#hades john mactavish

[charliemwrites]

Fields of Elation

Part 1

Rating: E Warnings: Dubcon if you squint

The garden has become a riot of color in the last week.

Native blooms in every vibrant color you could find, praying for pollinators to watch from the reading nook. The first butterfly fluttered in yesterday morning while you sipped tea. You could have squealed with excitement, aching to tell someone and denying the twinge in your chest when you realized who “someone” was.

You’re not thinking of him now. No. Absolutely not. Gardens are not for blood-soaked, violent men that smell like gunpowder and smoke – and neither are your thoughts. Your thoughts are to be as sun-soaked as the flowers, bleached out by warmth and light. Depthless, shadowless.

There’s soil dusting your fingers. You kneel in the flossy grass to plant wooden dowels, support for drooping stems growing too tall, too fast. You’re endeared by them, that they’re exploding with so much life that they need a helping hand. Perhaps you’re anthropomorphizing them a bit too much. This little recess you’ve carved out of the world is beautiful but lonely.

You hum a soft tune as you bow twine, some happy new pop song about summer. Heard it on the radio in the grocery store and haven’t gotten it out of your head since. The back of your neck prickles.

“Missed your voice, bonnie.”

You yelp as big, rough hands scoop you from the ground. Strong fingers grip your thigh, a wide palm supports your ribs, tugging you close to a thick, muscular body. The rough fabric of tac gear sands against the exposed skin of your stomach. You flail until your arms loop around broad shoulders, a chuckle rumbling into the hollow of your throat.

“Missed that noise specifically.”

You gasp air for another shout, but get jostled up into a fireman’s carry, wind knocked out of you. There will be no screaming for your distant neighbors this time.

“Put me down,” you wheeze instead.

“In a mo’, love.”

You grunt indignantly as the ground blurs beneath you, tools left behind as powerful legs tread the path back to your little house. Spend the disconcertingly short journey thinking of new things to call him, since you’ve been running out.

There’s a heavy wooden thump.

“Don’t kick my door!” you screech.

“I’ll fix the damn door,” he growls back.

Your head spins as you’re dropped to your bare feet on the wood floors, just inside the back door. Steady yourself on corded forearms to catch your bearings, then open your mouth to give him a dressing down he hasn’t had since recruit days.

But a hot, wet tongue slides against yours, curling expertly into your mouth. Dry, warm lips pressing hard. That same arm curls around your chest to gather you close; the breadth of him steals your coherence as much his kiss. Your venomous words are superseded by a soft noise, one that you’ll deny is the admission of pleasure he takes it as.

When he pulls away, you find your fingers curled in the muted green of his shirt, knuckles pressed against his beating heart. Its pace matches yours.

You flutter your eyes open, find summer blue gazing back. Softer than the grass you just knelt in, warmer than the sun in your hair. You swallow back surrender, blink away admissions.

“I was in the middle of something, you bastard,” you snap.

John MacTavish grins back, crooked and arrogant, the scar beneath his eye pulling. “It’ll keep.”

“Then so will dinner.”

His eyes light up. You curse as you realize your mistake.

“You gonnae cook f’me, love?”

“No.” You back away, but it’s like trying to outrun the wind. He manages to make your deliberate retreat feel like a choice he’s making, hedging you deeper into the house. Back, back, unerringly corralling you towards the bedroom. You know it, but you’re helpless to stop it.

“S’alright, you’ve been cookin’ enough, I reckon,” he drawls. “Don’t mind makin’ somethin’ fer you.”

If by “cooking” he means cobbled together snacks that level out to something like nutritional balance, then yeah. You’ve been cooking for yourself.

“Not enough ingredients for two,” you snark, eyes sliding away in a show of dismissal. “You’ll have to starve.”

He smirks, balancing you with hands on your waist when you bump the bedroom door ajar. Your stomach clenches up like you’re on a rollercoaster. Know what’s coming next but dig your heels in anyway.

“Nah, just gonnae eat now.”

Your mouth drops open just as he pounces, squealing as your back hits the mattress. The ceiling is decorated in fairy lights you forgot to turn off this morning. They twinkle brightly as John wrestles your dirty cotton “work” shorts off your thighs, leaves them hanging off one calf.

“Goddamit!” you shout as he tears through yet another pair of underwear. Nothing special, mind, but it’s the principle of the thing. They’re not his to rip.

“Gotcha more ‘fore I came home.”

That doesn’t make it better, you try to tell him. What comes out is a warbling moan as he buries his tongue in your pussy. Licks from your shamefully leaking hole to your already-throbbing clit. He grunts in reply, deep and rough in his wide chest. Drops himself onto the floor for better access, pulling your thighs over his shoulders.

Eats you out like this really is his first and last meal. Sloppy and wet and loud, audible over the sounds you try to stifle behind your forearm because your hands are still dirty. Get away with it for all of a minute (being generous) before he’s pulling back just enough to speak – even if it’s right into your cunt.

“No, no, no, we have a deal,” he growls. You whimper as his hands clamp down on your squirming hips. “I’m home now, you’re mine. This pussy, those noises, they’re all mine again.”

Your hands fly to his hair as he dives in again, tangling in dark, course strands as he laps at you like a dog. If you could rally the brain power to speak more than unintelligible sounds, you’d mock him with that imagery. But knowing him, he’d revel in the comparison. Would bark just to prove a point.

You can’t stand that you know him.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “My goddess.”

You arch as he sucks your clit, flicking the tip of his tongue over the bundle of the nerves. Thumbs massaging into the plush of you. Stubble prickling a bit; you’ll have to remember to tell him off for that later.

“Missed me too,” he continues, flat of his tongue licking a long stripe up your slit. Strings of your slick web between his mouth and your pussy. “Dripping like you missed me, anyway.”

“D-didn’t,” you whine.

He chuckles, the absolute devil, humming as he curls his tongue inside you. Doesn’t believe you, doesn’t even deign to challenge it. Just keeps fucking you on his mouth, groaning when your twitchy fingers tug at his hair. Doubles his efforts, any semblance of restraint crumbling as the time and distance overwhelm his usually infallible patience. Overwhelm you too.

It’s been so long – since the night before he last left. You’re oversensitive and touch-starved and John is a feast for your body and soul. Lose everything to the tides of lust, the current of ecstasy. Washed out to a sea of bliss, floating on awful need. Tilt your hips into the next swipe of his tongue, back arching, thighs tightening as you shudder.

“John,” you keen, “John, Johnny.”

He makes a gutted noise. One hand jerking from your hip to slide two thick fingers into you. Tears gather and rebel down your cheeks as he zeroes in on that sweet, achy spot inside of you. He is a man for whom mercy is scarce and he has none to spare for you, stroking and tapping relentlessly. Your peak rushes up frighteningly fast, voice lost in the shock of it as you clamp down.

He works you through it, savoring your orgasm like the first inhale of smoke in his lungs. Keeps licking and rubbing until your sobbing with overstimulation, trying to scramble away.

“No, John,” you warble, “t-too much, please!”

The sound when he pulls away is utterly obscene. If you had any room in your empty brain for embarrassment, you’d wish for the mattress to swallow you whole. You flutter your eyes open and stare blankly at the fairy lights as you struggle to breathe.

John’s kissing your trembling thighs like he didn’t just ruin everything all over again, whispering devotion into your beard burn.

When you manage to sit up a bit on shaking arms, you find him kneeling there. A supplicant to the alter of your pleasure. Ruthlessly handsome, war-torn. His chin glistens with your slick. You reach to wipe it away, but he catches your wrist in a deceptively gentle hand. Keeps his blown-out eyes on yours as he presses a slow kiss into the center of your palm.

Words bubble in your chest, too honest, even for you.

“My hands are dirty,” you whisper.

“Never.”

You curl your fingers around his jaw. Tell yourself it’s not a caress, no matter how he leans into it. “When did you get back?”

“Eighteen hours.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Gather your scattered wits. “You wore your damn boots in the house.”

He huffs with amusement, leans his forehead into your stomach. “I’ll mop.”

“You’ll shower first. You smell like travel.”

“You’re coming with me.”

“I have to finish in the garden.”

He scowls even with his eyes closed. You tap-tap-tap absently at his shoulder, where your hand has naturally come to rest.

“I’ll come out with you,” he grumbles.

“You’ll scare the birds.”

“Fuck the birds.”

You tsk, but there’s no force on earth that will keep him inside. “Mean bastard.”

He grins against your stomach. “Darling wife.”

Next

Masterlist

[tb-png]

COD Hades AU! - 👻🧼🖤

Soap’s telling them about his latest run lol

[peachesofteal]

The Acheron

An Ichor Veil (of Flower Kings) masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 10.6k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Modern retelling - Greek mythology AU. Hades and Persephone. Two Kings of the Underworld. Abuse (by reader's mother). Bad BDSM etiquette. Dom Simon Riley. Switch John MacTavish. Impact play, spanking. Ichor (blood) play. Non-con voyeurism. Kidnapping. Submissive reader. Reader is named Persephone but has no physical characteristics. Alcohol. Praise kink. Biting. Anal play. Subspace. Dubious consent. First they're sour, then they're sweet, then... they're sour. Tags are for your health, not mine. .A meeting, a trick, a meal.

Hebe’s is humming.

You nod to her through the crowd, a gaggle of mortals waiting at the counter, the line of them moving swiftly as they order their pastry-coffee duo for this dreary, rain slogged morning.

Her perpetually young face lights with exuberance once she spots you, and you can’t help the smile that fights into place at the sight of her. Hebe is a cherub. Soft, curved for ages, like she had been sculpted by her father himself. Today, she’s dolled up in tones of pink; pink lipstick, fuchsia stained cheeks, magenta streaks in her otherwise dark, tightly coiled hair that sits at her shoulders.

For a while, before you were brazenly corrected, you wondered if maybe your mother wanted Hebe as a daughter, instead of you. A perfect picture of untouched purity and power, an eternal cupbearer, worshipped as the goddess of Mercy. She was sweet, like her famous Portokalopita, orange syrup cake that drew a group of wanting mortals at the door every morning. She’s a stunner. A mountain of sunshine, a ray of positivity.

Sometimes, you hate her for it, even if she is one of your best friends. 

Something about her cheerful demeanor can dig at you, scrape along the sticky matter of your brain, gnaw at the soft bits that you’re still trying to protect, tender pieces that match your heart.

You follow the hall to the back room, where bookshelves taper off and large floor to ceiling windows flank the east and west sides to allow as much light in as possible. There are others here, a few mortals curled in overstuffed armchairs, books and cappuccinos in hand, light jazz soothing the atmosphere through a few hidden speakers. Healthy clematis blooms along the stair rail, purple blossoms disappearing into the second floor, where more reading rooms wait, books and plants boundless inside Hebe’s.

A place for everyone. 

You feed the clematis a little spark of magic, enough that the vine stretches, shivering and sprouting more flowers. “Aren’t you stunning this morning?” The plant curls around your fingers eagerly, imbued with the essence of power, drinking up the magic drops you encourage into its cell structure. “So healthy and strong, you’ve recovered so well.”

“Good morning.” A wraith of a voice whispers, and you catch the iridescent flicker of a cloud, of Nephele. The clematis will need pruning soon, probably next week, or maybe you can make time in the next few days, you don’t really have too much going on, just your birthday, and that delivery to Hera- 

Ghostly fingers stroke the inside of your elbow, and the cloud nymph regards you with an insightful expression. “Earth to Seph.”

“Sorry.” Your apology is meek, and she shrugs.

“I asked what you’re doing tonight?” Oh.

“Dinner… with my mom.” She nods, and says nothing, jaw clenching, apologetic grimace lining her lips.

“And Friday… Aselgeia?” The club. Your muscles tighten. It’s been over a year since you’ve been to Aselgeia, the club of many vices, the ones where mortals and creatures and gods all mix interchangeably, chasing their own pleasure. The memory of last time heats your spine: A private room. A black chair. A stranger swinging a paddle towards your bare-

Nephele coughs.  

“Yeah, definitely.” You put the box down that you’re carrying, twelve small pots containing strings of pearls, all crossbred to produce different colors, emboldened by their proximity to you in the Greenhouse for these past few months. They’ll sell well, you have no doubt. “I’ve got a few more boxes to bring inside. Don’t supposed you could do something about this slag weather we’re having?” You gesture, and she snorts.

“Hebe says they’re fighting. Probably looking at weeks of storms.”

“They’re always fighting.” You whisper it, even though most know the truth. Zeus and Hera were explosive. Tumultuous. Which is fine, you suppose, for a private life. A public life, however, one that belongs to the Golden King and Queen, should probably be a bit more… restrained.

After all, why should you and everyone else have to suffer because Hebe’s mom and dad can’t get along? 

