Odysseus’s Ship

Well that's good to know

hades is the smell of the cold winter mornings, the smell of the pavement after it has rained, and the lingering scent left on your clothes after a camp fire. he holds your hand as you cross the street, watches the moon with you, and is sitting beside you on long car rides. he is both the coldness of your room at night and the warmth of your bed after a long day.

aphrodite is the smell of rose petals and your newest fragrance. she is the smell of the fog after a nights rain and the odour given off while romantic sex is taking place. she is the taste of your lovers lips and the feeling of your own skin after a shower. she is the butterflies in your stomach, and always has your name on the tip of her tongue. she is the one who sends you your next relationship and ends the bad ones. 

poseidon is the smell of the moist air as the water rolls over the rocks near a lake. he is the smell of the mud in a play ground and the scent of your newest body wash. he’s the one who stares back at you as you stare beyond the horizon of the sea. he is the feeling you get when you jump into a pool after being in a hot tub or sauna. 

apollo is the smell of breakfast cooking in the morning and wet wood. he is the split second of pain in your eyes from the light after being in the dark for long periods. he is the summers day spent at a park, and the excitement of remembering lyrics of your new favourite song.

artemis is the natural smell of your hair. she is both the smell of bark on a tree and your fingers after picking up a wet rock. she gives you grass stains on your pants, and blows your hair in the wind. she finds your favourite places to go and guards your place to sit. 

ares is the smell of your sweat. he smells like sand and is the scent of your father. he feels like slate and the pain of a bruise. he is the one who pushes you that one extra step, and forces you to lose your cool.

zeus smells like fire. he smells like the cold wind and your freshly washed sheets. he is the one who makes your heart pound and is the one who triggers your anxieties. he is the booming of loud music and the cracking of the floor boards at night. he watches you as you walk home in the rain.

- @antikristt

I mean, I think they're both cute

Sea otters and giant river otters are like if someone got two artists to design a giant otter, but ended up with two very different ideas on what they should look like cause one draws hello kitty fanart and the other was a nihilist.

Boi, if this ain't the cutest shit I've ever seen

🎂

Best damn story I've ever read

*shyly whispers* do u think u could do another Greek Mythology story~

“Your tapestries are sofine,” the merchant says in wonder, “that you must be blessed by the goddessAthena.”

Arachne tosses herhead, braided hair falling over her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall,“What’s Athena got to do with it? My hands wove these, not hers.”

The merchant blanchesand looks to the sky, as if expecting Zeus himself to smite them for blasphemy.Personally, she thinks the king of the gods has better thing to do with histime. “Ah,” he says weakly, “I suppose.”

He pays her for herwares and she leaves, almost immediately bumping into a hunched old woman withgrey eyes. “Do you not owe Athena thanks for your talent?” she croaks, gnarledhands curled over a cane.

Arachne is not stupid,but she is foolish. They will tell tales of it. She looks into those grey eyesand declares, “Athena should thank me,since my talents earn her so much praise.”

She pushes past her andkeeps walking, ignoring the goddess in humans skin as she disappears into thecrowd.

They will tell tales ofher hubris. They will all be true.

~

The next day she bumpsinto the same old woman at the market. Everything goes downhill from there.

“Know your place,mortal,” Athena says, grey eyes narrowed. There is a crowd around them, andArachne could save herself, could walk away unscathed, and all she has to do issay her weaving is inferior to that of a goddess.

She will not lie.

“I do,” she sayscoolly, “and in this matter, it is above you.”

She is not honest as avirtue, but as a vice.

Athena challengers herto a weaving contest. She accepts.

~

Gods are not so hard tofind, if you know where to look.

“It’s a volcano,” thebaker repeats, looking down at her coins, as if he feels guilty for takingmoney from someone who’s clearly not all there.

She grabs her bag ofsweet breads and adds it to her pack before swinging it over her shoulders,“Yes, I know. Half a day’s walk, you said?”

“A volcano,” he insists, as if she did not hear him perfectly well thefirst dozen times.

“Thank you for yourhelp,” she says. He’s shaking his head at her, but she knows what she’s doing.

She walks. She growshungry, but does not touch the bread she paid for, and walks some more. Thesun’s begun to set by the time she makes it to the base of the volcano. It’stall, impossibly large, and for a moment the promise of defeat threatens tooverwhelm her.

But Arachne does notbelieve in defeat, in loss. They will tell tales of her hubris. Those taleswill be true.

She ties a scarf aroundher braids then hikes her skirt up and ties the material so it falls only toher thighs. She fits work roughened hands into the divots of cooled magma andbegins her slow ascent.

~

The muscles in her legsand arms shake, and her hunger pains are almost as distracting. Her once whitedress is dirt smeared and torn and sweat makes her itch as it covers her bodyand drips down her back.

