yes she's innocent of the crimes against König because she was not raised there.

Some foreign little creature just running blind in a maze trying to see where there might be a way out. It's been days after all and the screaming has gotten quieter and she wonders if she's the last one left alive. He takes his time eating his meals... this can be stretched out for such a long time as she hides herself in a dead end just a short rest... the darling is so tired unaware of the horrifyingly silent steps moving closer to her little haven. It's just her left now.

@kit-williams I've wanted to write for Minotaur!König for ages!

Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader Word count: 5 k oneshot Tags/warnings: Sexual tension, threats of violence and rape, implied cannibalism, power imbalance, moral ambiguity. Predator/prey dynamic, Beauty and the Beast elements, Ancient Greek religion & lore. 18+ MDNI A/N: The Minotaur in this story is not an actual hybrid. Reader is Hecate’s initiate. Merry Christmas y'all! <3

The screams are the worst part.

They echo through the Labyrinth while you wait and wait and wait.

Even the very stones seem to cry and wail as you place your hope on Theseus who descended to this hell along with you and the human cattle. Seven young men and seven unwed women, meant to satisfy a beast...

And judging by the screams alone, it sounds like the monster is satisfied. It sounds like it's having a ball.

Fourteen lives have been lost, their blood swallowed by the earth as if Hades himself is drinking the crimson of Athenian youth in His feast. The flesh is the beast’s to devour: an underworld demon born of tainted lust.

Half bull, half man, you always thought the stories were only tales told by the fire to scare children. Turns out that the stories, for once, are true. There's something even worse in this maze, something cursed and foul... Hecate herself would shiver if She were here, in the womb of the earth, witnessing what you’re witnessing now.

You don’t actually see the Bull of Crete cut or hack or slash anyone, and you can only imagine what the monster does to the bloody, gutted corpses of the young. The only thing you see are the hollow, dark walls carved out of soil, sand, and clay, the intestine-like route dug deep into the earth. And you don't have to see the massacre: the screams tell you enough. The silence that follows betrays even more.

Your only light is flickering, waning: the candle will hardly last an hour. If the hero from Athens won’t arrive soon, you will have to leave this place.

And oh, how you want to leave… You were a fool to follow him here. Blinded by love and hope, you thought Theseus of Athens would be your way out of Crete, but it’s clear that the only thing the young hero is capable of loving is fame. The only time his eyes turned to yours was when you said you might be able to help him with a small bundle of yarn.

Red as the setting sun or spilling blood, the thin woollen string is your only way out now. It’s ironic how a heap of twine is the only thing that can help you out of this hellhole, but the Fates always did possess a cruel sense of humour. Your silly daydreams might’ve cost your life, and even if you’re sworn to the dark goddess, you would rather die anywhere but here. In the darkness, all alone, with nothing but eyeless worms to keep company to your decaying bones.

The sudden draft from the outside world is warm but threatens to blow out your candle. It’s a sign from Apollo: if you don’t leave now, you’re dead. Theseus has to manage without you because you’re not dying in this underworld prison because of some man’s stupid lust for fame.

There's only deafening silence in the maze as you scurry up, taking support from the wall as your sight darkens for a moment. You rose too soon: you can’t even remember the last time you ate. And it appears that even the sun god has abandoned you because there's a faint echo of steps in the tunnel, and they don’t belong to a man. They’re too thick, unduly heavy, and it’s not a pair of sandals that are thumping against the soil.

So, Theseus is dead...

So much for the legend, the myth, the demigod.

Heart thumping in your chest and in the hollow of your throat, it threatens to drown the sound of approaching footsteps. They’re all dead, the people who descended here with you. The only thing you are right now is prey. You're being hunted; whether the Minotaur knows you're here or not, you know you're being hunted. You can feel it in your gut.

You cover the candle with one hand, hoping that the flickering light doesn’t reach around the bend. The falling thump of the footsteps stops, and you still your breath, hoping that the beast would turn around and search the other way.

You hear it sniffing behind the wall. It's trying to catch your scent in the air, the smell of dread and terror, sweat so thick it must reach his nostrils and make them flare with lust. Your heart is thundering in your chest, and the tunnel is so quiet that that you’re certain the creature will hear that, too. (Your heart always betrays you.)

And your luck is cursed.

The beast shifts.

You can’t see him yet, but you can hear it: the scraping sound underneath his feet as he aligns himself anew, choosing the path that leads straight down to you.

“Hecate save me,” you whisper into the air that seems to grow denser as he approaches, loud thumps of feet now accompanied by metal grating against clay.

“Hear me, flame-bearing guide... Darkness, protect me…”

He’s dragging bronze against the wall, announcing that he’s carrying a weapon with him, the strength of a bull apparently not satisfying enough if he wants to break your bones with metal.

Don’t blow out the candle...

If you blow it out, you’ll die.

It’s a clear message, a knowing voice in your head that says it. It’s not young, it’s not old: just knowing. Alert. Wise beyond ages.

So you still your breath and wait.

Shadows fill the curve of the tunnel just before he emerges: thick like thunder, a darkness so deep that even the name of the twilight goddess escapes your tongue.

And he’s big. Bigger than the bulls you used to dance with, bigger than kings, or heroes, bigger than even Theseus, the man you thought was a myth walking. His head is enormous, bigger than the rest of him, awkward and rough like it’s not quite part of him even though he’s supposed to be half ox.

The gigantic, horned figure stops when it sees you. Vast shoulders tense; the fat, double-edged sword falls to his side when he settles to loom between you and your only way to escape this place. You’re oddly thankful that the horrible screeching stopped, but then you notice that his blade is drenched in blood: actually, his torso, thighs, even the buckskin loincloth – the only garment this monster has chosen to wear – is spattered with red dots.

The bronze tip drips with crimson, and the earth drinks it all. Hades is never satisfied: this beast is never full. Everyone who was sent down here is dead: everyone else has met their doom except you. You wonder if your mother would cry if she heard her only daughter died because she fell in love with a fool.

“I killed your hero,” the walls of hell boom.

His voice is thick like tar, dark and foul like it’s the God of Earth himself speaking.

The flame in your hand quivers from fear, and you slowly remove your palm, the tiny candle illuminating the beast with warm homely yellow, making the prominent muscles of his chest even bigger.

He’s carved like the statues in Athens, only, this giant is far hairier than the painted marble heroes of the city. The hair on his chest is thick and wild; it shoots down his abdomen and disappears underneath the loincloth, spreads over his inner thighs, even covers his shins in dark mats. He looks like a wild man, a beast indeed: sweaty, filthy and thick. But you never knew a beast like him could talk…

“A coward, that one,” he snarls, the voice reverberating oddly like it’s a human man speaking from under a wooden mask or inside a clay jug.

And you believe every word he says.

Theseus was strong and able-bodied, but he had built his strength just to show it off. This man’s body speaks of pure, ripe survival.

A hulking shadow with shoulders that barely fit the tunnels of the Labyrinth, with palms nearly twice the size of yours, he’s the myth walking instead of the hero whose blood now adorns that dull bronze blade. The Minotaur who survived his father’s wrath, his mother’s absence, these bleak surroundings, and all the heroes sent down to get his head… His weapon isn’t even sharp anymore, and still, he managed to cut through the sacrificial humans like butter. And what a horrific death it must’ve been to be hacked to pieces by a dull blade.

Is it evil of you to hope that the death of your “hero” wasn’t a quick one…?

Theseus was a fool and a coward, rotten to the core, but you saw all of that too late. He never cared about the human sacrifices or the king’s wrath; he never cared about digging into Pasiphae’s sorrow. He only cared about getting his face depicted on a pot or having his deeds played out in amphitheatres, his name uttered in song, accompanied by harp and flute.

“I know.”

Your voice gets sucked into the earth: it doesn’t echo from the walls like his. It’s thin, damp, and frail, just like everything else meant to walk under the sun instead of stand buried under the earth.

But the beast before you tilts its head a little. It’s curious.

Why would you say that?

Why don’t you cry from hearing the news...? Why don’t you howl out your hero’s name and beg the gods to heed your grief? Why don’t you run away from a monster?

The candlelight is puny and weak, but it’s bright enough to bring out the eyes of an animal. You draw breath in the dampness of the earth when you finally see it: the bull’s head is devoid of eyes, and yet, the beast still has them. Blue as the summer sky, stern as the death grip of winter just before spring.