“I’ve got a lot of cataloging to do, so I’ll catch you around. Text me after dinner tonight, if you need to talk.” She finishes quietly, kindly, but without encroaching, and you squeeze her hand with affection.

“Thanks, Nell.”

The final two boxes stack comfortably for your dash inside. You're eager to get all the plants settled so you can get back to the Greenhouse, slink away to your personal temple, your place of refuge, somewhere quiet to prepare for your dreaded birthday dinner in peace.

“Hello.” A male voice calls, accented so strangely it’s impossible to place. He waves, trying to flag you down.

“Hello?” You turn, nearly stumbling back at the sight of him.

Who is this? 

He’s stunning. Brilliant blue eyes study you from a mountaintop, taller than you by more than a head or two. His hair is short on the sides, but long in the middle, a fashion of mohawk you’re unfamiliar with except for in Hoplites, warriors who sacrifice themselves for the sanctity of the state. He’s broad, built like there’s a Herculean amount of muscle underneath his immaculately tailored midnight black suit, and his cheekbones complement the razor edge of his jaw, framing a full set of dark, plush lips.

He looks like a dream you’ve never had. A fantasy that failed fruition.

Fairer than Adonis. Brighter than Apollo. 

Butterflies kick up a fluttering frenzied in your belly.  

“Sorry to bother ye, I’m looking for Hebe’s?” Ah. You smile.

“You’ve found it. This is just the backside. Front door is around the walk to the left.” He steps closer, and you’re about to introduce yourself when you hear the whinny of a screech owl’s tremolo, a tinned melody that whistles past your ears.

Olympus tilts. Axis trembles. And so do you.

The stranger is keen, and glances around. 

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I um… it’s just that owl, I swear I saw the same one a few days ago… I didn’t think they were too common around here.”

“Dinnae think they are.” His eyes twinkle, celestial light that has you drifting, floating through time and space into starlit irises. The air turns heavy, hot- fresh fired bricks weighing down your chest, and everything spins, day turning to night, night molting black, deep hues of purple and blues streaking past your vision, spinning like moon, twisting you up until your balance is faltering, and you sway. “Whoa, hey.” Fingers fold over your arm, surprisingly cool, chilled, and it pulls you back into your body, spine uncurling, brow smoothing.

“Sorry, I…”

“Ye alright?” He’s still holding your arm, directing you to a bench, relieving you of your box in a swift motion.

“Yeah, sorry… I… I skipped breakfast.” There’s no other explanation, right? The handsome stranger tsks.

“Can I get ye somethin’? Maybe from inside?”

“No!” You blurt, horrified. Hebe would have a cow if she thought you were feeling faint or had skipped a meal. She takes caring for her loved ones far too seriously. “No, I’m almost done, and then I’ll be on my way home. I’ll eat there.” He raises an eyebrow, completely skeptical. “I swear.”

“Alright then. Let me help ye with the rest at least?” He’s standing with a hand extended, and you track the veins on the inside of his wrist until they disappear beneath his t-shirt, golden, tawny skin just barely allowing them to be seen. You wonder if it’s mortal blood that catapults through his body, or the rich, golden ichor that also spills from yours.

“Sure.” He lifts the box, gesturing for you to grab the other.

 “I’m John, by the way.” John. It simmers in the front of your mind, stitching itself into the fabric of your magic.

“Persephone. My friends call me Seph.” Bold. Too bold. 

“Ye’re Demeter’s daughter.” He comments, and you blink, fresh wave of regret curdling the sourness of your stomach.

“Yes.” Fool. Give your name to a stranger, and this is what will come. “Do you know-“

“Only in passing, dinnae worry.”

“Who said I was worried?”

“Ye wear yer emotions plainly.” Your cheeks burn, embarrassed at the blatancy of his statement. “It’s refreshing. So many of us, we play too many games, hide our true selves.” Us. Golden ones. Gods. 

“You’re Cloaking.” You intend it to be a statement, an observation, but with a tight jaw and frowning brow, it’s an accusation.

“Aye. Wouldnae want to scare ye away, would I?” What? Your steps slow, gait pausing in concern. “Sorry, ah. Bad joke.”

“Oh, that’s alright.” He carries the boxes to the door, setting them down carefully, and then rising back to his full height. You swallow the lump in the back of your throat.

“Well, John,” you say it with a hint of sarcasm, and it conveys your doubt. That’s not your real name, is it? “It was nice to meet you.” You extend your hand, expecting a shake, but he holds it with both of his, back bowing, lips softly pressing the skin of your knuckles, tender touch making your knees weak, your heart swooping and swooning.

“The pleasure was mine, Persephone.”

“Have you given anymore thought to your role in the coming year? Your presence at harvest, or planting, would do-”

“I haven’t.” The wine is too oaky, so earthy it takes like dirt, the opus of your mother’s existence, and you swallow it down in silence.

“Persephone.” She chides, like she has a million times before. “If you just tried, a little harder-“

“I am Spring, mother. Life. Rebirth. Fertility.” You ignore her wince. “But that doesn’t mean I’m well suited for crops, and grain, and harvests.”

“It means exactly that. Otherwise, the Greenhouse would not exist.” Her knife slices into a bloody piece of meat, red dripping down the sterling to her fingertips. “Why must you fight your destiny?” Your mind wanders to your visitors the other day, the sisters. The Moirai. Does she know? Is that why she’s saying this? Did she send them? “You spend so much time actively trying to deny me, holed up with your flowers and silly little house plants-“

“It is you who denied me.” Her eyes narrow. “You who didn’t want me to become a fertility goddess, who wanted me to be some weapon of green light, to be the spitting image of you. You raised me to be a threat!”

“Is it so wrong, that I did not wish for my daughter to become a common whore? That I had hoped to prevent her becoming such a failure? That I dreamed of her becoming so much more than… what sits before me now?” The words do not shock you anymore. You’ve grown to expect them.

That does not mean they do not sting.

“It is wrong that you kept me locked in this house, away from the world, until I was too strong for you to control.” You spit, fork clattering against your plate. Rage sears white at the edge of your vision, overflowing bouquet of flowers in the center of the table blooming into massive blossoms, edges of petals beginning to curl inward.

“Control yourself.” She warns. “Or I will do it for you.” Your pulse thunders. The air in the dining room crackles.

You do not relent. Rationally, you know you should. You know this will only end one way, that this will sever another tie to your past, to your mother, one you won’t be able to repair… but you can’t stop. The magic itches under your skin, screaming.

The ivy that covers the outside brick shatters a windowpane above her head, springing through the opening like a virus seeking a host, sticking to the inside wall. Glass falls to the floor, rain pelts the roof.  

“Persephone.” Shining silver spools, churning across the table, through the air until it takes form-

The Whip.

Your mother’s favorite.

It licks your skin, your fingertips, your knuckles. A different touch, from the reverent kiss you received only hours ago. It cracks through the air like the lightning.

“That’s enough.” She vows.  

You will not cry. You won’t. You won’t let her get to you like this anymore. You’re a woman now. An adult. You’re not a child, you’re not, you’re not- 

She sighs. Your fingers clench the stem of the wine glass so firmly you think it might shatter.  

You finish your meal in stiff silence. Its heaviness droops all around you, blanketing the entire table, your fork, the distance between you and your own mother. It’s an eon. A millisecond. Never enough because you always crave more. More space. More time. More distance. Her eyes spark, anger burning hot behind them, but she says nothing.

When she’s finished, she rises from the table without another word, disappearing down the hall.

Happy Birthday, you guess.

In the middle of the night, the Greenhouse is quiet.

Even the plants slumber, most of the daylight seekers, pistils, stamens, all covered by their petals, lying in wait. In the back, you pad along the floor of moss, allowing the tiny tendrils of green to skim along your bare skin, pulling opulent, indulgent specks of power into themselves. Wisteria lines the walls, tiny blooms of purple and white falling like curtains of stars, only parting for the archway that leads to the spring, a small freshwater lagoon that spills from the crust of the earth as hot as tea, bubbling eternally, waiting for you.

Tonight, the water is ethereal. Steam rises from the pool, slicking its stone home, and you bask in it, muscle and bone turning languid, supple in the roiling spring. It’s nearly sublime, almost perfect.

Your mother’s voice still echoes. Even now, hours later, you can hear her.

A failure. A disappointment. 

Your knuckles sting from the salt of the Whip, the silver crust that slices so effortlessly, just as it has since you were a child.

You cried a lot, then.

Now, it’s few and far between. You’ve grown, rebelled, retaliated. You’ve become a lost cause.

Ungovernable Persephone. 

The pain still sits so heavily in the bottom of your soul, a wretched, tangible thing that sprouts blackened vine from the earth and a whole manner of other things.

You eye the marble encasement, the walls that harbor the spring. They too, are black. Born from your rage, your sorrow. Your uncontrollable, ungovernable power that grew from the depths of your despair and built you a temple.

The Greenhouse. Your home.

Everyone called it a wonder. A feat, proof of your power. Trees and vines and branches all twisted together, building a harbor, solidifying your presence, your Golden light.

You took your first offering in this place, the glass for the windows and the roof, the final piece of your shelter from the storm, the first stake of your life as a goddess, your life of freedom.

You left your mother’s house that day, only returning now on occasions. You never looked back.

Though, you can still feel the Whip, can still hear it whirl through the wind against your supine form. Can still feel the ridges of scar tissue that never fully healed.

You could have called Nell. Or Hebe. Or Melia. Anyone of them would be here for you. Would listen. Understand. 

Outside the window, an owl hoots.

You sink beneath the water line, magma rushing over every inch of your body, washing you clean of her, of the Whip, of the wounds on your knuckles.

A trembling fawn. Still to this day. 

A wicked daughter to have, they tell her. A vengeful soul. Rotted to the core. 

Ungovernable Persephone. 

Olympus is buzzing, even on its ninth day of rain. It’s a vibration that all manner of beings can feel, creatures, gods, even humans. The ground rattles like there’s a lightning bolt shoved into the center of the rail system, electrifying the wires and tracks, zinging from pole to pole between the buildings and above the streets where cars putter alongside those who walk to their destinations.

When you were a child, the name of the city was almost dirty. It made your mother’s nose turn skyward, disgust and disdain clear as the day on her delicate features. “The golden city is anything but.” She promised, on her knees before you, gentle hand at your back. “Those who live there are heathens, and naught else. They would seek to destroy you if they knew the truth.”

For many, many years, you never step foot here.

Not until University. Once you graduated, the rope around your neck, the bit in your mouth began to loosen, and you had already lost your taste for the expanse of metropolis, more interested in your own space outside city limits where you could feel your connection to the earth, where you could indulge your power in privacy.

“It’s not the city she fears.” Melia told you one night. “But Aphrodite. Demeter’s worried ‘Di will knock you right off the whole bloody planet.” She peered over your shoulder, catching the gleam of Apollo, his bright eyes tracking her from across a crowded bar. “Trust me. She’s a jealous bitch.” 

Tonight, the city is waterlogged, soaked to the bone, raindrops splashing as you slide from the car to the black door tucked inside a black wall, a soft faced Harpy standing in front of the passage.

“Hebe. Persephone.” She greets, turning to your other companions. “Nephelle. Melia.” You pull your power through the earth that sits beneath cracked concrete and heavy asphalt, spinning your Cloak up and over your body, adjusting your appearance just so. Your mask slips into place, obscuring nearly all your face, both Nell and Melia pulling together something similar.

“Ocypete.” Hebe pauses. “Is there a riddle tonight?” The Harpy grins, flashing rows of too sharp teeth, fine points that can cut the flesh from bone in a clean bite.

“No riddle.” The door creaks wide, and she steps aside. “Enjoy your evening.”

You don’t notice the way her eyes linger after you’ve passed.

Aselegia is one of the safest places in the Olympus. Here, Golden ones must be Cloaked, mortals must be masked, and creatures must go to great lengths to hide their identity. All intermingle with one another, safe in the anonymity. Gods and Goddesses usually choose to mask as well, a practice, you believe, stemming from common occurrences of violent jealousy, an effort to prevent becoming the target of one’s wrath.

The club itself is big enough to get lost in. The first floor houses the lobby, and a set of elevators. The walls are covered in shiny waxed mahogany, red wine rich carpet covering the floor, and it smells different, sweet and smoky, cigars and finely spun sugar. Intoxicating.

The elevators will take you anywhere you have access, and most can visit three floors. There’s a dancefloor on the main level, with a giant bar, private rooms in the wings, bottle service, tables. Very standard. Other floors have gambling tables, quieter music, even a dimly lit pool and sauna.

It isn’t until you get above level three that things change. Endorsements or sponsors are required. Waivers need to be signed. Negotiations begin.

Pick your poison. 