“What are you doing?”

Arachne turns her headand bites back a scream, looking into one giant eye. The cyclops holds easilyto the volcano’s edges, even though her hands are torn and bleeding. Sheswallows and says, “I heard you like honeyed bread. Is it true?”

The creature tilts hishead to the side, baring his long fanged teeth at her. She thinks he might besmiling. “You’ve been climbing for hours. What do you want?”

“Is it true?” sherepeats, refusing to flinch.

“Yes,” he says, lookingat her the same way the baker had, “it’s true.”

“There’s some sweetbread in my pack, baked this morning,” she says, “it should still be soft.”

His hands are bigenough and strong enough that it could probably squeeze her head like a grape. Insteadhe gently undoes her pack and reaches inside. The honey buns look comicallysmall in his large hands, and he swallows half of them in one bite. He lickshis fingers clean when he’s done, and his smile is just as terrifying thesecond time around. “I am Brontes. Why are you climbing my master’s volcano?”

“I’m the weaverArachne,” she takes a deep breath, “I need your master’s help.”

~

They tell tales ofHephaestus’s ugliness.

They are not true.

He’s got a broad,angular face and short brown hair. His eyes are like amber set into his face,and his arms are huge, and he’s rippling muscle from the waist up. He has legsonly to his knees. From there down his legs are bronze gears and golden wire,replacements for the legs destroyed when Hera threw him from Mount Olympus.

“Had your look, girl?”he asks, voice rough like he’s always a moment away from breaking into acoughing fit.

“Yes,” she says, anddoesn’t turn away, keeps looking.

His lips quirk up atthe corners, so it was the right move. The heat is even more oppressive insidethe volcano, and all around him cyclopses work, forging oddly shaped metal thatshe can’t hope to understand. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to find me,girl. What do you want?”

She slides her pack offher shoulders and holds it out to the god, “I have a gift for your wife. I havewoven her a cloak.”

He raises an eyebrowand doesn’t reach for the bag, “You believe something made with mortal handscould be worthy of the goddess of beauty?”

They will tell tales ofher hubris.

“Yes.”

They will all be true.

With a gust of wind theoppressive heat of the volcano is swept away, leaving her chilled. In its placestands a woman – more than a woman. Aphrodite has skin like the copper of herhusband’s machines and hair dark and thick and long. Her eyes are deepest,richest brown, piercing in their intelligence. People don’t tell tales ofAphrodite’s cleverness. That is because people are stupid.

“Let’s see it then,”she says, reaching inside the pack and pulling the cloak from its depths.

It unrolls beautifully.It’s made from the finest silks, and it shimmers in the light from the forges.The hem of the cloak is sea foam, speaking of Aphrodite’s beginning, and upalong the cloak is intricate patterns it tells of her life, of her marriage andher worshippers and escapades, all with the detail of the most experiencedartist and the reverence of her most devoted followers.

Her lips part insurprise and she slides it on, twirling like a child. “Gorgeous,” Hephaestussays, though Arachne knows he does not speak of the cloak. She doesn’t takeoffense.

The goddess smiles andArachne’s heart pounds in her chest. She does her best to ignore it – Aphroditeis the goddess of love, after all. It is only expected. “Very well,” thegoddess says, “you have my attention.”

Arachne swallows.Aphrodite’s attention is a heavy thing. “I have offended Athena,” she says,“She has challenged me to a weaving contest.”

Their faces somber.Hephaestus rubs the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and says, “Athena willlose such a contest, if judged fairly. She does not take loss well.”

“I know,” she says,“you are friendly with Hades, are you not?”

There are no tales oftheir friendship. But she’s staking her life on its existence, because whywouldn’t it exist – both of them even tempered, both shunned by Olympus, bothhappily married.

Gods hate being made tofeel lesser. It is why they say Persephone was kidnapped, why they sayAphrodite cheats with Ares. It is why Athena will crush her when Arachne winsthe weaving contest.

“Clever girl,” Hephaestussays, smiling.

Aphrodite stares at herreflection in a convenient piece of polished silver. Arachne assumes Hephaestusleft if lying there for that express purpose. “Very well!” the goddess says,not looking at her, “when Athena sends you to the underworld, we will entrenchupon our uncle for your release.” She turns on her heel and points a finger ather. Arachne blushes for no reason she can think of. “In return, you will weaveme a gown, one equal to my own beauty.”

A gown as exquisite asthe goddess of beauty. An impossible task.

They will tell tales ofher hubris.

“I accept.”

They will all be true.

~

The contest goes asexpected. Athena’s tapestry is lovely, but Arachne’s is lovelier.

The goddess’s face goesred in rage, and her grey eyes narrow. Arachne stands tall, ready to accept thedeath blow coming for her.