There’s nothing but ripped shreds of skin where the eyes should be, and instead of looking at you from the sides, they’re greeting you from the front. The horns are sturdy, but otherwise, the colossal head is a bit skewed... Thick patches of fur sticking out as if it was years and years old, and then – you realize it’s not his head; it’s only an illusion.

There’s a man under there. A full, grown man who’s made himself a terrible helmet out of a bull’s carcass.

“You’re a man,” you say out loud, earning yourself another shift of the colossal head.

“...What?”

The muffled echo confirms it: he’s speaking from inside the bull, moving only slightly to get a better look at you.

“You’re not a monster. You’re just a man.”

His eyes are wild but intelligent; they pierce you from inside the inanimate shield. The large chest heaves, his ribs flare like sails as he draws air through what must be the foul stench of a long-dead animal.

He takes a step, and you shrink, almost dropping your candle and the roll of red yarn.

“You think talking will save you, female?”

He speaks like a man, walks like a man, but his moves are an animal’s. Shoulders slightly hunched like he’s a bull about to attack, you recognize the way his muscles quiver from the times when you used to do bull leaping. You don’t dance with Rhea’s oxen anymore: your tasks at Hecate’s temple are more suitable and less wild for a maiden your age. Back when you were younger and more agile, you used to jump from the back of one bull to the next, clouds of dust swirling around you as you showed your prowess to the priests.

But you can’t charm this ox by dancing. This one can’t be tricked or fooled: he will pierce you with those horns or his brazen sword if you take even a step.

“I can get you out of here,” you wet your lips, noticing that the blue eyes shoot straight to your mouth when you do that. “I know the way out.”

“What makes you think I want out,” he says, so tight and tense that you fear he’s either about to leap at your throat or plunge his sword into your chest.

And you should be concerned about your own safety, not about his sensibilities – if he even has such things – but hearing this beast man’s reply is like drinking bile.

Why would anyone want to stay here?

You don’t know if he eats human flesh; you don’t know if he had to in order to survive. Everyone knows why his father threw him down here, but no one knows he’s not half the things the people above say he is. And if half of it isn’t true, what other lies have been told about the Minotaur?

Even most prisoners see the sun, yet this man has been deprived of that, too. He’s been robbed of mother’s love, of father’s mercy, of friends and foes, of mentors and guides. He’s been robbed of life, of stars, of fires and summer skies, of women’s giggles, of fistfights with fellow men. Of songs and plays, of festivals and games, of bull dances, and maidens that leap…

“Have you ever been up there…? On the surface?”

You turn your voice into soft water on pebbles, a soothing pour of persuasion and goodwill. His pecs contract, strong abs under thin hair and body fat bunch like you’re about to hit him there. You take a step, and now it’s his turn to shun away. It’s only half an inch, but he actually moves away from you.

“I can take you there,” you offer gently. “Have you ever seen the sun…?”

It’s like talking to a starved predator, trying to entice them to follow you with a fresh steak in hand, hoping that the fanged mouth won’t take more than was promised if it decides to accept the offering.

And the beast accepts.

“As a boy,” he grunts, a tad more softly.

Those eyes are fixed on you, reminding you of horses when they’re slightly afraid. The glint of white and blue behind the carcass is fiercely alive, quite unlike the hollow, disinterested stare of the Athenian hero who was only interested in himself.

But this beast is interested. Oh, the Bull Man of Crete is wildly, fiercely curious about you.

“You’ll take me to the sun,” he repeats, an affirmation rather than a question.

“Yes. To the surface. I promise.”

He moves. Like an animal who learned long ago to drive others into the corner so that he wouldn’t get forced there himself, he’s primal, sensual in the way that oracles in a trance are sensual.

Approaching you in silence that’s almost eerie, the hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end by the time he’s only an arm’s length away. Why announce his coming earlier if he can move so quietly?

“You’ll lead me to my father.”

His gaze bores into you, and not even the warm draft from the tunnels can prevent you from shivering. He’s distrustful, and it’s no wonder. It must be odd that some girl with a candle and a bundle of yarn is suddenly waiting for him around the bend, and doesn’t even flee. He’s a behemoth, but he’s not stupid. A stupid man would not have been able to survive, let alone thrive in this place.

And why should he trust you? Who is he supposed to trust in this maze when every person he has seen has either run away from him or tried to kill him? His father will slaughter him if he ever escapes the Labyrinth, so what else is a priestess in his kingdom but a squealing mouse, trying to feed him lies and then guide him to the surface and into a forest of spears?

“No,” you shake your head slowly. “No, I promise I know the way. There will be no soldiers–”

You shut your mouth just before a huge palm closes around your throat.

Gods, but he moves fast when he wants to…

The candle and the yarn drop the instant his hand seizes your neck, strong fingers nearly meeting at the back as he squeezes your windpipe ever so slowly.

And he’s so close now. The carcass reeks of death, but the man underneath stinks of plain human sweat. His musk is a peculiar mix of blood, earth and soil, something both stale and invigorating, the thin sheen of sweat and dirt covering his muscles making him look like a common builder. It’s strange that the bull’s head hasn’t yet decayed in this place, that the man doesn’t reek of bodies and bones that must be scattered around like debris further down the tunnels.

Another thing that’s strange is that he doesn’t seem to want to simply silence you.

He also wants to touch you.

A wide thumb strokes the underside of your jaw as he studies you. It slides down the column of your throat, the blue eyes gleaming with fascination when you swallow against him.

He drinks in the sight of you: the lips that part with fear, the frail collarbones that breathe against the side of his palm. The promising crevice between your breasts, the enticing softness of your teats.

You can hear his breath grow heavy under ox skin and bone, the rugged, vicious helmet he has chosen to wear. What lies under, you can only imagine, wherein he has little left to the imagination when taking in the curve of your breasts, your nipples rising to peaks under the thin white linen only temple virgins use.

Seeing your reaction to his touch makes him growl -- he actually growls like an animal, a deep, low rumble of approval rising up his throat when he sees how different your body is from his. How supple and cushy it is, soft and plump like a peach, covered only barely as if to tease a best like him. You wonder if he ever took pleasure in the maidens sent here by the king… If he ever thrust the sword between his legs into their weak bodies before giving them the mercy of his actual blade. Would he even know what to do with a woman, having lived here for so long?

“Please,” you whisper, bringing his eyes back to yours, the ice in them now liquid sapphire of pure want.

Gods… You need to bring his attention back to your offer of help before he sees it more compelling to just stay here and play with his new, plump little mouse. Virgin or not, you wouldn’t survive a mating with this man.

“I swear on Hecate’s torch that it’s not a trap. You have my word: I’m a priestess soon to be.”

He’s entranced. Hypnotized by your lips. You lick them to confirm your fears true: the man grunts with pleasure, out of instinct, absentmindedly like an animal who reacts to the sight of a fat, meaty bone.

Oh, he might not know what to do with a woman… But he would try his best to find out.

“Priestess…?” He rasps.

“It’s a holy woman,” you explain. “I serve the Goddess of the Crossroads.”

He snorts, either because he’s not impressed or because he’s downright amused by your vocation. The eyes, warmer, more demanding now, are far from the eyes of a bewildered beast.

“Little female of the crossroads... You will take me to the king. And then, I will kill him.”

He puts weight into his words, tries to make you understand.

He wants you to guide him to his father.

To the King who claims his son is half bull, to the husband who claims his wife was adulterous with an ox. To the King who demands tribute as virgins so that he can send them down to hell. The dark goddess screams justice, but you're at a horrible stalemate.

The gods will curse you for this… They will smite you with a bolt of lightning or drown you next time you cross the great sea if they see you’ve helped this half-beast escape. If you guide him to Minos, you’re a participant in kingslaying, and the gods never forget things like that.

“He’s your father and the king of Crete,” you whisper in fear. “The gods will strike you down–”

“Gods?” He spits. “I piss on the gods. I fuck their corpses and leave them to rot.”

You almost choke on the blasphemy levelled at you. The shadows creep closer, the stare behind the black fur is dark and amused, burning with the crooked wrath of a thousand years.

“Perhaps I’ll fuck you too.”

It’s unnerving that you don’t find the threat wholly unappealing.

If anything, your eyes drift down to the hairs of his chest, to the two big muscles that resemble the work of the best sculptors in Athens.

“Are you a virgin, female of the crossroads?”

His eyes search for your response: they want to see your fear and disgust. You swallow again, arduously against his hand, both caressing and testing you.

The beast leans forward, as if weighing if he could somehow insult the gods by pillaging you. The rough hair of his chest meets the white cloth, it brushes against your nipples as he bends down to have a good sniff of you.