You start on the main level tonight. Melia insists, and you agree, grateful to the Oceanid for suggesting starting slow, the low rumble of nerves still present in your magic, your body. The music thumps, high to low song and symphony synthesized into something electronic, and it draws you into a sway, shoulders against shoulders, hips moving in time with the melody.

“Shots?” Hebe brightens, waving over a cocktail waitress, a pretty thing who eagerly does her bidding, enraptured with the way she moves in the skintight, cornflower blue dress. Her Cloak has disguised her well enough that no one would know who she is, but she does not ever manipulate her body. A cherished rule of her own, you’ve learned.

“You’re beautiful.” The girl coos, and Hebe nods, singing over the explosion of Nephelle’s laughter.

“I know, sweetheart.”

A slick sheen of sweat coats the space between Melia’s breasts. You’re both on the dancefloor, moving with the music, Melia perfectly in time, like she was born to it, and you pull her close, slinging an arm over her neck to whisper in her ear.

“He’s here.” A god’s dark eyes glint in the night, between the passages of writing bodies. He wears a white mask, stitched with the threads of glowing sun, but his obsessive gaze gives him away. He’s transfixed, focused solely on the Oceanid in the middle of the dance floor, and she giggles, turning so that her ass is pressed against your pelvis, her head tipped back on your shoulder.

Her hand extends, an invitation. A request.

He’s by her side within a second.

“Apollo.” You nod, and he barely spares you a glance, too busy cradling his Oceanid’s face.

“You have been ignoring my calls.”

“I’ve been busy.” He tenses.

“You’re still angry with me.”

“Of course, I am.” She rolls her eyes. “We’re here for Sephy’s birthday, not this.” He peeks towards you, sliver of regret flashing across his face.

“I’m sorry, Persephone.” You wave him off, not wanting to be in the middle of… this.

“It’s fine, we’re just… out. It’s not for anything special.” You look away from them, casually glancing around. You look, but you do not see. Not until…

There’s a male, wearing a pitch-black suit. A god? A mortal? He’s taller than anyone else in the room, broadest shoulders and proud posture, everything about him drawing you in, like blood in the water.

The room stands still. Silent. Empty, save for two.

Tempered water like glass, undisturbed. An undertow vicious beneath the surface, unknown to all.

“Hello.” The pitch of his voice is familiar, almost dreamlike, something that’s never been real, yet startling all the same.

“H-hi.” You stammer. His hand reaches, a magnetic force pulling yours from where it’s clawed against your thigh, and he grasps it like he’s cupping a dahlia bloom, a fragile collection of so many petals that make up an entire beautiful blossom, a universe unto itself.

Black leather caresses your skin. Clear, golden-brown eyes pin you in place, anthracite spiking around his pupils in a halo. You cannot see his face, or his skin, only what’s barely visible of his eyelids and dark spun lashes.

Still… 

His beauty is terror. It’s the throat of a lamb, freshly cut. The mutilated carcass of a doe, feeding a forest. Dark. Dangerous. A wolf, circling a kill.

It drags you out into a river, where your feet no longer touch the bottom. It sings to you from the depths.

You cannot tear yourself away.

He does not let go. Even when that same voice fills your mind.

“My darling. You shall rule all that lives and moves, you shall have the greatest rights among the deathless gods: those who defraud you and do not appease your power with offerings, reverently performing rites and paying fit gifts, shall be punished for evermore.” *

Warmth slips from your hand, sand flitting through your fingers, a fleeting touch of comfort and confusion fading into the night.

My darling. 

My darling… 

When the light comes back to you, the male is nowhere to be found. Only Apollo and Melia stand to your side, still in their own world.

“Will you let me take you upstairs then?” He croons, and your heart dances, nerves and anticipation all spiraling together like a sailor’s knot. You know what comes next.

“Only if the girls can come.”

You try to forget the strange encounter on the main level and focus on your needs instead; you’ll know what you’re looking for when you see it, and you say the same to Hebe, too, when she disappears with a male who seemed much too large to not be the son of a giant, leaving you alone on a small, velvet couch, Nell and Melia already long gone. Your second martini sits untouched, and you keep yourself from looking at any one being too closely, lest you get caught staring.

That’s when you see him.

Light blue eyes. Handsomely styled mohawk. Even with a Cloak and mask, he’s hard to forget.

John.

His mask is a red skull, covering nearly all his face, the sculpted brow severe, almost angry.

His eyes glow behind it, locked on yours.

Oh. Shit. You vibrate like a live wire, hanging onto yourself for dear life.

“Hello.” Your mouth doesn’t work. “I’m Soap.” He extends his hand, and you blink. Oh, right. The alias. Because what is the point in all this, if you give your real name?

“K-kore.” You manage to stammer, and the corner of his eyes crease.

“Why are ye here?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What are ye looking for, little goddess?” He still has not dropped your gaze, and you can almost taste him on your tongue, feel him in your mind, your body.

Myself.

Your teeth dig downward, pressing hard before you whisper the truth.

“Pain.” His eyes flash, and then he tugs.

John- Soap, takes you to a private room. You follow, numbly, shivering with a million emotions, stumbling through the chances, the possibilities of seeing him twice, when before he was a stranger.

A coincidence, you decide, putting it out of your mind. You’re dwelling on it too much, picking it apart, riling yourself up… over nothing. Over a handsome god, existing in the Golden city? Like you’ve never seen those before… like it’s so unbelievable.  

“Are ye alright?” He murmurs, stepping up to your back. You can feel the heat of him, his warmth bleeding from beneath the suit to your exposed skin, the dress you chose wholly exposing your spine, your skin.

Your nipples tighten. Your heart races, and your thighs press together inadvertently.

“Yes.”

“Dinnae lie.” He’s gentle in the reminder, and you fill your lungs.

“I’m just… nervous.”

“Ye’ve done this before?” He’s assuming. You nod, quickly, and he motions to a very comfortable looking lounge chair, where you perch on the edge of the cushion. “What would make ye happy tonight?” Anxiety unsettles your posture, and you choke down the embarrassment that tries to claw its way up your throat.

“A… a spanking.” You whisper, pushing flimsy confidence forward. Far away, a piece of your mind, your magic, pleads. It cries, it begs for release. It urges you forward, and you lift your face to his, seeking approval. Comfort.

Reassurance.

The cold hand of doubt rears. It snickers at you. It laughs.

Reassurance from someone, anyone but yourself? Comfort? 

No. 

“Do ye-“

“My safe word is flower.” You spit, motioning to the stool that waits between you.

It’s an act. A song and a dance, something fake and forced. But he doesn’t know that.

He freezes. Thick tension runs the gamut, heavy and exhausting, and you smother yourself, your emotions, your reactions to this very moment.

Pain. The desire burns. It pushes you to the zenith, until you’re down on your knees, folding yourself forward.

Pain, to turn it off. Pain, to make it all stop.

Pain, to release you into yourself. 

What matter of creature are you, that you can only feel whole, when parts of you are carved away? 

“Up.” John commands, and you lean back, confused. “Ye’ll do this over my knee.” He bends you, with grace, back towards the soft cushion, laying comfortably, your palms flat.

A hand coasts over the swell of your ass.

“Ye’ll count.” His voice has shifted. Gone is the feather’s edge, now replaced by steel. His accent still rings true, but there’s a firmness to it, a finality. Dominance.

“Yes.”

“Ye’ll tell me yer name, and today’s date, when asked. If ye cannae answer, we’ll stop. Immediately.”

“Okay.”

“I need a yes.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll go to ten, then.” We.

“I can take more.”

“We’ll decide what ye can take, when we get there.” You acquiesce, fingers digging down into the cushion before forcibly relaxing. “Big breath.” He coaches, and then-

The first slap stuns you. Only with his hand, and yet still so much stronger than last time with a paddle. It punches air from your lungs, the noise that rockets out of your throat a mix between a scream and a moan.

“F-fuck.” You croak. “One.” He doesn’t hesitate and rains the next one down on your opposite cheek. Again, it robs you of oxygen. “Two.”

“Good girl.” The praise is very small flame at the bottom of the darkest well. It barely lights the path ahead, desperately trying to catch, to grow, but it’s too easily snuffed out. His palm rubs the base of your spine to the tops of your thighs.

Crack. 

The sting sizzles outward from impact, and you gasp. “Three-“ Another, same cheek. “Four!” The whistle of the swing alerts you a second before the next, and when you shout “Five!” it sounds off kilter.

“What’s yer name?”

“Seph-Persephone.” Raw warmth simmers beneath your dress and underwear, and the fire at the bottom of the well starts to rage, growing larger, eating what it’s been given, hungry, seeking, trying to build momentum. He asks you the date, satisfied at the lack of delay, and swings so high, you can see the shine of his palm from the corner of his eye. Your toes curl.

Whack. Two, too quickly.

“Six!” A choked cry. “Seven.” Your face is wet, saltwater tracing the plush swell towards your mouth and chin. You sniffle.

“I know, I know. Ye poor thing.” He bunches the fabric of your dress, scratching it across your scorched cheeks. “Ye’re doin’ so well, almost there.” The words barely register, only the sentiment cuts through the haze. Your thighs are pressed so tightly together, slick dripping from your cunt, the aching throb of your clit rubbing against your panties. You’re desperate… to be touched, to be hurt, to be whole. You need it. Crave it more than anything else.

He delivers two more strong, healthy, swift blows. Eight. Nine. They enflame you completely, fire burning in the pit of your soul, encasing you in a coffin where no one can hear you, or see you. Safe and tucked away, floating into a dark cocoon of eternal night.

At the tenth, the room changes. The air grows colder, nearly frigid, shadows clinging to the walls, and you barely register being moved, held like a child, tucked into a chest. There’s talking, somewhere, in your mind or maybe behind you, two pitches at war, a dance of wills.

“Beautifully done, darling.” Somewhere far, far away, in the last sliver of your sane mind, you realize it’s a different voice, a voice echoed in gemstones, ruby and emerald and pearl, before that too, slips into space, and you drift deeper inside the luxurious praise. A warm bath. A sunlit meadow with thousands of Narcissus dotting the hill, soaking up every ray. A golden fawn, taking her first steps to freedom.

John’s face looms into your line of sight, maskless, no Cloak.

“We need a yes.” He murmurs, cupping your cheek. “Persephone.”

“Hmmm?”

“Need ye to say yes, so we can take ye home, take care of ye.” The words don’t match. They don’t click, they catch, they bump against each other, trying to lock into place, failing over and over.

“Supposed to go… home with my friends but-“ Your tongue is heavy, weighted beneath a giant sequoia, and you shiver. The chest that your head bobbles on catches, an arm securing you in place. It’s warm, and firm, heavier than a tree. Who…

“Little goddess.” He prompts, and you sigh, already wistfully unaware.

“’kay, yeah. Yes.”

You’re already slipping away when the world goes dark.

Your eyes open to a strange place.

You don’t recognize any of it, from the massive four poster bed with lithe, gauzy curtains drawn closed on three sides, to a fireplace the size of a giant, roaring, sizzling flame burning endlessly in its hearth. You don’t recognize the room, the black marble floors, polished to a brilliant gleam, one that you can nearly see your reflection in, or the vanity, dark oak housing a hand carved mirror. You’ve never seen the ornate stained glass window before, stretching from floor to ceiling, the size of ten men. You don’t know the bed, sized for a king, emerald silk sheets and a matching duvet, with a million pillows that were just cradling your head. The robe you’re wearing matches, the green only a shade lighter, and you tuck it tight across your body, realizing you’re fully nude.

The fire pops. It pushes a gasp from you, caught off guard, and at the sound, another being in the room stirs from the plush rug just beneath the bed.

A three headed dog.

It, they, stare at you, tongues wagging, eyes wide. Jet black fur, darker than midnight, white teeth so sharp they could rip your throat free in an instant.

You’ve seen this dog before… in pictures. Schoolbooks. You know their name.

Cerberus.

Panic races through your veins, ratcheting your heart rate higher and higher, your body and mind separating, all synapses dizzy with fear.

Oh gods. Where… where are you? What happened? You were just… you were just having some fun, at Aselegia, with John… weren’t you? Where…

Are you dead?  

You reach for your power, digging deep, trying to drag as much as you could to the surface-

Nothing.

You bleat, a scared lamb, in panic. It’s a cry. A scream. An awful sound. You need your rage now, but all you find is fear. You cannot reach your power. There is a blackened lock around it, a casing that holds it away from you, out of reach.

Cerberus whines. They hold their position, tail swishing back and forth, and you scramble towards the middle of the bed. Your ass protests, skin warm and tender against silk. Your knees tuck to your chest, and you force your eyes closed, trying to take long, measured breaths without success.

You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re-

The door clicks. John appears, two palms out, hesitant, and cautious. Your voice shakes, no matter how hard you try to reinforce it with iron will. “G-get away from me.”

“Ye’re alright, Persephone. We’d never hurt ye.” We?