The blow comes.

Death does not.

~

She is an insect. Even if she can make it back to Hephaestus’svolcano, even if they can help her, they will not know it is her. She has nohope left, no course of action, she should just give up. But –

She doesn’t believe indefeat, in loss.

It was a terribly longjourney on foot, that first time. It is even longer this time, although now shehas eight legs instead of two. She makes it to the volcano, and creeps inbetween crevices, until she finds out a hollowed room, one with a sliver ofsunlight and plenty of bugs to keep her fed.

Athena’s cruel joke ofallowing her to weave will be her downfall. Her silk comes out a golden yellowcolor – it will look exquisite against Aphrodite’s copper skin.

~

It takes seven yearsfor her to complete it. She hasn’t left this room in the volcano in all thattime, and as soon as it’s done she scurries out back toward the village. She’sa large insect, but not that large.

She arrives just as thesun begins to rise, and leaves before the first rays have even touched theearth, her prize tied to her back with her own silk.

Arachne doesn’t returnto her room. Instead she goes to the more popular parts of the volcano, hurriesand runs around terrifying stomping feet until she finds who she’s looking forand scurries up his leg and onto his shoulder.

“Huh,” Brontes looksonto his shoulder and blinks. “What on earth are you?”

She cautiously skittersdown his arm, waiting. He bends closer and lightly touches her back. “Is – is thata piece of a honey bun?”

She looks up at him,waiting. It’s her only chance, if he doesn’t remember, if he doesn’t understand–

His face slowly fills witha cautious kind of wonder. “Arachne?”  Shejumps in place, being unable to nod, and Brontes cautiously cradles her in hismassive hands, “We must find the Master immediately!”

She jumps down, landingin front of him and running forward. “Wait!” he calls, and she makes sure he’s runningafter her before skittering back to her corner of the cave. It’s almost toosmall for him to enter but he squeezes inside and breathes, “Oh.” He stares forseveral moments, and Arachne climbs her web and waits. Brontes shakes himselfout of his reverie and uses his powerful wings to bellow, “MISTRESS APHRODITE!”

There’s that samebreeze and she’s in the crevice with them, “What was so important, Brontes,that you had to yell?”

Arachne sees the exactmoment that the goddess sees the gown, golden yellow and glimmering, madeentirely of spider silk. “Beautiful,” she says, reaching out a hand to brushdown the bodice. Her head then snaps up, “Brontes, where’s Arachne?”

She warms at that, thatAphrodite knew it was her weaving even though she hasn’t been seen in sevenyears.

They’ve told tales ofher hubris.

They are all true.

Brontes points at theweb, and Aphrodite steps over and holds out her hands. Arachne crawls onto thegoddess’s palms. “Athena is more powerful than I am, I cannot undo her work,”she says, “but I know someone who can.”

Then they are in frontof a river. A handsome young man stands there waiting with a boat. “GoddessAphrodite,” he says, “we weren’t expecting you.”

“Thanatos,” shereturns, “I need to see Persephone.”

The man’s face stayscool, and for a moment Arachne fears they will be refused and she will be stuckin this form forever. Then he smiles and says, “My lady is of course availablefor her favored niece.” He holds out a hand to help her onto the boat, “Pleasecome with me.”

~

Arachne weaves a dressfor Hades’s wife as a thank you, and returns to her volcano.

“I can take yousomewhere else,” Aphrodite says, “you don’t have to hide here.”

Arachne pauses at herloom. She has lived in this volcano for seven years. It’s her home. “Would youlike me to leave?” she asks instead.

Aphrodite scoffs, “Ofcourse not! How could I dress myself without you here?” She’s wearing thespider silk dress Arachne spun for her, and she’s working on another for thegoddess now. Aphrodite runs a gentle finger down Arachne’s cheek and for amoment she forgets to breathe. “You are the finest weaver to ever exist.”

She looks up at thegoddess, “Then as the god of crafts and goddess of beautiful things, where elsewould I belong besides with you and Hephaestus?”

To declare your companyequal to that of gods is the height of arrogance and blasphemy.

They tell tales of herhubris.

“An excellent point,”Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.

They are all true.

gods and monsters series part iii

@bastart13 , thank you for making an adorable character we all know and love. This is an appreciation post for Isha in a picture you did. At least, I think and hope I did good

Agreed

Kirishima Eijirou

reblog if you agree

THIS. FUCKING. SENT. ME!!!

#pokemon #pokemonleon #pokemonbea

God, I love how the Pokemon: Twilight Wings episodes look.

So pretty.

My mother if she was a god😅😅

Zeus want a hug from his favorite babies u.u

Excuse you, you little shit?? I am poor OF COURSE I FUCKING WANT IT