“You smell like a virgin,” he growls.

The hand leaves your throat, only to travel down your sternum. He grabs your breast nonchalantly, a little too roughly, the hot palm closing around the teat and squeezing it like it’s a toy. When you don’t react, he squeezes it again, this time hard enough to coax a whimper out of you.

“Sound like a virgin…”

Without warning, the hand dives straight between your legs next, palm forcing its way through your thighs and curving to cup your sex, moulding around it with barbaric thirst.

“Feel like a virgin, too.”

It’s thick, hot, and heavy, how he simply tries you through your dress. Fingers testing your folds, he’s clearly enjoying the subtle wetness he finds down there. You can hear another hitched grunt pushing up his throat, rugged and whiny this time, a broken groan that dissipates because of how dry his throat is.

No man has ever dared to lay his hands on you... Many have wanted, but none have tried. Even drunkards and fools respect women who belong to the dark goddess.

But he doesn’t care about the wrath of Hecate. He doesn’t give a shit about the gods. He simply takes what he wants, what falls into his lap. The fifteenth offering, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in devouring your flesh.

How easily he could simply yank that loincloth aside and drag your dress up. Force his cock into your tight, wet heat without uttering a word. You doubt that he would even take the trouble of laying you down on the ground for taking... Beasts rut when they want to: this man could fuck you against this wall if his loins demanded so, guttural groans being the last thing you hear before the candle goes out.

You don’t know if you have to spread your legs for him before this is over, but you reckon you will do even that if it means you’ll see the sun again. You’ll endure every thick thrust, and gods be cursed, you wouldn’t even be solely disgusted if this half-animal chose to breed you... As shameful as it is, you would somewhat enjoy having him rut you like an animal in heat.

And you’ve gone mad, surely.

You want to touch him too, just to test another theory.

Deciding that it's a good idea to stick your hand into the maw of hell, your fingers lift. They meet his bicep, and the lewd panting stops.

He’s not even breathing… He’s just drowsy and drunk, looking at you with a mixture of soft sleepiness and awe in his stare. Like a dog who has never been petted, even his eyes drift half closed when he forgets to threaten you, now focusing solely on your hand.

And you start to caress him, slowly, so slowly… Tracing the muscle all the way up where it meets the shoulder, you stroke even the thick cord that leads to his neck. The rest of him disappears under the bull, but the man behind it already shivers under your touch. He even bends his head a little in hopes that you would go under the mask and touch him there, and the gesture reminds you of an animal exposing its vulnerable areas, baring its very throat in submission.

Braving a quick peek down, you notice that the buckskin cloth is stretched high and wide. His whole body is tense and immobile: you could cup him through the soft animal skin and he would probably shoot his seed from a single stroke of your palm.

If this is not a virgin, you don’t know what is...

In a way, it would perhaps be wise to shove your hand down and disarm this man. That way, you would be safe for a few more minutes. Instead, you lay your palm over his chest, right over where his heart should be.

“So do you, Bull of Crete...”

His gaze flickers.

The darkness hesitates, widens, nearly swallows the azure pools whole. But he doesn’t look irate or wild... Only shocked.

It’s an impasse. A thicket. His hand on you, your hand on him.

He surrenders first: the underworld budges before the utterly pure. You bless him with grace the instant he withdraws his hand from between your legs – slowly, reluctantly, like leaving a place that belongs to him. Or to which he belongs…

“I promise I’ll help you, Minos Tauros. But I need you to give me something in return.”

You remove your hand too. Softly, slowly, like a horse master who trains and tames wild things. All words seem to have escaped his tongue: he only grunts, unsure of what a beast like him could give you in return for your help.

“You must promise to be kind to me.”

“Kind...?”

“I need you to behave,” you explain. “No bad things on the way up... No fucking.”

Everything else, he seems to accept, but during the last sentence the Minotaur blinks at you, utterly confused.

“But... You smell like you want to fuck.”

Your jaw drops open a tiny bit. Then you remember that a priestess of Hecate doesn’t gawk.

“I don’t–How would you know that…?”

The beast only shrugs. Then he leans forward and takes another sniff as if to prove it’s true that you want his cock inside you.

“You smell good,” he grunts. “Different... Female, not afraid.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to…”

He even raises his hand to inspect the slight wetness there. Fascinated by the thin film on his fingers, he rubs his thumb in it, probably thinking about bringing it under his mask to get a good sniff of your juices too.

You grab his wrist without thinking, mortified to your core by the prospect of him getting high on your slick.

“Look. We need to leave before the candle burns out.”

The obsessive stare threatens to swallow you once more, so you let go of his wrist and steel your resolve. Scooting down to grab your things, you try to ignore the violent erection still pointing straight at you.

Hecate keep you from offering yourself to this man out of your own free will...

And you don’t have a torch, only a candle and a skein of blood-red yarn, but you know the way out, so there’s hope. There’s always hope.

“I need you to promise me,” you turn at the mouth of the tunnel, seeing that he’s still standing there, in the place where he almost took you like his first whore. As if waking up from a thrall, he straightens to his full height, picks up his sword and looks like a half-human, half-bull once more.

“I promise,” comes a booming voice from under the animal skull. “No fucking… I’ll behave.”

You nod. There's a sense of trust in the air. A promise of hope... It's mutual, invigorating -- life-giving, like the sun and blood in your hands.

You don't know if the son of Minos has ever smiled in here, but from the quick glint in his eyes, you suspect that he's smiling right now, the man under that animal mask. Somehow, it reminds you of the stars in the sky.

“Lead the way, maiden.”

#könig x reader #könig x you #könig x fem reader #konig x reader #könig #könig cod #konig x you #cod konig

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luvtak · 8 days

Text

corona borealis, lfx

✧ genre/tw rambly soul-crushing fluff, one sweet kiss!!, lovely as a pet-name, felix being an undeniably sweet bf like always and hearing a bedtime story <3 , largely unedited.

✧ w/c 952 <3

✧ a/n definitely not brought on by asea felix are you kidding... he's so lovely i just had to dawdle on about it somewhere so here you go! also, the thought of telling lix a bedtime story makes me wanna cry i hope i'm not alone. mwah!!

His arm is hot around you, keeping you safe from the scary silhouettes the shadows bring, and the night is breathing. A group of you had come to this little campground for a night away from the city lights, and while the two of you are alone you can still hear the rest of the boy’s nighttime sounds mixing in with crickets and critters.

Your boyfriend stands beside you, listening intently as you tell him stories of the stars. Usually, these tales come from the comfort of your bed–rustling under covers and speaking into his mouth, sharing breath and love until you fall asleep, tracing false shapes in the plastic stars adorning your ceiling. But tonight, under the cover of a too cold darkness you tell him his bedtime stories beneath the sky.

His face is tilted up, looking to see where your fingers are pointing, and the soft glint in his midnight eyes makes you pause. You’ve never known someone who looked so alive, someone with a sun for a soul. Felix has the brightest smile you’ve ever seen, alight with joy and senseless mischief–eyes wide with wonder at the constellations rising above him.

Looking at him is dizzying; that feeling when you put your arms out and spin so fast you fall, a carousel going so round and round. You feel like flying, rising up like the moment Icarus’ wings took him up and away.

Sometimes you wonder if it’s normal to feel like this… if everyone in love feels as though they are the creator, the inventor of such depraved desire and compassion for another. Surely, you must be the first–no one else had felt Felix’s fingertips on their skin or his lips sweetly drinking them in. How could someone say they’ve encountered a deeper love than this when your sweetheart is the embodiment of love, Venus as a boy.

He turns to you in your moment of hesitation, smiling at you with all the care in the world. He loves you endlessly, burns for you and the soft caress of your affection. You can tell he doesn’t know why you stopped speaking, but he’s happy just the same–sharing your space and time, living in this moment with you. He remembers the first time you told him a story, speaking the words softly, he thinks he fell in love right there.

“What’s that one?” he asks, catching your still raised hand in his own.

“Oh, it's a crown, see?” you can see his eyes tracing the points, finding the shape that connects the points together. “It’s Ariadne’s wedding tiara, she was a princess of Crete who helped Theseus slay her brother the Minotaur Asterion. After they escaped the labyrinth, the prince left her on the Island of Naxos where she was found by Dionysus,”

“He left her there?!” he gasps, your sweet boy forever confused by ill intentions, even in a story.

“Yeah, he’s so lame, right? Anyway, after the God finds her on his island they fall in love and eventually marry… the crown was her wedding present, and after she died Dionysus flung it into the sky to honor her.”