“We need a yes.”

“Need ye to say yes, so we can take ye home, take care of ye.”

Something flickers behind him. A figure, a shape of shadow, shifting.

Dark. Dangerous. A wolf, circling a kill.

The male from the dance floor. He wears no mask now, but the feel of him, the threat of his power, is unmistakable… and familiar. You sputter on it, choking on him and John, the threat of their power combined looming, suffocating. “Oh gods.” You clutch the robe tighter. “Wh-where am I?”

“You know where you are, darling.” The other one says, and you moan.

“N-no. I… I can’t be. I can’t dead. I can’t be here… I-“

“You’re not dead, Persephone.” He cautions. “You’re very much alive.” And shaking, alive and trembling so vigorously you can hear your teeth chattering, chest heaving up and down, desperately trying to suck air inward. Cerberus whines again, and he rubs a thumb behind one of their ears. “Easy, Cerberus. She’s alright.”

“I ca-can’t be here. I have to… I have to go home.” The room seems wet, dollops of tears falling from your lashes, sticking to your skin and the sheets. Reality slams forward, rushing right up against your nonsensical mind.

It takes one gentle pulse of their power, to realize the truth. 

Hades. They’re… Hades. They’re Hades and you’re… you’re in the Underworld. 

Beg. Beg them for mercy. Whatever it is you’ve done, you must try. 

“I’m s-sorry. I don’t know… I don’t know what I did but I swear, I’m sorry, I-“ John tries to reach, seeking your hand, but you curl up into a tighter ball.

“Shhh. Ye hae nae done anythin’ wrong, sweet Persephone. Ye’re alright. Ye’re safe.” Safe? Safe in the Underworld? With them? 

Oh gods. You let Hades spank you. 

“You… you tricked me.” You whisper, raw betrayal and pain weeping profoundly in your heart. You trusted him and…

You are a fool. 

“We did what was necessary.” The wolf-like one says solemnly, gaze heavy.

“Necessary?” You squeak. “What’s… necessary about this?”

“We will explain everything, after we’ve eaten. Or maybe had some more rest? It’s the middle of the night, for you.” What? 

“No… I can’t… I can’t stay here. I have to-“

“Go home? So, you can hide away in your temple, kept company only by your plants and the occasional friend you let inside?” You blink, stunned, mouth dropping open.

“How do you... have you been watching me?” The stained-glass window on the far side of the room shifts, drawing your attention, morphing slowly from a tawny blur to a… screech owl.

“Oh, my gods. Oh…” The room shudders. “You can’t keep me here, I have to go…” Wolves circle, flanking where you sit, precarious and hopeless, a hand in front of your body like it will save you. “Please.”

“It’s alright, darling.” The dark one moves, blurred in shadow, magic blanketing you in a warm, comforting hold, heating your bones, encouraging your eyes to slowly shut.

The last thing you see is the ceiling, your body cradled in the embrace of a stranger.

Morning comes slow.

At first, you don’t open your eyes, even though you’ve been long awake.

If you open them, your fear will be real. It will be valid.

So, you keep them closed. Keep them shut long enough you drift in and out of twilight, until someone clears their throat.

Fuck. 

“Are you going to open your eyes?” His voice is ruby and velvet. You shudder.

“Hades.”

“Technically. One half of a whole, but my loved ones call me Simon.” Your brow flexes at that, and there’s a soft chuckle in response. “Will you wake? It’s well past morning now.”

“Are you going to render me unconscious again?” you hiss, cracking an eyelid. He’s sitting in a posh armchair, oiled black leather beneath his black suit, eyes steady on yours. His face is a map of scars, but instead of seeming rough, or out of place, they naturally suit him, complementing his broad jaw, severe expression, perfectly sculpted bone structure. His nose is crooked, like it had been smashed and rearranged once or twice, but still sits as if it was meant to be, and you wonder how anyone could do anything of the like to Hades.

He's handsome, in a way you expect to die from. 

“Only if you cannot behave.”

“Perhaps I could show you how I behave.” You smile with a full set of teeth, words ending in a snarl, and he huffs another gentle laugh.

“I have seen the victims of your wrath, Persephone. I have no doubt you’d strike me down if you could.” You swallow the nausea in your stomach. Your magic. 

“I want my magic back.” You blurt the demand, not even pausing to consider a more tactful way.

“We did not take it, only… bound it, for the time being. It’s still within you, we would never separate you from your power.” He sighs, a golden pearl rocking in his palm, glinting in the fireplace’s gleam. “Contrary to popular belief, we are not a monster.”

“Then let me go home, if you’re not as they say you are.” His eyes harden, face twisting sour, and then… sad.

“I’ll give you some privacy. There are clothes in the closet. Johnny and I expect you for breakfast, and then a tour… if you’re good. Cerberus will show you the way when you’re ready.”

If you’re good.

Cerberus leads you through a maze of decadent marble and arches.

You follow behind them hesitantly, cautious, and they mind you, slowing when you’ve lagged too far behind.

You can’t help it. You’re mystified.

You expected the Underworld to be dark, and dingy. And while maybe it is on the dark side, with glossy, polished marble, giant onyx columns that blot of the sky, and black stone everywhere… when you peek out the windows, you’re gob smacked.

Beneath wherever you are, which you’re beginning to suspect is Hades’ palace, is lush greenery. A verdant, fertile field lays to the south and the east, wrapping around to the edge of a forest, where you can just barely make out a large variety of deciduous trees. To the North, a river winds, separating the palace from a large meadow and… a town? You shake your head, as if to clear your addled mind and cloudy vision. Is that truly… a town? 

“Asphodel Meadows.” Someone says from behind you, nearly jumping you from your skin.

“Fuck.” You gasp, hand clutching your chest. It’s a man, not John, or Simon, but a stranger, clad in all black.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s… okay. I- what did you say?”

“The town. It’s Asphodel Meadows. A place for mortal’s souls.” He bows. “I’m Thanatos.”

“I’m… Persephone.” He smiles, just slightly.

“I know who you are, my lady.” My lady?

“What do you…” words nearly fail as you grapple. “What do you do here?”

“I am a child of Nyx. The god of Death.”

“I thought Hades…”

“They are the Kings of the Underworld. I am the personification, the embodiment of Death.” Oh.

“You reap.” You whisper. His jaw tightens, and then smooths.

“Your escort is impatient. I think he’s probably ready for his bacon.” He eyes Cerberus, who whines, tapdancing on slick marble.

“Bacon?”

“Yes. He’s very spoiled. Eats better than the Kings themselves.” He motions down the hall. “It’s just that way. Lovely to meet you, my lady.” He gives you another bow, and then turns down a corridor, one that had not been there before, leaving you and Cerberus alone in the empty hall.

“I- you too.”

The Kings, as Thanatos called them, are both seated when you push the incredibly heavy door open. At the sound, John rises, Simon behind him, and the three of you stare at one another for a minute, until Cerberus barks.

“Please, sit.” John motions to the only other place set, a third chair between them. You swallow.

“Uh…”

“We don’t bite.”

“Not unless ye want us to.” John smiles, sinfully handsome in the morning light. It streams into the surprisingly cozy dining room through a group of five windows, all facing east, capturing the light of… a sun?

“Is that a sun?”

“It’s a sun of sorts.” Simon offers. “We have a sky, weather. A sun, a moon. Clouds. Everything that exists in Olympus.”

“Are ye hungry?” You hesitantly lower yourself into the chair, surprised at the array of food displayed. “We ah, weren’t sure what ye liked so, got a bit of everything.” Meats, yogurts, sweets, cereal, fruit, anything you could want laid out in front of you, but it’s something so near to your heart that catches your eye. Portokalopita.

“They are Hebe’s.” Simon murmurs.

This is a trick. They kidnapped you. They’re holding you hostage. You have to convince them to let you go. The warning resounds, and your stomach thrashes.

“I want to go home.” You push the plate of orange cakes away, disappointment flickering across John’s face, exasperation on Simon’s. “Please. I… I appreciate your hospitality and you… you bringing me home for… aftercare,” you grit the word, shame rocketing up your spine. This is what happens when you trust. You let Hades spank you, for fucks sake. And then they abducted you. “but I need to go home. The plants, they need me. My friends-“

“Your friends are used to going days on end without contact from you.” Simon cuts you off, and the blood drains from your face. “Are they not?”

“N-no. They’ll know I’m missing, they will.” Lie. He knows. You know they both know, just by the way the regard you. Half pity. Half amusement. It makes your blood boil. “Fuck you.” You hiss, shooting up in the chair.

“Seph-“ John tries to soothe you, calm you, using your nickname like he knows you, and it only makes you more irate.

“Don’t call me that.” You whirl on him. “I trusted you! I don’t even know you and I let you-“

“That is the nature of Aselegia, is it not?” He counters, cutting you off. You gape like a fish. “The anonymity. Dinnae turn it on me now.” His tone melts from ice to warmth, sympathy bleeding from his irises. “I assure ye, we are more than trustworthy. We would never, ever hurt ye. We would never let anythin’ happen to ye. Ye’ll see.”

“Then let me go home.” He shakes his head sadly but says nothing, and rage snaps in your heart like the drawback of a rubber band, stinging and sharp. “What do you want from me?” John opens his mouth, and then abruptly closing it, deferring to Simon.

“You are our guest. We’d like to get to know you. I promise, just as before, you will not be harmed in our care. We will never hurt you."

"How do I know that?" You’re incredulous. “You expect me to take you at your word?”

“Let us strike a deal then.” He declares, and John nods supportively.

Don’t, your good sense screams. Don’t be an idiot.

“What kind of deal?”

“You will stay here for two days, forty-eight hours exactly. We will show you this realm and get to know one another in that time, and at the end, we will reveal the doorway that leads back to Olympus.” You raise an eyebrow.

“Two days? And then I can go home?”

“Two days.” John echoes. Sapphire eyes gleam, and you carefully, quickly, try to pick apart every word in the proposal.

“My magic.” You demand, and they both answer immediately with a resounding,

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Your power is wild, Persephone.” Simon tells you, not unkindly. “We do not know how the Underworld will react to it, and we must think of our residents, all the souls we care for here. We cannot let something upset the balance that is so delicate.” Your mouth goes a little dry. You were expecting more of an answer about control, domineering you, your magic, keeping you contained. Not… care for souls.

“Yer mother raised ye to be her weapon.” John says softly, kneeling before the chair where you sit. His hand rests on the cushion, and you wonder if he means to touch you. “We dinnae regard ye as such, but until we understand ye better, we need to protect-“

“I understand.” You cut him off. You don’t need some forced sympathy, pity, thrust upon you by Hades, of all gods. They exchange a long glance, one that gives you a small peek into their lives, layers on layers of words and sentiment, communicated with a single glance.

Simon reaches for John, pulling him to his feet and into his body, chest to back.

“Do you agree?” Two days. Two days and you can leave. You can do two days of anything. You certainly cannot fight them, or your way out. What choice do you have? 

“Sure.”

“We need a yes, darling.” Darling. The pet name makes your toes curl. You take a big breath.

“Yes.”

The valley outside of Asphodel Meadows is one of the most stunning places you’ve ever been. It’s lush and lively, covered in Narcissus and Asphodelus, like a meadow one could only dream of. You're not sure why it feels so familiar, like the cusp of another life, or a nightmare, but it takes root inside you. You lay in the field of flowers, letting them cover your body, wishing so desperately to touch your magic, so you could truly feel them, the grass and the dirt and the stems here, all things that seem like they’re so full of life, so opposite your expectations of the Underworld.

“Shall we continue?” Cerberus perks up at the sound of their master’s voice, head popping over the flowers to spot both Kings standing on the path, a good distance away. They peek at you, heads tilted, and you sigh. It seems you’ve been assigned a minder, in the form of a three headed dog.

You join them on the road before long, walking silently, sullenly, John sneaking glances at you nearly every chance he gets, and you can pinpoint the heat of his gaze every time, the throbbing intensity of his focused power nearly bowling you over.

“So, there are two of you?” What are you supposed to talk to the Kings of the Underworld about, anyway? 

“Aye. It’s a little-known secret. One realm, two gods to rule.” You frown, perplexed.

“But… you haven’t always been that way?”

“No.” Simon answers. “We were once Golden brothers in battle, long before your time, before becoming this. When we fell in love, our souls split. They merged with our magic, tied us together eternally. Now, we rule as one.”

“So, you’re married.” You deduce.

“In the most permanent way you can think of.” They stop short of a bridge, one that crests high over a roaring river, and Simon gestures broadly. “Persephone, this is the Acheron.”

The Underworld is a place of rivers, you learn. Waterways that hold power, that possess the ability to cleanse you, free you, burn you, punish you. There is a river of fire, a river of weeping, a river to forget.

The Acheron is the river of woe.

Fitting, you think, standing on the bridge. Below, bright turquoise water rushes by, crashing into rock and boulder, each sound more akin to a scream than the thunder of a tributary. Mouths, long and full of despair, wail beneath the current, wraith like creatures with bone white skin and eyes skimming along the top.

You get lost in them. Lost in the irreversible cycle of woe, desolation creeping up inside your own self as you peer down into the depths. Are you not like them? Despondent. Bleak. Isolated. Is that not what you’ve made with your life, what was chosen for you? Hidden away, sharpened like an axe never to be used. Are you not alone, like them? Trapped, like them? 

You don’t even realize you’re leaning forward until pressure rests at your back. “Easy. Dinnae want ye fallin’ in.” John murmurs, stepping away the edge, bringing you with him. Your limbs feel shaky, and you wonder if it’s because you just almost went over… or because you didn’t eat earlier.

“Sorry. I uh-“ you don’t know how to explain it, that feeling. The agony that bubbles up in the back of your throat.

“We know.” Simon regards you with empathy, understanding, and you shake the attention loose, pushing ahead of them, down the bridge and into town, into Asphodel Meadows itself, eager to leave the river and its woe behind.

In town, the Kings are well received. It surprises you, to watch them in the street, welcomed by the souls who live there. They take you on a tour, introducing you to residents, explaining the structure, the magic and the infrastructure that makes it all work. Souls take their preferred form in Asphodel Meadows, allowed to choose for themselves, whatever they feel most comfortable in, and you’re shocked that such benevolence would be bestowed upon anyone in the Underworld.

Why are they showing you this? Why go to such great lengths? What is the purpose? 

“Hi.” A small voice breaks you from your confusion, and you find a small girl at your feet, bouquet of Narcissus clutched in her tiny hands. You crouch.

“Hello.”

“I’m Phoebe.” She giggles, cheeks round and rosy.

“I’m Persephone.” You incline your head. “Phoebe is a beautiful name.” Your heart pangs. She’s so small, so… fragile. How did she die? Where is her family? Is she here alone?

“Thank you, my lady.” She tries to bow, and you rush to stop her, stilling her with a hand.

“Are those for me?”

“They are. Johnny said they’re your favorites.” Johnny? You glance over to where they stand, both turned your way, something unreadable in their reflections.

“Well, thank you. They’re lovely.” She wishes you well, skipping off in another direction, and you meander across the street, unable to hide your quizzical expression.

“Johnny? Not Hades?”

“Ach. The kids they’re… they’re usually a wee bit scared, first thing. It’s better for them, if we’re friends.” He shrugs, but Simon watches him in reverence, pure love and light beaming from his gaze, adoration in every slow blink.

Your heart skips.  

Fuck. 

“Are you not hungry?” Simon muses, walking beside you and John in the castle. Your shoes tap along the way, echoing, and Cerberus barks. John glares at them.

“I… I am afraid to eat here.” They both stop short.

“Why?”

“I have always heard… a myth. That if you somehow find yourself here and you eat, you’ll become trapped, stuck here forever.” Simon chuckles, dry and warm.

“No, darling. Please, we do not wish for you to starve.”

“The legend isnae true. Only by eating whole pomegranate seeds that ye pluck from the flesh of the fruit yerself, can ye become bound to the land. And we dinnae serve those.” He winks, stepping a little closer. “Ye can eat, little goddess. Please. Join us for dinner, we insist.”

“Okay.”

Simon is not at dinner.

John makes no mention of it, and only when you’re halfway done does he offer an explanation, something important that needed to be tended to.

“Ye look stunning.” He hums, and you have half the decency to smile. You chose a dress from the never-ending closet, black to match their suits, for fun. Its back is open, and the front offers a generous view of your breasts, but not quite enough.

You felt like sin. Johnny has been staring like you are. And maybe, you didn’t want sex, but you did want to punish them for their treachery. If only a little bit.

For making you a fool. 

“So, no Simon?” He swallows a mouthful of red wine.

“He apologizes. Somethin’ came up.”

“That’s alright.” You shift, legs crossing. The transition is unintentional, but it draws Johnny’s eyes to your knees, and up. You lift your glass, the largest goblet of red wine you’ve seen, and allow a small river of red to run from the corner of your mouth to your neck. It traces the valley between your breasts, and Johnny growls.

“Persephone.”

“What?” You ask, innocently.

“Ye’re playing with fire.” He grits, the gleam in his eyes one of a predator.

“I’m not playing with anything,” you hiss, slamming the glass down. It shatters, it sloshes, it spills onto the table and into your lap. “You’re the ones playing with me. Kidnapping me, holding me hostage.” Your anger builds, overflowing inside your soul, clawing at the locked box of your magic. Cerberus whines, galloping across the floor and out the main door, but you hardly notice, too focused on spitting as much fire and venom at your captor as you can. “Touring me around the Underworld, making yourselves look like some benevolent, beloved rulers when really all you are… are gods of death and decay.” John stares at you, wild eyed. Your chair clatters to the ground as you stand, fury rocketing through every vein in your body, ichor pulsing beneath your skin. You’re so, so close to your power; you can taste it. Can feel the way it screams, how it howls to you, churning in the depths of your being, rattling the cage it’s trapped inside.

Trapped. You’re trapped. Like always. 

Your vision blurs, and you take a step towards John. It all happens so fast, so lightning quick that it doesn’t even register until your hand is swinging through the air and across his face.

He does nothing. You feel the rumble of his power, pushing and pulling at the seams of your very being, waiting to tear your apart, but he holds himself at bay.

Only watches you with cold, wrathful eyes.

The air chills.

“That’s enough.” Simon stands between your bodies. Power, so potent, so strong, wraps tight, shoving your wrists together, Golden cuffs immobilizing you, holding you still. “You want to be a disobedient little brat, is that it?”

“YOU STOLE ME!” You scream it, raw and agonized. It tries to burst through your skin. Tries to explode your vessels. Your very heart. Your chest heaves, eyes wide, and John flanks you, coming closer and closer until you can feel his heat against your side.

He’s hard.

“What did ye think ye were doin, sweet Persephone? Did ye really think you could strike me?”

You don’t have an answer. Words die on your tongue. Guilt burns. Did you want to hurt him? 

Did you?

The cuffs yank you forward. They singe your skin, dragging you to the table. “What’re you doing?” They drag you across the food until you're climbing on top, until your whole body is prone, feet dangling above the floor, bent at the waist.

“Is this what you wanted?” Simon mocks. Hands grip your hips, and your traitorous body clenches. “This what you need, little goddess? Need to be punished?” Your dress is shoved up around your waist, exposing your skin to the frigid air, and you force away a small moan. “You need your pain, darling?” Yes. Fingers pinch the back of your neck. “Answer me.”

“Yes.” You snap, darting daggers with your eyes over your shoulder. His answer is a chuckle.

“Turn your head.” He hisses, hand on the back of your skull. When you do, you come face to face with Johnny’s hips, the length of his cock freed from his suit pants and bobbing right in front of your mouth.

Oh, gods. 

He strokes it slowly, the pink- nearly red tip oozing pre-cum, long and thick in his fist, his size enough to make your thighs press together, cunt throbbing with delight. Traitor.

“Open, darling.” He smears it against your lips. You tuck them in tight, trying to keep them closed, and he looks over, to the god who stands at the curve of your ass.

Simon takes a handful each of your cheeks, spreading you wide. He kicks your feet too, knocking your legs into an A-frame, fully exposing your weeping cunt.

“She’s dripping.” He announces, a finger sliding through your folds, body jolting with his touch. He circles your clit, barely, not enough, and you whine indignantly. It’s enough to loosen your lips, enough for Johnny to grasp your jaw, shove the tip of his thumb between your teeth, and then pry you open.

Once he gets the tip of his cock against your tongue, it’s over. Salt and earth dab along your tastebuds, and you drool on the table, trying to breathe through his rhythm, trying to focus as Simon tucks a finger into your hole, slowly pumping in and out, occasionally pulling free to swirl it around your untouched rim.

One finger inside you is enough to burn, heat rising through your belly, walls clenching tight, and John groans, pressing into the back of your throat, cutting off your airway.

“So good, all day.” Simon grits, stroking your clit in tiny circles. “Sweet Persephone, and now,” he’s building you closer, so close to the precipice, to the top of the mountain where you’ll hope he’ll throw you off.

But it’s not enough. 

“I know darling, don’t worry. I’ll give you your pain.” He croons. John thrusts hard, drives into you vigorously, head thrown back. There’s a sheen of sweat on his neck, and you watch a slow rivulet dip beneath his collar. He’s so… they’re so…

A hand cracks across the tender skin of your ass, rippling out like a shockwave. You choke.

You clench. The tide rises.

“Fuck. There you go.” Light dances in front of your eyes, small pinpricks of stars, and you gurgle on the dick that shoves down your throat. Another strike, the same side, and you cry out, gasping for air. The tip of his finger gently pushes against your rim, and then it’s replaced with a mouth, a hot, intrepid tongue, swirling around as your hips buck and he plays with your clit.

You’re going to die. You’re going to explode. You need more. 

You try to tell him, try to choke it out around John’s shaft, but it’s like he knows, like he’s reading your mind, and he pulls away to dig his teeth into the plump swell of your ass, biting down so hard you think you’re bleeding.

No. You are. 

You scream.

Rivers of ichor paint your skin. The next spank comes directly over the puncture wounds, and instead of screaming in pain, you moan in pleasure, head held in Johnny’s hands, your face a tool for him to fuck, your pussy squeezing down around the single finger stroking in and out of your body. He swings again, and again, fire lighting behind your eyes, explosions going off one by one, your orgasm cresting, rising in the swell of an enormous wave, and just as you’re about to come, Simon plunges a finger deep into your ass, shoving you off the mountain.

To where they catch you below.

The rest is a blur. John finishes down your throat, salt and sweat and tears all mixing in your mouth, and he moans your name as he gives you a belly full of seed.

You’re limp, floating, drifting higher and farther than you ever have before, not in your body, not even in your own mind. Hardly cognizant when you’re picked up, tucked away in the shelter of a chest and carried down the hall. You close your eyes.

You come back a little bit when you’re placed in shallow hot water, a steaming, rocky pool, your face settled in Johnny’s neck. Cloth and deft fingers rub your shoulders, your waist, anywhere you might feel sore, even the bottoms of your feet.

All the while, they talk.

It starts simply, sweet words that fills you up until you can’t take anymore. “Did so well, darling. So good for us.” John murmurs in hushed tones as Simon shifts you, turning you on your belly to run the cloth between your legs and over your ass. It stings, and you hiss, but you’re soothed with an apology, gentle kisses down your spine, each one pressed with praise.

It’s not long before you’re tucked into bed, turned over on your side, some sort of magic and salve being applied to the bite in your skin. You’re gone now, barely aware, barely awake, but with it enough to catch the little bits here and there.

“-talk about it tomorrow.”

“If they’re from Demeter, I’ll-“ No. Not this. Anything but this. Distress catches in your chest, and fingers stroke your cheek.

“Shhh, sweet one. Rest now.” There’s a little touch of magic, a barely there pulse of power, and you let it take you into the soft comfort of sleep, bedded down like a fawn, cradled between two Kings.

*Hymn 2 to Demeter, line 347

[negativecharm]

I literally love him so much i'm not even kidding: :(:(:(

Tbf, we all need a hug from him after the game.

[wormwoodartemisia]

@xintothewoodswegox 🍀🥃🍻

I wasn’t really planning to but this was just the wee bit that was missing to actually make me start to post all my silly little ideas... Probably not what you expected, but I now make it your problem, anyway! 🤷‍♀️😉💋🫂

Inspiration immediately hit me when I saw this:

This is my icon (I got permission to use it from the artist, Notesz, and I love their CoD-art, among others!), the bigger version to fully experience its magnificence. 🥴🖤

THERAPIST JOHN 'SOAP' MACTAVISH...

My version, at least... 😏😋 Civilian afab!reader, no specific desciption, no use of y/n Warnings: Absolutely no smut - instead, Soap using a ridiculous amount of pet names because I need him to... Furtive approach of making him sound a bit Scottish now and then, but I'm still very shy about it... Reference to abusive relationship, but I have the impression that tw is not needed. Let me know if I'm wrong! Short appearances: Price & Ghost, only brief mentioning of Gaz About 2.5k words, starting below the cut.

SHENANIGANS

It's gonna be ok...

You are more than relieved that the address is the same as before. A change would have been more than inconvenient. This place is known to you, every staircase, exit, door in the building. You know what to expect, where cars can park, which closeby places are crowded and where to disappear if needed.

Therefore you don't hesitate before entering the building where your therapist has got their office, first floor. From this height, getting away out of any window might be manageable in case it has to be, even for you, or so you hope and wish that you'll never have to find out...