Felix is quiet for a long time after this, inhaling the story with all the deference you deserve. After every narrative he takes his time to think about how he feels about it: the first time you finished a movie with him and he was quiet for fifteen minutes before he told you he liked it, he is like that now. Quietly staring at the sky, not ignoring you for his hand still made its path up and down your arm and you know if you called his name he’d answer, but you don’t want to interrupt his silent seeking.

His life is noisy, spirited, and wonderful in all the ways a beautiful boy like him creates, your infatuation came in chaos–in mindless chatter and kitchen counter dance parties, but you fell in love in silence. In the moments when the world was quiet and all you could hear was his heartbeat, the drawling intake of his lungs filling and releasing. You adore his voice, but just existing with him, sharing the same air would be lovely enough for a lifetime.

Finally, after minutes of staring ahead, he speaks–softly but with no less intensity,

“If something were to happen to you I would make you into a constellation.”

His eyes, bright with longing stare into yours, and you know he’s not being funny. He means it with all of him, means it with every atom of his being.

Shocked and in love with him you laugh, bursting with fondness never hidden. “I love you too,” you say, for you know that's what he means. A love that spills from his veins whenever he thinks of you, so massive and consuming that the words aren’t enough. “I’d make a constellation for you too, it’d be the prettiest one in the whole sky.”

When he moves closer to you, you can feel the smile radiating on his shadowed face–sweeping his grin over the plane of your cheekbones. Scorching your skin where his lips touch, a traveling forest fire of kisses. When his journey ends, sliding his mouth over yours the flames grow, getting taller and taller as his caress goes deeper.

The night is chilly, but there is no need for a coat when his arms are around you–sweeping you into his embrace with only the stars to watch.

“Lets go to bed, lovely” he muttered, breathing through open-mouthed kisses and shared smiles. Leading you to where your tent lies, to where stories and sleep await you–love and life and dreams filled with him, your constellation of a boy.

#felix fluff #felix x reader #felix scenarios #stray kids #skz #stray kids x reader #lee felix x reader #skz x reader #stray kids scenarios #skz imagines #stray kids fluff #skz fluff #lee felix #felix

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khaire-traveler · 5 months

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I think there is a lot of power in Ariadne's tale, actually, and I feel like that reflects on who she is as well. She went through a fucking awful situation, left behind by the love of her life - IN HER SLEEP, BY THE WAY - to die alone on the island of Naxos with no way to leave. Dionysus found her and offered her a new life, and not only is that a beautiful display of love, but it's also a beautiful display of Ariadne's personal strength. She pushed through the struggles of her past and learned to trust and love and live again. She must've had to build from the bottom up, healing from the pain of the past, and she fucking did it! She did it and succeeded and lived happily with her god husband who literally made her a crown of stars, and that's fucking awesome, and I just think that's a really beautiful and highly underrated part of Ariadne's story: her journey of healing that she took after being left by Theseus.

#i wonder if you all are going to think I'm insane and grasping at straws lmao #it's my personal interpretation #it's why i like to personallt associate Ariadne with tigers #because you know shes a badass with lots of inner strength #and she inspires me because goddamn it if she can find happiness after trauma #so fucking too can i #ariadne deity #ariadne #helpol #hellenic polytheism #hellenic pagan #greek mythology

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strangerdangerwrites · 8 months

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

Chapter Summary: real partnerships need faux relationships.

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

YOU CAN TELL A LOT ABOUT A PERSON by the way of their touch.

Is it comforting? Like a mother who eases their child about the bruise on their knees.

Is it skilled? Like the pianist who is adept at playing the key to a composition.

Is it warm? Like the embrace of a friend whom you have not seen in years.

Is it tender? Like the palm of the lover carefully caressing your cheek.

Or is it dominating? Like the hands holding your neck, making you gasp for air while you could only comply.

Every breath you take, clawing at the hands that tighten with every passing minute. Strangling you until all you see are the ceilings painted like the night sky, it would be your deepest desire to be held so gently, not like this. Not like this. Your lungs burning with every passing second, reaching for anything, a small gasp of wind would be enough to suffice. The only thing that registered in your mind was how hard your heart was beating out of your chest. One more tightened grip and it would be your last breath, your feet wriggled right under his grasp, tears welling out of yours. You didn’t even know you could cry.

You didn’t want it to end like this, to be seen unsightly. To lie cold on the white sheets, eyes with a blank glassy stare and tear stains on your cheeks. The tell-tale sign that you were once alive is gone with your last breath. You didn’t want it to end like this… You were a fighter— you were fighting for a semblance of a home, the warmth, and the pure love.

With a gasp, you tapped on the arms that held your neck, trying to push off the undesired touch. You grabbed them harshly, as if your life depended on it, and pushed them off your frame. You sat still and coughed, the air you desperately wished went back to your senses slowly. You were alive. You are alive, Feeling the pulse of your veins right beneath your bruised neck.

The man on the sofa whispered but words fell on deaf ears, he muttered something, and all you could do was hum. Unlike earlier, the rough hands by your neck weren’t like the soft kisses he left on your shoulder, leaving the feeling of ice on your skin.

“I said tell me the truth. Did I hurt you?” He asked, warm breath tickling your skin. Looking right at your shoulder his arms circled your waist as he inhaled your scent.

“You didn’t.” Intense eyes looked right back at you. His once-slicked-back hair was ruffled lying flat on his forehead, he looked at you. Scoping your reaction once more but nodded, nonetheless.

Lies. Lies. Lies. It comes naturally to you, like breathing.

And only one person had caught on to your lies. You take pride in having a knack for the art of deceptiveness, yet when Theseus Scamander looked at you, he knew that you had recognized Charles Moore. Mr. Scamander was far too perceptive and smart for his good, his nobleness would only lead to trouble.

The truth is it wasn’t even in the Amour Délicat that you had first met the missing assistant delegate, his thoughts were loud and clear, unbearable with the thought of your beauty.

‘She’s beautiful.’ The words you have seen a thousand times.

And for the second time, Charles Moore presented himself in front of you, right in front of a jewelry shop, he held a flashy ring that glittered in the sun. You tried to look at your surroundings, to look for the people that accompanied courtesans every time you had to go out for help. But you couldn’t feel or see them, strange.

“Run away with me. I’ll make you the happiest woman on earth.” Charles Moore proposed, kneeling on one knee as a crowd of onlookers looked at the spectacle expecting you to say yes.

“I do not even know you; you must have had the wrong person.” You said as you turned around to walk another block, trying to get away from his hands as he tried to reach you.

“You don’t understand, I am in love with you! You are the woman of my dreams. Why are you running away from me? I am your true love!” Your heart hammered in your chest; you couldn’t risk losing your job by creating a scene in front of the crowd. Madame Blanche kept you her secret, a weapon to investigate secrets and he is risking it by following you.

When you have reached the dark alleys of Paris, streets that looked at you in hunger, you were sent back to a dark time where you had no roof over your head. You have seen life and decay in these very streets. It felt like you were back from where your stomach growled in hunger as you stared at the windows of a bakery begging for a piece of bread. You felt your lungs tightening in your chest like an incarcerous spell had taken hold of your chest, squeezing it until panic littered your veins. Your eyes darted at the crowd, looking for the protection that you desperately craved. Suddenly, multiple people stood in front of you, dressed in shabby clothing. They had followed you, looking at you with disdain asking if you were acquainted with the man earlier, you shook your head no as tears threatened to spill in your eyes, only for them to grab your arms harshly. Every spell of protection flew over your head as your heart still hammered in your chest, stunning stem into their place you ran. The soles of your feet were sore and when you were back to the familiar streets of the red-light district, back to Amour Délicat, you could finally breathe. You stood there for what felt like a lifetime, only to hear the panicked breaths of people who were supposed to protect you.

That is the memory you had shown Theseus, who is now sitting on the sofa with his head propped up on a soft pillow looking at the ceilings while dissecting every memory of the encounter, For someone to force their memory on you it would hurt for the first time. You muttered a healing spell to ease his pain, while he lay on the soft velvet seats, collecting his thoughts.

“I would say that you are quite indeed a great liar, but the first time you looked at me I knew you were lying.” He said with a cheeky grin. Proud that he had seen through your facade of lies. His eyes remained closed, and you frowned.

“What gave it away?”

“Your eyes. My mother said you can see a lot of a person through their eyes, that’s why Hippogriffs only respect you if you look right into their eyes. And you didn’t with me, you covered yours with a smile.” Opening his eyes, he looked right back at you. “And that is your flaw, you’re too good of a liar that lies upon lies is the tell-tale that you are hiding something.”