You are more than grateful that it's not a total change. When your therapist told you they had to postpone your next session for several months due to some scientific research and a book that had to be written, you were about to quit, but they immediately tried to comfort you: "Of course you will not be alone in this situation. I've found the perfect stand-in for you, one who can absolutely meet your needs, trust me. Doctor MacTavish will fully take over this office while I’m working abroad. You just keep coming here for your normal appointments and clarify the rest with him."

You were led to the exit, they shook your hand and left you standing there, speechless, the news fresh like a bleeding wound. This was how your last session ended three days ago.

The situation itself was too surreal for you. So you simply accepted there was no suitable aftercare and that you wouldn't be introduced to Doctor MacTavish properly. There were too many thoughts on your mind to ask yourself if any therapist would really let their office be fully taken over this way...

When you enter your therapist's (your new therapist's) office, you notice that nothing, absolutely nothing has changed. There's still no secretary in the anteroom and despite the fact that you are perfectly on time, your knock at the door to the main office is shy. The deep male voice that bids you enter is a bit muffled through the closed door, but audible enough for you to instantly like its sound - very much so.

The moment you open the door to step in, the man on the other side of the room gets up from behind his desk to greet you with a radiant smile that directs the view away from his remarkable eyes and to his mouth with that striking scar on his chin. He comes over to you, holding out his hand to shake yours. For just a second you are too stunned to react properly. This guy is as far away from how you imagine a therapist as you want to be from your fucker of an ex-boyfriend...

He's quite tall and massive, slightly tanned muscles he knows to put on display - but not as some wannabe poser. He simply isn't afraid to show his self-confidence, clearly earned one way or the other. His casual blue jeans do his muscular legs some good, the woven brown leather belt around his midsection a nice devider to accentuate his upper body. A soft dark blue T-shirt hugs his frame like a second skin.

While you keep staring, your eyes wide, he has locked the door and performed the act of greeting (which includes taking your hand) all by himself because you are not much of a support. Without any effort he holds eye-contact with you - and this is the meanest thing to do, for you immediately fall for that sparkling cerulean blue. In fact, his intense eyes were the first thing you noticed about this man. (Not to mention his mohawk - which has never suited anyone better, you have to admit...)

When he strides back to his desk, reality sets in again and you recall the warm feeling of his strong hand holding yours in his. There is his scent in your nose, a perfume of woods and leather and the essence of green - moss and fern, maybe?

You watch him walk, his broad shoulders, muscles rolling beneath his skin, and you catch yourself staring at his arse. You are somewhat shocked about how blatantly you've just sized him up when it is his brains you need.

It's a literal necessaty to shake your head twice in order to get rid of your - let's say - more physical thoughts. Only that it can’t get easier for you: He doesn’t sit down behind his desk again, but is now leaning at the front of it, facing you, half-sitting, his legs extended and crossed in the most relaxed style, his arms folded over his chest - in such a decorative way that you must notice the tattoo on his right forearm.

The smug grin playing on his lips adds to the mischivous glint in his eyes. He is well aware of the effect he has on you - obviously nothing that makes him uncomfortable - on the contrary. You even get the impression that he lets you have your fill before he finally says your name - just your first name. Your former therapist always called you by your surname...

"Such a pleasure we finally meet."

You nod once and, after clearing your throat, you agree. "The pleasure is mine, Doctor MacTavish. "

He quietly laughs at that, not condecendingly, but with a warmth that immediately forces your lips into a soft smile as well.

"Just John, please. We don't need a doctor, do we?" He notices your hesitation before you finally nod. "Oh - ok. John. As you please." Again his all-consuming smile. "Ever so polite, hen. Now lie down."

The way you stare at him, incredulously, your pretty eyes wide as saucers, is a sight to behold. Grabbing a notebook, he straightens up again and points to his right. "The sofa, lass. Isn't tha wha therapy's about?"

You feel a bit stupid because you are totally convinced that - of course - you would have understood this completely unambigous statement had it come from your former therapist - or any person fitting your image of how a typical therapist should look.

Meanwhile John has reached the sofa and the two armchairs facing it. Your former therapist always kept their place behind their desk while you were seated in front of it on a normal chair, but this option seems to be unacceptable for John.

You swallow. "Well, ehm... I'd rather sit, in case you're good with that?" No problem for him. "Ach, have yer way, dearie. Ah'm good with a lot of things. Ye mind if ah?" He lets his Scottish brogue show and doesn't wait for your answer before he himself drops onto the sofa unceremoniously, the door in view. His notebook is resting on his chest while he stretches out his legs and puts his arms behind his head.

You can’t take your eyes off him as you slowly lower your body into the soft armchair. For his part, he's also watching you, somehow expectantly - as if he is about to ask you next which film to pick and where to order some take-away food... You're not sure how to feel about this man - and you're an open book.

"Ye have yer doubts, luv, haven't ye? What is it? Tell me."

Yes, what exactly is it? you wonder. Of course you can’t tell him that you've never heard of a therapist as hot as him - because that's not really what puts you off (distracted you somehow at first, yes, but that superficial notion would pass). He's too close, too fast, isn't he? Doesn't seem to believe in professional distance...

You opt for a more diplomatic explanation, one that holds enough truth in itself. "It’s just... I guess, I expected someone older..." He donnes you a knowing smile. "Let me assure ye that ah'm old enough for the job and ah dinnae lack experience, if that's wha ye're thinkin."

In fact you do not doubt that he’s got some wide range of different experiences. You only muse if it's the kind of experience you need while you take in his extraordinary tattoo and the prominent scar on his chin as two visible hallmarks made flesh to tag to the ambivalent feelings you have towards your new therapist.

John follows the movements of your eyes and touches his scar, grinning. "Boys are boys, ye ken? And ah must admit that ah wasn't born a therapist." He adds your name, almost like an afterthought.

"That so? For how long have you been a therapist then?"

His smile doesn't waver. "Been a few days", and with that he winks at you. "How about this? We take a few sessions, get tae know each other, and then ye can decide whether we go on or nae. What ye say?"

You consider his proposition. The fact that it is him your former therapist has chosen as their surrogate clearly drips in his favour - but you are a bit afraid that therapy with Doctor MacTavish - John - will be something entirely different from before... However, does 'different' have to mean 'worse'? You lean back in your armchair. "Ok. How do we start?"

John hasn't changed his horizontal position so far and seems to be comfy on his sofa. "Tell me somethin about ye, hun." - "Haven't you read my patient records?" - "- course ah have. Gnawing self-doubts, trust issues, traumatic experiences in yer relationship. But ah want tae hear ye talk. Choose any random topic and we speak about it."

For a second you are tempted to go for the weather forecast or your favourite animal, but this idea is only short- lived. Instead, you go for something new you would have been willing to let your former therapist in about soon. "I don't sleep much these days. I have nightmares." You don't look up, so he reassures you with a low, calm voice. "Go on."

You shrug. "That's all."

John looks at you pensively. "So ye do sleep." - "Pardon?" - "Yer dreams. In order tae have nightmares, ye need tae sleep first. Or do ye mean that ye refuse tae sleep for fear of havin bad dreams?"

You're not sure you see much of a difference, but you think about his question. "I fall asleep. Then the dreams start and after some time I wake up in cold sweat. And repeat." - "Have ye thought about takin sleepin pills? They could help ye with sleepin through the night." - "So I wouldn’t wake up from the horror? No way!" - "Don't ye want tae know how the dream ends?" You blink. "I... No? Can’t be a good end. I mean... have you ever even had nightmares, John?"

It's the first time that his smile changes its tone into something tinted, a lopsided grin with a grave seriousness. He sits up and leans forward to you, his notebook now next to him, his arms resting on his knees, before he starts to speak. "Ah ken the weight of nightmares, bonnie. 'ave seen some trauma in ma life", he hesitates, "Therapist stuff, ye ken? Ah dream about getting shot sometimes. Or being blown tae pieces."

When he doesn't add any more information, you feel the need to ask: "And then?" He purses his lips: "Then the dreams take a bearable direction - or start again."

You stare at the man in front of you, he holds your gaze unblinkingly. You frown. "I don't understand in how far this can be helpful to me, John." - "Priorities, luv. Ah usually tend tae choose sleep over some more or less vague fears. Ma body needs tae recover so that ah dinnae have tae let the nightmares come true." He hesitates once more. "In a metaphorical way, of course. When ah'm awake then, ah can think about the bad dreams and work through them. Might take some time, though."

The impression he gives you is one of sheer honesty. You're intrigued: "And what have you found out? About your nightmares?" - "Just the obvious. Fear of being unable tae get the job done, fear of nae being able tae support those who rely on me, failure in general. All the therapist stuff ah'm going through. Ah really get stuck into it, lass." He smiles the gravitas away. However, you can feel that he means it. This is more than just a job for him. He's always on a mission to save lives. That's real. He wants to prevent death if and when it's in his power. He for himself has to deal with an immense amount of emotional pressure every day.

You can feel all the emotional pressure as well - but for you, there’s always the other pressure, too. The invisible threat of a former boyfriend who was quite close to being the literal death of you.

You don't think less of Doctor John MacTavish just because he has surely never experienced that his life was literally at stake. Your lives are just so different... "I only hope that I'll never become one of your nightmares, John."

A boyish grin: "Ach, dinnae fash, bonnie. Chances are up for some sweet dreams."

⬛◼◾▪️Meanwhile, outside▪️◾◼⬛

"I still believe Garrick would have been the better choice", Ghost rumbles while they are waiting for you to leave the building again. In the driver's seat, the Captain takes a sip from his coffee, flashing the masked man next to him a look out of the corners of his eyes. "Soap's got some useful background knowledge from previous missions, some intel Gaz clearly lacks. Not to mention that Kyle couldn't make it back in time, right?" Ghost slowly shakes his head, almost unnoticeably, so Price adds: "You think MacTavish can’t handle the situation and take it far enough?"

Now Ghost barks a laugh: "Bloody hell... I'm not worried about his interrogation skills or acting abilities. 'm just worried that he might take it farther than he should - and we might get more than we've bargained for." - "He thinks she's that dangerous?"

It's a harsh laugh as response that the Captain gets to hear from his Lieutenant instantly. Ghost keeps his eyes trained on the entrance of the building when he answers: "This bird's not too dangerous. Yet I wouldn't guarantee she can’t take him apart..."

⬛◼◾▪️▪️◾◼⬛

You feel heat rise to your cheeks. But when you think about it, you have to admit that your choice of words was a perfect set-up...

"Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me, John. I'll think about your words, I promise, but for now, I'd love to change the subject." Luckily, your therapist is more than willing to fulfil your wish.

"That's fine. Now it's ma turn tae choose a topic. Let's talk about relationships. Just in general. We needn't necessarily come tae tha specific partner of yours. Wha was his name again, hen? Macaron?"

[resident-idiot-simp]

Hades and Persephone run down!?

I am going to be totally normal and calm about this. Yup. No 100% not losing my mind over this what are you talking about? 👀

I know I am also very normal about it.

So first the characters

Zeus- Price

Ares- McMillan

Demeter- Beth

Cerberus- Roach

Aphrodite- Tommy (Persephone is always shown having 2 sides so maybe Persephone becomes a title and not a name, like Ghost the dark judgement and tommy is new life- Az)

@azilver -

Riley was given to Demeter by his mother He's killed in war because of him Warlord father thought he was promised to Ares but he ended up with Demeter.

She renames him and gives him responsibilities on battlefields, like encouraging flowers and such to make use of the dead bodies. there he meets hades tav who is helping to collect the dead (after a battle there are just so many and maybe he's also meeting with his nephew to discuss the next time)

demeter has grown attached but that attachment irritates Zeus Price who asks Hades to take the boy with him for a bit.

(Me-And MacTavish met Riley while he was doing his job tending to the dead. He's flattered Riley would take such good care of his people and they grew closer.

Once in McTavish's domain The two only grow closer after McTavish makes a deal with him (This will be expanded on later))

Zeus Price is jealous since he's trying to hit that

Me-

So what I consider doing is having it to wear Riley becomes a god or god like at least. Az suggested drinking ambrosia however I raise you he drinks MacTavish's icore.

MacTavish makes a blood packed with Riley to wear he will get Riley out from Beth's thumb but in return he will be under no one else's including his own. So MacTavish has to figure out how to get Riley out of the packed without trapping him.

He comes up with the genius idea to have him drink his own icore unsure if it would work because it's never been done before. It does

The icor made Riley a part of MacTavish so they are (not equals) but tenders of the same realm the icor made him something other that has yet to exist like a part of his soul is of godly essence.

Meanwhile the opposite happened to MacTavish to wear now if he focuses hard enough he won't kill flowers immediately upon touching them. There's something softer more human about him. And once he drinks Riley's blood they are joined indefinitely for the rest of time. They are two beings while being one. Almost like opposite sides of a coin.

Riley learns how to control his powers while MacTavish learns how to wrestle the sliver of humanity he now has.

(The reason the deal broke is because another god cannot hold another god or god like entity under contract.)

In the end Riley MacTavish come to an agreement with both rule equally over the underworld.

King and Queen.

Most of the other gods hate it because now I measly ant is now equal to their might and has is equal say as any other god if not more because of who he's tied to.

MacTavish could care less because he gets to have a Riley sitting in his lap like eye candy.

[natsukasas]

why god gave us hands

a ghostsoap fic

rating: E

warning: animal play, master/pet, prostate milking, cages, puppy play, praise kink, ball play, puppy soap

word count: 1,898

His boy whined, creeping around the side of his desk to stand at his elbow. Collapsing to his knees, he pawed at Ghost’s elbow, begging for his regular pets. Soap loved having his hair stroked, often planting his head on the larger man’s thigh and nudging at his arm like a needy puppy.  Whimpering louder, Soap shoved himself under the desk and between Ghost’s legs. It was nice here, surrounded completely, head shoved between warm thighs and nose pressed to Simon’s dick, sniffing at the deep musk. He was a pushy one, always thrusting himself into Ghost’s space, begging for attention. He was a good boy though. Most of the time. 

read here

[snootlestheangel]

I would love to hear about this!

So tempted to hit y'all with OC stuff but they're not even Fandom ocs, they're just my little guys (and gals)

The idea I have for a COD x OG work crossover is insane and chaotic and I need to stop thinking

I hope your head gets to feeling better soon.

For context, the actual narrative of my original work is basically the modern world coexists with inhuman species and magic users. There's more for the specific homebrewed species of mine on @snootlessimperfectworld that will also help explain some things. Specifically looking at the "Let's Talk Series"

Here's a thing about the OCs I posted previously but I'll be adding more here, don't worry

But for today, the focus is the use of "portals" throughout the work. Literally the main conflict in this is the result of a Dragon breaking out of prison and into the realm where Humans exist, thus breaking interdimensional boundaries.

I really just can't stop picturing the 141 getting sent to a random location due to some really weird signals/energy changes/some other thing that raises concern. There's reports of people patrolling the massive compound, and there's starting to be rumors they're actually harboring some weapons of mass destruction.

The team arrives and they find the building to be... empty. There's no sign of people or any hint as to what they were doing.

They're about to give up when they find a hangar connected to the back of the building. They decide to check it, just to be safe, and enter the hangar without really knowing what they're walking into.

Instead of vehicles or even storage bins, they find a Dragon. A massive, teal colored Dragon chained to the floor and sleeping. Or at least, tranquilized. The Dragon's wings are stretched above it at an awkward angle, there's massive steel collars around its neck, tail, and snout. It's legs are pinned underneath him, and there's massive chains keeping the bulk of its body against the floor.

The 141 is so in shock by what they're seeing, they can't even say anything. They just kind of walk around the dragon like "?????"

Eventually, Soap reaches out and touches the dragon cause "how could they do this to you?". Next thing they know, they're releasing the dragon's chains and hoping it stays asleep long enough for them to leave. They'll deal with the consequences later, all right?

Except by the time they're done with that, the dragon is Awake and some other stuff happens and they run into my little troop of idiots.

Maxlar is the first one they encounter (excluding Devon, the Dragon featured above), and he's just all "oh geez, thanks guys for releasing him. I was real worried about him, ya know?"

I'm just thinking of Malvo, my grumpy cold-exterior "I am better than all of you" little Demon man, basically telling the 141 to piss off and let them deal with their issues in peace. Of course Price refuses, cause "that's a dragon and you guys are weird, we're not just letting you wander around"

Hades trying to step in and prevent things from getting worse. He's trying his best to not have a mental breakdown. These guys are scary and guns still kill Night Watchers, okay? He's trying to be a good King and be a good diplomat but it's really not working when these guys clearly are serious and he's got Maxlar, Devon, and Troy behind him cracking jokes like it's a normal Tuesday. That and he's got Malvo threatening them in increasingly intricate ways, and he's really just very tired and wants to go home.

Finally, they reach a kind of truce, and the 141 decides to assist them in making it back to their world. Hades wants to cry from relief, but there's still a lot of things left to discuss.

Someone on his side of things asks "what do we do with these guys?" while pointing at the 141.

Aten, the feral little dragon he is: *with a growl* Eat them 141: Huh??? Troy, a vampire: Yeah, I am kinda hungry. Price: We agreed to help! Aten: And you'll be helping by filling our stomachs! Hades: What the bloody hell is wrong with you two?! NO! I swear- *covers face and just stands there for a moment* Gaz: Is he okay? Aten: Oh yeah, this is normal for him. Maxlar: If Hades isn't having at least one mental breakdown during a stressful situation, there's something incredibly wrong with him.

I mean, these are the people the 141 has to deal with:

Maxlar Whishling, a schizophrenic magic-wielder that's got a sort of "high on life" mentality and is just so unserious. The reason there's an interdimensional war happening in their world, and is adamant it's not actually his fault. Which yes, he's right, it's not technically his fault, but he's the reason still.

Devon Breathstone, Maxlar's best friend and partner in crime. An absolute unit of a human (around 7' tall and fucking huge all around) because he's a fucking Dragon. Incredibly chill and more controlled than Maxlar but clearly along for the ride

Malvo Whishling, Maxlar's younger brother turned Demon that is so fed up with everyone and everything. He's supposed to be dead, yet he's not, he's having to clean up after his brother's messes. Incredibly powerful magic user. Smarter than everyone, has no emotion, speaks in a very formal way, literally well-dressed.

Hades Evanchio, the King of the Night Watchers but more like the King of Anxiety. Never signed up to be King, was literally dragged into it. Cares deeply for his friend Maxlar but just really wants to go home and cuddle with his husband, okay? He's tired, leave him be.

Atendarajo Evanchio, Hades's feral husband. Definitely commits arson on a regular basis. Intentionally initiates chaos because he can. Also a dragon, but mini sized. Has crippling Small Dog Syndrome as a result of this. Will steal your kneecaps in a second.

Troy Fallwood, a vampire known for simply appearing in the most unusual circumstances only to disappear again for several months. A bastard and a fellow chaos instigator.

I just wanna witness Ghost feel intimidated because holy fuck that guy is huge-

I want Soap and Gaz to get fucking bullied by a feral little Dragon

I want Price to be arguing logistics with Anxiety Man and Smarter Than Everyone

I want Soap to slowly be integrated into the Chaos because Maxlar, Devon, Troy, and Aten all realize "hey he's actually kinda cool"

I want Gaz to get hit on by a vampire but he can't tell if it's because the vampire actually believes Gaz is attractive or because it's, as he said earlier, he's "kinda hungry"

I want Price to be fiercely protective of his team while Hades and Malvo are begging to get rid of the others

[charliemwrites]

Making this a separate post because the idea has evolved a bit:

(Was talking about this in the discord if it looks familiar)

I’m thinking less of a 1 to 1 Greek god au. I’m thinking it’s more of a theme to their dynamic and in parts of their story.

Johnny is a reincarnation of some ancient, nameless (or many-named) god, associated with dark forces. He’s not evil incarnate. But he is something of a representation of “darker” human nature. Anger, bloodlust, impatience, selfishness.

Persephone!reader, by comparison, is sort of a personification of gentler human nature. Patience, mercy, altruism, gentleness. She is less “awakened” so to speak because her mother has been a major limiting factor in her life. Like, helicopter parent to the extreme.

Persephone!reader goes to her aunt Laswell as a sort of compromise. See the world, the real world, in a controlled sort of way with her aunt watching carefully over her shoulder.

Problem is, no one is expecting the dreams to start as soon as she gets to base. Dreams of a man that scares her as much as tempts her, and encouraging the worst and most selfish of her impulses. She doesn’t tell anyone - why would she? They’re just dreams.

Captain MacTavish scares intimidates her, even though she insists that he doesn’t, looking him in the eye with her chin tilted up defiantly. When he’s on base he finds all sorts of ways to cross her path, sometimes teasing her into an indignant fluster, other times telling her off for “distracting recruits”. Always, always has an eye on her, even if it’s not his own.

Once things come to a head (I haven’t figured out how yet) Persephone!reader insists it isn’t fair. And just because they’ve been something in the past doesn’t mean they have to now.

Johnny, of course, is utterly amused. She’s barely got any idea what’s going on, but sure, she’s going to deny forces beyond life and death.

They strike a deal. When he’s away (for months at a time… a season’s length, even) she can run and hide and do whatever she wants to “escape” him. If he cant find her within a week of coming back, then he’ll leave her be and she’s “free”.

(She scoffs that he’s going to cheat, using her aunt and all of her connections but he just scoffs. As if Laswell would help him over her own niece. And as if he needs the help.)

He always finds her within a day of coming back from a mission. No matter where she is or what her name is. No matter how well she covers her tracks (even with Laswell’s help). He comes to her with gifts.

At first it would be sweet if not for the smirk on his face and the realization that she’s “lost” again. He brings flowers of all kinds, and green plants in little pots. Then it’s a new sweater, a nice coat, a piece of jewelry.

And then… and then they get worse. A bullet is the first sign. It’s just a whole bullet, her name engraved in its side. Then it’s a casing, the bullet clearly having been shot. He tells her it went right between someone’s eyes. The “gifts” become patches from enemy jackets, pretty stones splattered with dried blood, a human tooth.

It’s awful. She hates it. She can’t ever make herself say it (or believe it). And when he’s gone, she physically can’t make herself throw them away. Shes tried and tried, and the last time she put a real effort into it, she ended up on the floor having a panic attack, sobbing and calling Johnny.

(He purrs at her through the phone, gunfire background noise while he soothes her back inside. His voice keeps her company while she makes a tea, readies a bath. Tuts at her to call him again when she’s tucking into bed. She refuses to acknowledge that she does.)

Similarly, she finds herself getting or making things for him. For his inevitable return. Cigars and his favorite whiskey. Making patches for his uniform. A leather bracelet with her initials on a silver charm. A ring with an inlay the color of her eyes. Doesn’t even realize what she’s doing until she’s home or the thing is done. She’ll hide them away for months with no plans of giving them to Johnny. He inevitable finds them within his first week home anyway.

(There’s the one time she bakes for him, humming as she measures and mixes ingredients. Lets him steal tastes from the bowl and lick flour off her cheek. Only realizes what she’s done in a domestic haze when he’s eaten the sweet treat and thanked her for it.)

And when he’s home…

The deal is that when he’s home, he gets to treat her like his. Climbs into her bed, grumbling about pillows being a poor substitute for him. Steps into her shower midway through, ducking his head so she can shampoo and condition his hair with her gentle hands. Dresses her in his clothes, in his dog tags. Always has a hand on her, even in her (their) home.

And he delights in yanking her into his lap - especially in public. When his team comes to visit (and they always do) he lounges with her on his thigh. He’s also kind of a dick. Like he’s courteous to servers (mainly female ones because chances are they won’t flirt with his girl) but pretty much any stranger talking to him or his Persephone is met with smarmy asshole behavior.

It’s to the point that she just fusses at him to let her talk to people. And he’s happy to do so, amused by the way she charms people. He only intervenes when someone is rude or a little too friendly with her. She’s had to break up bar fights before because god knows his men won’t try to stop their captain.

She is literally the only being in all of history that can tell him no and stop and he’ll listen regardless of the situation. She has to actively remind herself that it’s not healthy and she should not be a little flattered about it. And she’s not. (She is.)

[negativecharm]

yes i simp for these goofy ahh soldiers so what

Boys say that “Call of Duty is not a girls game”. They’re just mad because they will never be like these men.

[peachesofteal]

Prologue: The Moirai

An Ichor Veil (of Flower Kings) masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 1.5k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: modern setting retelling of Hades and Persephone A strange dream, a strange visit.

For months, you’ve had the same dream.

You’re wandering a valley, your valley, a lush, green collection of rolling peaks, sweet grass and clover nearly velvet beneath your bare feet. The sun, high in the sky, does not moisten your brow, or cause you distress. You do not thirst. You do not tire.

You only meander, feeding the earth snippets of power, growing flowers and vines, a plethora of life, amusing yourself, as you do every night.

You roam this meadow, until your eyes open at dawn, bullfrogs and crickets and the raw chirp of birds tapping against the windowpane, brightening you to the morning better than any alarm clock ever could.

But tonight, the dream is different.

You’ve never seen so much Narcissus. It paints an idyllic picture, bright petals sparkling far and wide, blanketing the hills until they swoop low in the soft belly of the dream. They draw you in, pulling you down until you’re seated amongst a mass of blooms, Asphodelus scattered throughout, honeysuckle vine curling through the grasses, more fragrant than sea spray, filling the air with an intoxicating sweetness that you can taste, crystal like dew dripping with jasmine and vanilla.