What a funny thing, you failed to be the greatest deceiver. Now you were only obligated to an oath of truth to Theseus Scamander. You were a mere pawn in this game, all your life you were, and to be presented with a ticket out, you became a feral dog ready to taste the sense of freedom. Your truth is hard to come by because all you knew were lies. And the way he had you right wrapped around his fingers was a sure new record of low for you, what a pity you were. Madame Blanche would sure be ashamed. You and your rotten judgment would lead to your demise; you were certain.

Yet, he vowed for your safety. All that needs to be done is you get information as you’ve always done before. Gather secrets and tell him what he wants, that would be easy. The only obstacle was how you would communicate discreetly, all he needed to do was be within your vicinity for you to use legilimens to him. But, how, he couldn’t simply use his account to buy your time, he significantly declined that idea. His righteous beliefs prevented him from using you for that kind of service, ‘We are working together, you don’t need to think about ways to please me. Your help is fine.’ he says.

Madame Blanche would become too curious, too prying as to why the British auror had come to take you, therefore you settled on an agreement, every time you had to go out, he would trail by the shadows until both of you were all alone he would get the information he wanted.

You would ease into Mr. Scamander’s mind gently, give him the truth that he wanted.

The man that lay on your sofa slowly unwrapped his arms around your waist. It was becoming a common occurrence for you to be lost in thought. Being deep into your head, made you make plans for the imminent future, like what would you or where would you go questions have circled your mind. Daydreaming has now been a habit that distracts you and makes you hope, and having hope is a dangerous thing.

You even forgot it was not Mr. Scamander in the room with you but a regular patron of yours, whose name you were forced to remember since he was a high-paying clientele. Pierre Baudelaire, the next-inline as the Duke of Baudelaire, a part of the royalty of pure-blooded families. And you were nothing but his mistress.

If you squint your eye, you would’ve thought it was the figure of a certain auror, something your mind didn’t expect it to play. Buttoning his suit with ease, Baudelaire acquires an extravagant box in his coat pocket. He kneeled right in front of you and grabbed your hand in his.

“What is this?”

“A gift.”

“I don’t think I can accept—”

“Take it.”

Your hands fiddled with the box unwillingly, his palms pressed to it tightly, not giving you the choice to reject his offer. Nonetheless, you smiled at him not before you grabbed your robe and walked with him as he went to say his goodbyes.

With one last look, he turned around to step in front of you. His deep green eyes stared at you unblinking not before holding your neck, lightly this time. With his thumb, he tilted your head up at him not before giving you a kiss. Closing your eyes and the hold on your neck slowly tightened. The feel of your pulse right beneath his skin, you willed your heart to remain calm, afraid that the repeat earlier would happen again.

The touch of authority is evident in the way he holds your neck, making you want to submit to his desires that are still not satisfied. Back then you would’ve let them, it was your job after all. You would’ve been your ruin, a tool of satisfaction but now you feared. You fantasize about life outside these very caging walls. Back then, you would’ve been fine if your last dying breath was in between the sheets, and the taste of freedom far from your mind. But now it is different.

When the lift doors closed behind him and your clientele for the day had gone, you gave a tired sigh and rested your back among the door frames. Your hand touched your neck feeling the faint bruise slowly starting to burn, by the time you would have looked in the mirror you were sure that it would’ve been dark red. Going back inside the room, other elves started appearing and cleaning the room from the ground up. And at the corner of your eye, Bernadette gave you a comforting smile. A cup of tea in her hand

“I hope I didn’t take long. Bernadette.” Grabbing the warm cup of tea in hand, the crushed leaves provided you with the comfort that you needed. You muttered a ‘thank you’ not before hearing the creaking wall opening behind you. You followed her as both of you walked towards the hidden door in the room, the bricked walled lead you downstairs to the common rooms and large dining hall for every courtesan. Loud chatter and boisterous laughter could be heard echoing on your way down.

As soon as you opened the large lounge where every staff and courtesan lazed around; there they talked about rumors of their own, happenings on the street, and what the client of the day did. Passing by some who flaunted their lover’s gift as they giggled at the thought of love. Not before you get stares of your own; thoughts you could hear loud and clear about how you were the cause of Maeve’s disposal. Not even caring that their voices were loud whispers.

If Maeve didn’t run her tattle tale mouth, then would have still been working here, It was not your fault she grew jealous of your status as the right hand. She did it to herself, you were merely a vessel to her downfall. At first, that former courtesan acted like you were the best of friends, clinging to you to make her status higher but you knew not to make friends; you could hear and see the disdain in her thoughts as soon as she saw you. Thoughts about how undeserving you were, and that you were never special to begin with. And when she realized that you were unapproachable and someone who never let her secrets slip, she knew that you would never open up.

“Why did Maeve get to be punished, she should’ve been the one who left.” A comment that went past your ears. You paid no reaction and continued your way back to your room, all you needed to do was get out and talk to Theseus, passing him a piece of crucial information about how you were being trailed these last few days and how Maeve held no contact after being laid off by Madame Blanche. No letters to her friends in Amour Délicat, which is unlike her character at all. She liked to gossip and was often associated with the one who made the nasty comment about you, and to not get a peep out of the former courtesan was unlikely. Very unusual.

Passing down rooms until you reach the final door. Courtesans from Bouquet de Blanc had different sets of rooms. You were never placed to bed in the lower ground rooms, where one hall five people are being accommodated in their respective rooms, you stayed on the upper floors where a singular door resides. There were clothes designated for you to wear, to not lose their status, and you were only required to wear white, a sign of purity when the truth is you are embedded with sins.

Opening the door, what greeted you was a simple room. No knick-knacks, just all the necessities to be considered a bedroom. There were no high ceilings or chandeliers like the room upstairs that decorated this simple abode. The only splash of the decor was the potted Epiphyllum oxypetalum residing at the dresser, its buds still not formed. It was charmed to be water daily while you were occupied by other means, you never miss it when it blooms once a year. This plant was a gift from the Madame, every courtesan had a flower designated to be their own identity. A cruel reminder that this is who you are in the establishment of Madame Blanche. A flower in her bouquet of courtesans.

Bernadette who has been by your side all this time summoned the golden tub, and immediately you succumb to cleaning yourself hastily. You scrubbed hard while the water still flowed to a full; Bernadette rushed as well as she poured an essence of floral shampoo right into your hair. The house elf saw the forming bruise right at your neck and touched it gently.

“Again? Please be careful around men like that Miss.” You flinched when her cold hands touched the sensitive skin, she whispered a healing spell. You could only nod as you hurried to dress yourself, in simple clothes, something inconspicuous.

“Are you meeting the auror again?” Bernadette asked. Worry was written all over her face.

“I have to, this— this contract is an opportunity I could simply not pass. When the time comes, I’ll make sure that you’ll come with me to be free. And this is the only reason for that to happen, trust me. Please.” Kneeling right in front of the house elf, she caressed your cheek and wiped the worry off your face. Bernadette nodded and put a tight lip on her lips signifying her silence. The house elf that you have trusted your whole life, embraced you in a hug like a doting mother would.

The truth is Bernadette is your only friend, she is the only other person you ever trusted and cared for. When the world turned their eyes with disgust at you, it was empathy and a cup of warm tea that she offered. Bernadette took care of you as a loving mother would; not that you knew what it's like to feel a mother’s touch. It was she who gave you warmth, and sincerity. And even if you are not related by blood, the bond you have with each other is irreplaceable.

“What would you do if she asks?”

“I’ll think of something, don’t worry.”

“Stay safe.”

“I will.”

Walking towards the back doors, you stopped at the guard’s quarters to call upon Chen and Marc. The men who were assigned to watch your every move whenever you are needed outside. They did not only to keep you from harm but to prevent you from running away. Those were Madame Blanche’s orders.

“Are we too lazy to go outside boys?” You crossed your arms across your chest and looked at their round of poker game. Groaning, the two boys sat their cards down to fold. And just by hearing their thoughts out loud, they were dejected. Placing their cards down, they begrudgingly stood to follow you, calling out to their other mates about continuing the game later.

“Where are we going today, Miss? Another theater or a trip to see the Seine?” Chen enthusiastically asked.

Chen and Marc were great at their job, they knew to keep tabs on all behavior and what to report to Madame Blanche as soon as the trip was done. You had been doing this for years, and with experience, you knew how to throw them off your scent easily. All you need is a place wherein utmost surveillance would become useless when faced with difficulty; for that to happen you need an obstacle, an obstacle called the non-magiques. With the planned rendezvous in mind, you hummed not even trying to act overly giddy at the thought.

“We are going to the non-magiques golden district, the Champs-Élysées Avenue.” With a loud choking sound, followed by a slap on the back you walked towards the double doors. The feeling of air right on your skin made you elated.

“What for?”

“I need a look… a look on how to be the perfect bride.”

For the non-magiques it would take them 10-12 hours to travel to Champs-Élysées Avenue from the Amour Délicat, but apparition came easy to you and there are portkeys scattered in Paris. Besides, the farther you are in Amour Délicat the better. You didn’t need prying eyes or ears to watch your every move, and besides the non-magiques tourists spots were certainly a beauty to look at, that was just an additional benefit. Marc and Chen could only comply with your demands as you looked at every boutique with wonder in your eyes. They were on edge and yet they couldn’t do anything about it, afraid that the Bureau des Aurors would show up any minute. They were not accustomed to traveling outside the wizarding walls, they were wary that they would be captured and jailed if they ever slipped and showed magic towards the non-magical people. Pinballs of sweat dripped to their forehead as their wands remained at the inside of their pocket, eyes darting across one another as they tried to remain calm.

“Did you hear about ‘Handcuff' Houdini? I believe he is now in Wales touring! How I wish I could’ve seen his magic again; my papa said it was like sorcery!” You nudged the thought loud and clear to the young boys who bumped past your escorts. Messing around a little more, you whispered the fear of sorcery in their veins.

Another group of elegant young ladies passed by this time their thoughts were merely pure coincidence.

“I’m excited, I’ll finally be able to go to Magic City.” You stopped to tap them on their shoulder, the girl stared up at you in wonder. You looked regal with your white coat and scarf, even in the eyes of the non-magiques you were a beauty to look at.

“Did you say Magic City? I don’t believe that I’ve been there, care to tell me where it is?” You asked, voice loud and clear for the eavesdropping escort to hear. “Yes— yes the one by rue de l'Université. Their dance halls have the most extravagant balls and celebrations. I heard that it is the most magical place here in Paris. We hope to see you there!”

“Is that so? Thank you and I do hope to see you too. Have a wonderful day!” You turned around at their pale faces and gave them a small smile.

“Do you think that is a wizard-owned location?” Chen approached you but you could only hum in uncertainty, placing doubts onto their heads.

“I don’t know… I do think it is.” Turning around, you smiled as you heard one of your escorts gulp nervously, whispering amongst themselves about this new development and how they would tell Madame Blanche. If it is a new competitor, then it would be a threat to the Madame’s establishment

“Come on Chen and Marc, you have to hurry we do not have all day.” You hurriedly walked, passing through throngs of people, widening the gap as the men behind you were slowly losing you among the crowd. As soon as you walked two blocks away, you walked inside the corner shop street.

Ready to welcome yourself in, the floral ambiance greeted your senses, the name of the boutique long forgotten when you realized what kind of establishment it was. Countless white bridal dresses decorated its walls, and mannequins stood still wearing expensive-looking gowns. In another life, you would’ve rejoiced to be a bride, but now you despised the color white.

White. Felt restricting; it reminded you of the control, the emptiness, the loneliness, and the lies. White made you feel empty.

“Welcome to ‘Love Affairs’. How may I help you today?” The boutique assistant's voice spooked you and immediately helped you to snap out of it. She guided you to a sofa that held champagne and a catalog. It almost made you nauseous to see the closed catalog staring straight back at you, you thought that if you scanned through its pages, you would see yourself and the price under your name. You held everything in your will to force the bile from coming out of your mouth. This place felt sickly, it reminded you of Amour Délicat.

But you remember Theseus, curse him for choosing something like this. Something that is triggering every parcel in your body to just run away. He had provided you with this exact location, a place wherein you can do it discreetly. He could not afford to use the hotels the Aurors were staying at, that would cause too much curiosity in his superior. And the tavern had too many curious eyes and ears, this place was the first best thing. A place where no one would look for you and you could come up with an alibi easily, here you know that Marc and Chen could not follow you or it would raise suspicion.

Mr. Scamander… Mr. Scamander was here. Forcing yourself to remain in control you asked, “I was wondering if an English man has come in here? He was supp—” Her eyes widened in delight before you could even finish your sentence.

“Oh, you must be his bride! What a wonderful couple you two are. Come with me!” She urged you to stand up and she grabbed your hand, almost dragging you up the stairs where you can look at the catalog of dresses privately.

A lone stylist stood in the middle of the room, entertaining a man who was slouched down on the couch. His knees showing signs of nervousness.

“His fiance is here!” The girl called out and Theseus looked at you, he expected you to not even show up but when you did his fear was lifted. He stood immediately, engulfing you in a tight embrace as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Your hand hovered right behind his back, wary of your touch on his. You were afraid that if you became too close, he would flinch and push you away. All it took you was a second to decide before giving him an embrace of equal force, not too harsh that your bones would crush and not too soft that the wind could blow you away.

With his voice in your ear and his hand carefully drawing circles into your back, he whispered. “We need to talk, they almost thought you stood me up.”

It did interesting things to you, his whisper felt like feathers on your back making you arch closer to him and parted your lips. You felt yourself tremble to his voice, almost wanting more; you almost wanted to be greedy and see where this would lead. You push back to stare at him, but this is not the time or place for it, you have a job. And your job is to give him the information that he needs, not your services but secrets; he needed your secrets. And you two were not alone.

Your palm caresses his cheek softly; “Follow my lead.”

Dropping your hand back to your side, you turned to stare at the stylist, the white streaks on her told of her age. She gave you a genuine smile, and in her thoughts, you could see her admiration. Slowly his hand left your back to stay right in his pockets, the warmth leaving as he did.

‘Just like me and my husband.’ The lady's thoughts circled in your mind as her finger fiddled with her own ring.

You formally introduce yourself and shake the stylist’s hand, flattering your eyes. Like stepping in front of an opera house, you performed another lie of a lifetime.

“I had to apologize, I had to run an errand. It is hard to plan a wedding with only two people.” You gave them your made-up story, how quickly and easily it came to you.

Theseus would’ve thought it was true, but he knew your truth. Your contract was to only tell him the truth and to be seen on the other side of your white lies, he knew not to meddle with an expert at hand. You were far too quick on your feet to lie between your teeth, it came easy to you. He admired you for that, you would make a great auror.

“The way your husband came here was uncertain, we almost pushed him out of our boutique. He was a nervous wreck. Now that I know why he is like that, your case is something unheard of, we always thought that the groom would only see the bride’s dress at the wedding, not the planning. Yet, you do not need to worry about anything, we'll make sure that this is a wedding you’ll never forget.”

Theseus stepped to your left and closed your hand in his, placing a chaste kiss on your knuckles, hiding the view of your ringless finger from the spectators in front of you. “We wanted it to be private, just the two of us against the world.” He declared, and the boutique’s assistant swooned at the thought of pure love.

“Ah, then why don’t you let us do the magic, all you must do is trust us and we will surprise you with the collection suited for someone like you. We will not leave you disappointed.” The stylist said as she closed the catalog and ushered the young assistant down the stairs.

With the given privacy, you immediately walked toward the round-stage podium and closed the curtains surrounding it, not before dragging Theseus inside. Charming a muting spell in the vicinity, you looked up at him with seriousness plastered on your face. Now you were back to business, putting down the facade of pretending to be husband and wife.

He fiddled with something in his inner breast pocket. “Take this.”

In his hand, a small dainty ring resides. It didn’t need the most expensive of gems to look beautiful as it glittered through the sun's rays. The golden band protected the one moonstone right in its middle, it looked beautiful and delicate.

Not even realizing that you were traversing his mind, you found a memory behind it. It was his mother’s ring. In his head, you saw him in front of the dining table along with his mother passing that very ring with a smile on her face, her small freckles dusted on her cheeks looking the same as her son. You can see her muttering the words ‘When the time comes, I know you’ll give it to the right person.” His mother placed the ring in his hand and closed it tightly. You can see him being apprehensive but with one last look, he thanked his mother and hugged her.

“This is your mother’s. Mr. Scamander— I–I don’t think I am the right person for this.” You muttered, eyes darting back to his eyes. The palm of his hand was left unoccupied with the ring as you didn’t even want to touch something so special to him, afraid that your ruination would cause its destruction. Your heart was pounding loudly, mind muddled with the unknown as the thoughts of all people within 50 meters became one. The voices all came at you at once as the white noise grew louder. You were breathing heavily, your hand slapped right into your ears to make the voices of the people stop.