It's beautiful. 

A creek babbles nearby, crooning in its own language, rushing trickle drowning out your thoughts and feelings, twisting and tugging until it’s hard to remember you’re in a dream at all.

Is this not your meadow? 

Is this not your own? 

The Asphodelus shivers, rocking back and forth in a cool wind, the kind that chills your skin, whips around your shoulders and tousles the thin fabric of your shirt.

“Hello.” The greeting startles you, twists your torso in the waist deep flora. Rise. Instinct booms, like your mother’s chide ringing a shrill bell for you to obey.

A figure stands in the meadow behind you, tall beside the sun, rays of golden light casting long shadow across their features. You squint, but it’s of no use. You cannot make them out.

“Hello.” You mirror, palms forward, heels digging into the grass. There’s a sharp prick, a sting that bleeds, and you curse, lifting your hand for inspection. “Acantha.” You hiss at the goddess, as if she has anything to do with your dreams.

Gold runs from the wound like the creek, slicking your palm, coating your skin in ichor, your own lifeblood.

The lifeblood of the Golden ones.

Lest you forget.  

The figure kneels in the grass before you, their head bowed, black gloved hands reaching, tugging your palm upwards, dragging a thumb through the mess of ethereal life.

“I’m fine, just a prick.” You assure in the silence. There is so much light, and yet none, nothing to illuminate the face or the features of whomever it is that occupies your dream.

A fragment of your mind, perhaps. A trick of your mother’s. 

Or an interloper. 

“You’re hurt.” The dark pitch of the figure’s voice is startling. It’s fathomless, beautiful like the coast of the Aegean, guttural like the shout of death. Raw ruby, not quite plucked from its sanctuary, not quite finished or ready to be seen, a secret gem, only for you. The meadow rustles, thousands of faces in the little flowers leering, scowling, blue sky dimming into grey. Thunder shatters the tranquility, clapping in the distance, a garish boom sending electric shocks through the clouds, all manner of rumbles rolling over the hill.

Rot. It fills your soul in a flood, current wrapping around your ankles and tugging, like a thousand Oceanids lay at your feet, crying. Screaming.

But your hand is warm. Your hand is warm and it is held, for a moment, a moment in which you feel dramatically unlike yourself, unlike the fledging goddess you claim to be, unlike the unloved one you’re known as, and then-

it is cold. Your hand. Your heart. You. The being, the figure, is gone.

And you are alone.

The Greenhouse is quiet. An easy peace, so easily disturbed by comings and goings, friends and patrons, all manner of beings and others, stopping in and out.

They say hello. They ask for help, advice, favor. Some things you cannot give, even to some visitors who you hold close. Dearly.

These moments alone, moments of solitude in the Greenhouse, and some that you love the most. Moments when you're alone with yourself, your power, your connection to the earth. When you can feel it the most, the worms in the dirt, the roots desperate for water, the blooms aching to flourish. You are all these things, when you're alone. A power unto yourself. A goddess of life, of fertility, of Spring. The essential reawakening. The circle of seasons. 

The secret weighs heavily. 

But a goddess of Spring, is no mere goddess of Spring, your mother's voice echoes. A goddess of life, may as well wear a target on her back. 

This morning, when the dew still refracts the light of the sun and birds are singing, no one comes. You sit alone, pruning, detangling, taming a pothos, encouraging its lovely green vine to live on its own. It protests, and you huff at it, conjuring slivers of magic, feeding it kernels as if you care for a child, trying to encourage it to eat. 

“You must try, you know.” It curls around the back of your hand, lovely silver-white speckled leaves shimmering in the morning’s light. “You’re not staying here. The Greenhouse is full. I don’t have any more room.” The overcrowded shelves and carts agree, saplings and ivy and atropa belladonna all singing in unison, quivering voices rising in protest of the pothos’ weak effort. “See? You’ll make everyone unhappy.”

“You have a habit of talking to all your plants?” A musical voice chimes from the front door, and you jump from the stool, a book on your right clattering to the concrete.

“No, I…” Your voice fails, the woman in the doorway steps closer, allowing her mortal appearance to fall away, removing her Cloak and revealing her true identity.

The Moirai.

The Three who are One. 

She turns her head to the east, a flash of the Maiden surveying your workbench, and then the Crone shines through, all faces eventually melding into one.

The Mother. 

“Daughter of Demeter.” She inclines her head in greeting, and you blink rapidly.

“You...” What are they… is she, doing here? “You shouldn’t be here.” You swallow the fear that races in a cold rush under your skin. A frozen river runs in your bones, frigid rapids roaring, trapped beneath a thin sheet of ice, churning your power into a weapon of terror, an uncontrollable force that tries to build beneath the swell.

“Your mother is preoccupied.” She waves her hand; unease props the hair up on the back of your neck.

“What do you want?”

“To see you.” She strolls, careful, casual steps echoing off glass. “Finally, in the flesh.” The sh sound hisses, and your power pulses, pushing forward in preparation. “You are truly as lovely as they say, little Spring Goddess.”

“I’m not the Goddess of Spring.” You rebuke, and the resounding chuckle is dry wine, a tatter of bubbles that on her tongue that sours your stomach.

“You are not.” She nods. “No. You’re so much more now. You will be.” She steps closer, red lips perfectly lined and plump, pursed as she stares you down. “I’m satisfied.” She murmurs, and even though she looks right at you, it’s as if you’re not in the room.

Rain drops patter on glass panels.

“Pity.” She frowns, and then winks as a young woman, as an old one too, vanishing from sight with each step she takes to the door.

The clock ticks too loudly, and it feels like doom. Like a shattered mirror, shattered reflection, shattered life.

The Moirai have never visited you. 

Why now?

Outside, a screech owl hoots, startling you backwards, a hand rocking down to the work bench in an effort to steady your trembling legs.

“Ouch!” you shriek, flipping your palm over, a pair of pruning shears dug into your skin, golden blood leaking out around their cool metallic points. “Fuck.” Your lips cover the puncture, tongue flicking against the rivulet of ichor.

The screech owl screams.

The throne room is silent. Darkness ebbs, inky webs slithering across the floor, shadowing the blood red stone that spills from the mouth of the dais, two identical, straight back chairs sitting proudly in the middle of the hall, dwarfed by columns stretching so tall Johnny swears they surpass the boundary of this realm. Their onyx marble shrouds Simon, who stands maskless, his hands clasped behind his back, peering into the pitch-black pool of liquid vibrating inside a silver bowl. 

“Who is she?” There is a woman in the seeing glass. Beautiful, bright, an overflowing bouquet of narcissus, an endless melody of spring, the promise of early death. The greenhouse breathes in her presence, all nature of blooms and blossoms straining closer, desperate to be within fingertips reach. “A goddess?” He looks closer, and Simon’s amber laden eyes affix his, broad palm tenderly cupping Johnny’s cheek. His answer is a whisper, something unearthly and severe as they are: two Kings of the Underworld, two souls twisted together, two macabre fates made one. His words are a looming promise, a vow so ruinous Johnny knows the Moirai howl and the Lethe trembles.

“Our wife.”

[negativecharm]

Soap: Do you think people would still invent slides if butt cracks were placed horizontally and not vertically? ?

Ghost: . .

Ghost: Please leave me tf alone sergeant.

[creptolli]

Cod Characters in PJO cabins

(This has been rotting my mind help me please I have several fanfics on the way for this 😭🙏)

..P.S this may not make sense for the PJO storyline/timeline

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

Pretty obviously a son of Hades (God of the dead, king of the underworld) - Cabin 13

He honestly sees himself in Nico from when he was younger, which is heartbreaking in so many ways :)

With Hazel, he admires her and her personality. Yet he doesn’t act like it, as always.

Yes he is in love with Soap, it is very much Emo Kid/Theatre Kid. Soap is really the only camper he hangs around, most are either scared of him or resent him for his father. Except for Soap of course.

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish

A son of Dionysus (God of wine-making, festivity, fertility, insanity, ritual madness, vegetation, orchards and fruits and religious ecstasy - according to Wikipedia) - Cabin 12

Aka the only kids that constantly see their godly parent. On a daily basis, whether that is for the better or worse

Soap and his relationship with Dionysus, or Mr. D, is fairly normal. They aren’t that close, but Dionysus actually knows his name. Even his nickname! Most of the time.. he does sometimes call him Shampoo by mistake.

Because of his father, he and his few siblings are cursed to Diet Coke. By that I mean, whenever one of the older cabin 13 kids attempts to steal some wine (because we all know they do) they are resulted with.. Diet Coke. “Thanks dad.”

He’s relatively close with Gaz, Ghost (obviously), Alex because I see it, and eventually that silly reckless kid, what was his name? Percy right? Or was it Perry.. he can never remember.

Alex Keller

Child of Aphrodite (Goddess of love, fertility, beauty, war and more that I couldn’t find) - Cabin 10

He and his siblings have a close bond, there are however a fair amount of them. Yet they do have each others back, and lots of gossip. Alex isn’t a huge fan of gaining information.. however he is the largest supplier in the cabin. He’s fairly close with everyone around camp, having a very relaxed relationship with all the younger and older kids. Giving him easy access to all knowledge as he’s been there a while.

However, he’s very close with Gaz, Farah, Hadir (yes he’s there), and even Alejandro and Rudy.

…You’ll see why Alejandro is bolded in my next post…

[roseboysstuff]

All the stuff you need to know :

My name is Teddy. I’m 21 with he/they pronouns. I’ll only write x male and x ftm reader. Fem-aligned can interact but don’t comment or ask for x female content. I write smut for ftm readers, which will include the words 'pussy' and 'cunt' for genitals. Fight me I don't care. Requests are open! Just send me an ask! Dark content like yandere or incest may be ahead. I got inspired by a mutual of mine who’s account got terminated to write my own drabbles.

Feel free to express your horny thoughts in my ask box, I'm always itching for new ideas, and I like being horny about fictional men

My masterlist

I am @ftm-fox-prince this is just where I write fanfic drabbles

My character list is below, may add or delete based on my preferences

Pokemon

- Arven, steven stone, guzma

Voltron

- Keith, Shiro, James, Lance, Lotor

Greek mythology, actual mythology not the hades game

- Hades, Achilles, Patroclus, Hermes, Apollo

FNAF movie

-Mike Schmidt, William Afton

COD

-Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish, John Price, Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

Random

- Leon kennedy, Anakin Skywalker, Fire lord Zuko -Also, if you have an idea for an OC that you want me to right, then ask away! I love writing for general character archetypes

I write :

- male/ftm reader

- incest

- quite a few kinks just ask

Both sfw and nsfw

[resident-idiot-simp]

Have you heard Achilles come down by gang of youths? It gives me hope ghost and despair Soap vibes, It’s also a banger song.

Also the eel video reminded me of the shrieking eels from the princess bride… (I need to rewatch that) and now I am concerned about what that could be referencing in relation to Hades and Persephone.

I have lol and you're absolutely right it does give those vibes.

Don't worry about it ☺️ just know that Ghost is very doting of the underworld inhabitants (not soul wise however)

[clementine-thedestroyer]

Masterlist 🪴

List is organized by character, then by type. Posts written for challenges (such as kinktober) will not be listed. NSFW posts are marked as such, and anything I deem as “damn that may be a bit triggering” is marked with “TWs”. I do art too sometimes (it’s rare), but that’s linked with whatever writing or character it’s associated with too.

Tags I use: (not completely implemented yet)

#Clementine yaps for anything CoD related, ranging from almost fics, to brain worms, to what are arguably shitposts- #Asks for asks- and #Blog stuff for… blog stuff.

Sometimes I draw things for my AUs, and anything I do draw and post can be found under the tag #doodles

141

🪴AU blurbs

80’s Arcade AU

Hotshots!141

Alpha!Price x omega!Gaz x omega!reader

John MacTavish

🪴Blurbs

Creep - Nisse!Soap x reader - NSFW - Associated doodle

Simon Riley

🪴AU blurbs

Legend of Zelda/Breath of the Wild AU - 1, 2

Kyle Garrick

🪴One shots

Persephone!reader x Hades!Kyle - dddne

John Price

🪴One shots

Fussy brat - NSFW

Sometimes, I wish I was as important as your email inbox

Lazy Saturday Mornings

Price eating you out and biting your strechmarks blurble - NSFW

🪴AU blurbs

John Price x curly haired!reader

Hunger games AU

Valeria

🪴AU blurbs

Underground fighting ring AU

König

🪴Fics

Aurora Borealis - NSFW

Here is my non-CoD masterlist in case you’re trying to find one of my older works, and here's my Kinktober 2023 masterlist.