His eyes grew worried, as he held your hand beside your head. Muttering. He was muttering something. You stared at his lips as you leaned closely.

“They’ll think you’re lying if you are not wearing the ring.”

“Oh... Yes of course.”

You expected he was giving it to you as an act of commitment, but his thoughts were loud and clear, you just didn’t expect the disappointment that followed. Placing the ring onto your right hand, not before he stopped to carefully hold your hand and place it on your left ring finger.

“Vena Amoris. Vein of Love. You wear it on your left, closer to your heart.” He whispered, realizing what your implication meant. Air thick with tension and uncertainty made you step back, giving distance and formality once more. This is a job, you don’t meddle with a personal relationship with it; you should know better than that.

Clearing your throat, eyes avoiding his stare as his mouth opened and closed, trying to pull the words right out of his mouth.

“Should we start? We can’t afford to lose time by dallying around.” As professional as ever, you procure your wand to show him the memory. Shaking his head, he nodded and stood straight closing his eyes, as he waited for you to push the memory into his mind.

In this memory, you gave him the exact faces of the people who are trailing you, the same people who asked if you were acquainted with Charles Moore. Even giving him the exact location where and when these people were trailing behind you. Two men, a feat larger and burlier than he is and one small with a mean look in his eyes.

For the second memory, you gave him the news about the unresponsiveness of the former courtesan Maeve. You gave him details about how she never answered letters from her friends and almost seemed like she disappeared from the face of the world when she was a person who is quite the opposite of that. You gave him details as to her last known location, giving him the harder part of the job.

When you were done, he was gasping for air, almost as if he was drowning. Theseus almost tripped on the curtains as they opened when he fell. You tried to catch him but he was halfway on the floor when you caught his arm. You dragged him back to the couch while he regained his senses. Transferring memories with the use of legilimency is not an easy art to master, with time you’ll learn to endure the pain better but, for his second time, Theseus was faring far better.

When the assistant downstairs heard the bustling noise of someone falling, she immediately came upstairs to see you hovering right above your supposed husband. Meanwhile, Theseus lay there almost as if he was asleep. The aftereffects of legilimency took a toll on him.

“Is he okay? What happened? Do you need anything?” The assistant asked.

“Just took a tumble, do not worry. May we please have a glass of water? I think my husband is too tired and nervous for all of this.” You politely said. The girl immediately nodded and headed down the stairs. When you heard the pattern of footsteps disappearing, you sighed.

“Mr. Scamander?”

“Mr. Scamander?!”

“Answer me.”

“Theseus.”

Your voice commanding is still laced with worry as he remains to catch his breath, his eyes still closed and his skin still pale. Theseus muttered a sentence, way too quiet for your ears to pick up on.

“What? Can you repeat it?” You asked leaning forward, as pinballs of sweat and the colors from his cheeks started to come back.

“I said you didn’t give me time to gather my thoughts. Yes, you would be the right person for someone… I’m not saying you aren’t. Someday a lucky bloke would be lucky to have you as their right person.” Giving you the cheeky smile once again, he opened one of his eyes to stare at your reaction.

Slapping him lightly on his arm, “This is not the time for this type of conversation.” You sighed nonetheless when he laughed. When he laughs, you have never heard a sweeter and warm sound. His laughter made you at ease. He was fine.

“Then when? Care to join me for a cup of fire whiskey later? I think we do deserve it, after all, you now called me Theseus, I assume that I am now your friend not just an ally.” He replied cheekily. Held tilted to one side, wiggling his eyebrows for you to agree.

“When this is done, we will drink fire whiskey and gigglewater until the next morning. And I’ll make sure that you are too drunk to remember anything. Happy?” You fixed yourself and stood straight arms folded across your chest, he nodded.

“And stop getting a reaction out of me, we are in the middle of a business here. And I can’t take it seriously to see you annoyingly smiling at me.”

“So, you’re implying that I make you distracted?”

“Yes, you are a large distraction, an annoying one. I can’t believe I made an unbreakable vow to a cheeky person like you.”

“You know you would make a great auror someday.”

“Ha! In your dreams.”

You didn’t realize that the stylist and her assistant walked up the stairs with refreshments and too many dresses on hand. The lady looked at the couple in front of her with a large smile plastered on her face.

“Come on my dear, we must make you the perfect bride.” She dragged you as you watched Theseus sit straight and drink the refreshment in his hand, still giddy at the thought of you breaking down the facade of seriousness when you rolled your eyes at him playfully and stuck your tongue out at him.

“Real mature.” You said to him when you knew that he wouldn’t understand a word you muttered but with the way you said it, he knew what you meant.

You didn’t expect it; the walls that were too high to climb, too tough to break down easily crumbled under a certain auror. The absence of difficulty and pretending came naturally, it came to you as easy as breathing. Whether it is because you're bound by truth or maybe it's just the way that he is, you are uncertain. All you know is that it felt nice not to withhold the true you.

After pretending and having fun wearing white bridal gowns, you would think you lead a normal life; the high life of having a sense of normalcy felt nice. Mr. Scamander—Theseus certainly made his company a pleasure to be with. It was hours of leisure and laughing as the cheap champagne of the non-magiques stayed on your lips; bickering among throngs of dresses as he tried to ‘fight’ a particular dress he seemed to like. The stylist and her assistant were accommodating and made sure that the two had fun, and a ‘day you won’t forget’, but they were none-the-wiser, this was all a faux relationship. Looking at bridal dresses is a certain once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, where you don't need to worry about who is behind your back and watching every move. Maybe soon, you could be like this. You would find the love of your life, experience the freedom other people have, and possibly love the way other people love. Oh, how beautiful and bright that future would be.

Walking back to the steps, back at Amour Délicat you almost feel like a schoolgirl having a crush. Your own escorts who spent their whole day almost looking for you were tired. And yet their worries were lifted when you pretended that you had been searching for them as well. And behind them Theseus has to tip-toe out of their line of sight, waving you a small goodbye and a large smile plastered on his face. It almost seemed like a secret love affair, and you giggled at the thought. As soon as you open the back doors, all you can see are the courtesans gathered around the fireplace peering at something. Gasps of amazement filled the air. Their shadows danced right by the fireplace, passing on to something with great curiosity.

“Isn’t this expensive?”

“Do you think our lovers could get that too?”

“Ah, I’m so jealous.”

You paid no mind to them, as you walked towards the halls to your room. At the end of the hallway, Bernadette is biting on her finger with worry.

“There you are!” Someone behind you exclaimed, Turning around they gleamed. “The beauty of the night is here.”

The courtesan immediately surrounded you, and right in front of you was the black velvet box. And inside was a necklace with far too many pearls for you to count, and those weren’t just normal non-magiques pearls, these were siren tears. Acquiring siren tears is not an easy task, banned in most countries, and to do something so inhumane to a siren is punishable by law.

“What is this?” Staring at it with disgust and annoyance.

“What are you talking about? Just wear it, it’s yours after all.”

And right in the middle was a note, written in golden ink. Sitting innocently and untouched. Picking up the note with an apprehensive hand, you wavered. This is something your mind couldn’t see or read with the use of legilimens, you needed to see with your own eyes to understand.

‘I hope you wear it. This is merely a downpayment worth 4,000 galleons and the life of a certain English Man.’

And right on your left ring finger, a lone simple ring resides; a ring no amount of value could surpass. An engagement ring that came with love, a love from his mother to him, a ring that has seen pure love. You felt it grow cold on your finger.

text format: “dialogue” is in French. ‘Dialogue’ are thoughts. a/n: cant be touch starved when you hate physical touch (I am a hypocrite)

#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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tylermileslockett · 9 months

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The Abduction of Persephone

In the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, we are shown the tragic tale of the abduction of Demeter’s and Zeus’s daughter Persephone; goddess of spring growth. The young girl, out picking flowers, is entranced by the beauty of a Narcissus flower when the earth opens up and Hades appears and steals her away in his chariot. Persephone cries out, but of all the gods, only Hekate hears the voice, and Helios, the sun god high above, sees the crime. Demeter, consumed by grief and neglecting her duties as an agricultural deity, disguises herself as an old woman and searches for her Daughter over the earth with torch bearing Hekate providing assistance.

In the city of Eleusis she becomes the nursemaid to a royal family and infant son; Demophon, whom she attempts to make immortal by cleansing the child with ambrosia and setting him upon the hearth fire in secret at night. But Demophon’s mother, the queen, discovers the ritual and interrupts it, preventing the child from obtaining immortality.

Because Demeter is neglecting her agricultural duties, Zeus fears for humanities survival, and sends Hermes to deliver a message to Hades, imploring him to return Persephone to her mother. Hades relents, but tricks Persephone into eating a pomegranate fruit, forever tying her to the underworld. The daughter returns to the surface, reunites with her mother, but is fated to return to the underworld for a third of the year. Demeter, now satisfied, brings back fertility to the crops and even teaches the mortals of Eleusis the secret rites and rituals which will eventually become the Eleusinian mysteries religious cult.

Persephone appears in other hero myths beside Hades, as the queen of underworld, receiving the musician Orpheus in his quest of his lost love Eurydice, and Heracles, who negotiates for the release of Theseus.

Want to own a book jam packed with over 130 illustrations like this? Support my kickstarter for my book "lockett Illustrated: Greek Gods and Heroes" coming in October. please check my LINKTREE

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mask131 · 20 days

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Greek monster myths (1)

Various mini-articles loosely translated from the French « Dictionary of Feminine Myths », under the direction of Pierre Brunel. (You could also translate the title as “Dictionary of Female Myths” – the idea being all the myths centered around women)

Article 1: Gorgô

[Note: this mini-article is distinct from the mini-article about “Gorgons”]

The appearance of Gorgô, at the end of the eleventh chant of the Odyssey, is meant to cause fright – not just to Odysseus himself who is just done with invoking the dead, but also to the audience hearing this rhapsody (the Phaeacians listening to Odysseus’ tale), and to the very listener of the Homeric poem. Gorgô forms the dominant peak of this “evocation of the dead” (nekuia), she is the “chlôron déos”, the “green fear”. Odysseus’ mother, Anticleia, just disappeared back again nto the Hades – the hero wishes to summon other shades, such as those of Theseus and of his former companion Pirithous, “but before them, here is that with hellish cries the uncountable tribes of the dead gathered”. And Odysseus adds: “I felt myself becoming green with fear at the thought that, from the depths of the Hades, the noble Persephone might sent us the head of Gorgô, this terrible monster…” (633-635). It is barely an apparition, it is the possibility of an appearance, but it is enough to terrorize the living.

Jean-Pierre Vernant, in his work “La Mort dans les yeux” (Death in the eyes), establishes the link which ties together Gorgô and Medusa. Because Gorgô is more than a singular unification of the three Gorgons: she is a superlative form of Medusa, she is what happens when her petrifying gaze survives beyond death. By studying the depictions of Gorgô in ancient statues, Vernant establishes two fundamental traits: the faciality, and the monstrosity. He explains that “interferences” take place “between the human and the bestial, associated and mixed in diverse ways”. Maybe Gorgô is, as Vernant suggests, “the dark face, the sinister reverse of the Great Goddess, of which Artemis will most notably be the heir”. But Gorgô is also placed in the function of watchful guardian of the world of the dead, a world forbidden to the living. The mask of Gorgô expresses the radical alterity of Death and the dead.

Article 2: The Graeae

Daughters of Keto and Phorkys (they are thus also called “The Phorcydes”), sisters of the Gorgons, these divinities of shadows, which were born as elderly women and doomed to share one eye and one tooth for all three, appear exclusively in the tale of Perseus and Medusa.

The most ancient mention of the Graeae comes from Hesiod’s Theogony, which only counts two of them and names them Pemphredo and Enyo (Enyo was also the name of a goddess of war within Homer’s Iliad). The third of the sisters appears within a fragment of the Athenian logographer Pherecyde: Deino (“The Dreadful”), later called Persis by Hyginus (in his “Preface to fables”). Other authors, like Ovid, prefer to stick with two Graeae. Hesiod makes a quite flattering portrait of them: he makes them elegant goddesses with a “beautiful face”, even though they were “white-haired (understand “having white hair due to old age”) since birth”. And while their very name means “old women”, the Antique iconography actually follows the Hesiodic model: the depictions of the sisters as disfigured by the effects of time are quite rare… At most the artists will just put a few wrinkles. These mysterious hybrids between youth and old age, virginal seduction and sinister ugliness, finds an echo within a few lines from Aeschylus “Prometheus bound”: “Three ancient maidens, with swan bodies, that share a single eye and a single tooth, and who never receive a look from the shinng sun or the crescent of the night.” Aeschylus had an entire tragedy written about them (Phorcydes) which was unfortunately lost – but Aristotle wrote about it in his “Poetics” and implies that the play insisted on their monstrous aspect, placing them within the legendary area known as “the gorgonian fields of Kisthene”, and closely associating them with their sisters, of which they form a reversed image. Indeed, the Gorgons have a very powerful eyesight which no mortal being can face, while the Graeae have an extreme form of blindness. This trinity of women, old by nature, can also be understood as the antithesis of the three Charites, the Graces which embodied eternal youth.

The Graeae seems to have only a role within the myth of Perseus. And, outside of a few details, this legend does not change much from Pherecyde to Ovid’s Metamorphoses, passing by Lycophron, Apollodorus’ Bibliotheca, and Hyginus’ Astronomy. In all those versions the Graeae are the jealous keeper of the secret path that leads to the Gorgons, and Perseus must steal their eye in order to obtain the knowledge needed to reach Medusa. However, Pherecyde did change an element: according to him the Graeae do not protect the path leading to the Gorgons, but rather the path leading to the nymphs that hold the magical items Perseus needs to fight Medusa.

Due to their limited presence in Greek mythology, the Graeae have quite a poor cultural posterity. In the 19th century Goethe will remember them: in his “Second Faust”, Mephistopheles appears under the guise of “Phorkyas”, a monster with only one eye and one tooth. In the world of paintings, Edward Burne-Jones, who created a true “Perseus cycle”, had a strong interest for them: he worked for a very long time on a painting of the Graeae. Their face is barely visible, but the cloth that wraps itself around their body is menacing ; they are within an arid desert, under a dark sky heavy with clouds – they perform a sinister dance, in a mockery of the Graces. Perseus comes to steal their eyes, and the grey color that invades all the nuances of the picture symbolizes the unique presence of those strange crones, both disquieting and pitiable.

Article 3: Echidna

Echidna, “the viper”, is according to Hesiod the daughter of Phorkys and Keto, themselves born of Pontos, the Sea, and Gaia, the Earth. Echidna’s sisters are female monsters like her: the Graeae, and the Gorgons. Hesiod describes her as having half of the body of a “fair-cheeked nymph”, while the rest of her body is the one of an enormous, big, cruel, spotted and terrible snake which “lies within the secret depths of the divine earth”. Echidna as such belongs to this large mythological family of snake-women, of which the most famous case in France is the fairy Mélusine. But unlike Mélusine, Echidna can never leave the snake-half of her body, and thus a better French heir would be Marcel Aymé’s depiction of the vouivre with her cohort of vipers.

Theodore de Banville, when he imagines Hesiod scolding him for sanitizing Classical mythology, makes of Echidna the symbol of the archaic mythology: he tells him that he is “making a toy out of the history of the gods” by depicting Love as “a sweet child, free of carnivorous appetites, ignored by the Furies and by bloody Echidna”.

Echidna precisely appears as a being led by an amorous desire within Herodotus’ tales, that he claims to have collected among the Greeks of Pontus Euxinus: as Herakles was sleeping, Echidna steals his horses away. She only agrees to give them back if he sleeps with her. When Herakles leaves her, she tells him that she will bear three sons from their union. He advises them to only keep with her one that would be able to bend a bow just like him, and to force the others to leave. She does that, and this favorite son is supposed to be the one that created the Scythian people. This meeting between Herakles and Echidna might be derived from the famous encounters between Herakles and three of Echidna’s other children: the Nemean Lion, the Hydra of Lerna, and Cerberus.

In Aeschylus, Orestes compares his mother, Clytemnestra, to “a horrible viper”. Sophocles has Creon call Ismene, which he believes to have helped Antigone, “a viper that slid in my house against my will to drink my blood”. These examples show a link between the Ancient metaphorical speech, and the mythological allusions. Indeed, only the context can allow us to determine if these authors meant “viper” as a common name, or as a proper name: as “Viper”, “Echidna”. But it confirms the idea that, in Ancient Greece, Echidna is a monster born of an archaic fear of the women, and embodying their supposed perfidy.

#greek mythology #graeae #gorgon #gorgo #medusa #echidna #greek monsters #female monsters #ancient greek monsters #greek myths

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