#naiad ears
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WATER WIFE SPOTTED!
@dootznbootz
"Deep down I would trade the world to see my son and wife."
#odysseus#telemachus#epic the musical penelope#epic the musical telemachus#penelope#odypen#the odyssey#epic the musical fanart#epic the musical odysseus#Water wife#naiad ears
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Day 13 of Sirentober / Doctober
Epic / Love
They make me ill
Available as a print on my Etsy Shop
#doctorsiren#the odyssey#epic the musical#odysseus of ithaca#penelope of ithaca#odypen#greek mythology#digital art#my art#procreate#sirentober#sirentober 2024#doctober#doctober 2024#ody’s arms gave me so much trouble I wanted to kill him ☹️#foop told me that Penelope is apparently is the daughter of a naiad so I have her slightly pointed ears 😁#since I give the gods and such bigger pointed ears for the silly
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Hiiii back again with these two! I like my tweaked design for Minerva 💖
#submission#synoverse#minerva | naiad#synovus#theyre quite silly#how much eyebrow does syn get? All the eyebrow.#minerva has a venus comb earring!
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me when i fight that art or whatever (GO SEAFOAM)
(my profile)
#art fight#art fight 2024#artfightsona#my sona this year is basically like. a water nymph/naiad thing?#basically. big bow pointy ears turn into water.#team seafoam
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i think that part of the reason i love the penelopiad so much is it gives me so much to work w for penelope in terms of nonhuman/odd features. like. mother is a water nymph so she can have pointier ears, and on top of that her mom is also described as having sharp pointy teeth so she can have little fangs if i want !!! like !!! its great !!! waiter!! more naiad penelope please!!!
#and then her weeping actually being uncontrollable bc of her being half naiad#its just baller the book is just . so good#poks office chair#like sure odysseus. ur cool. but come back when you have a reason for me to give u pointy ears and fangs.#can u tell. i am a fantasy guy. and like fantasy elements in my characters !
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HhhhhbYour Penelope design is so so cool, and we love little Iphthime
Hc that Icarius is strict w his daughters
Bonus:
#And it do be like that sometimes#Also love their eyes and ears#Showing their naiad heritage#epic the musical
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Weekly Jungkook Fanfic Recs
Some fine JK fics for your reading pleasure. 🔞 Please show your appreciation to all the wonderful authors :)
Just Desserts: Jungkook is your next door neighbor who you have only crossed a few words with. However one hot summer day there's a city wide blackout and strangely enough, he shows up at your door with brownies, and other delights. https://www.tumblr.com/aseaofyoongi/707881728948273152/just-desserts-jjk
Wonderland: You’ve known Jeongguk for at least 7 years now and it took you forever to realize that you were truly, madly and deeply in love with your best friend. https://aureumjeon.tumblr.com/post/177411231495/wonderland-m-jjk-oneshot
What's Mine Is Mine: You caught his eye from day one. As far as Jungkook was concerned, you were always meant to be his. https://archiveofourown.org/works/13554723
The Accountant: You were hired for one reason and one reason only: Help relieve Jungkook's stress. You personally think it's a great job. https://archiveofourown.org/works/27120500
Be Mine, Princess: Jeon Jungkook transfers into the most prestigious university in the country, riding in on his sports scholarship and ready to take the place by storm. Till he sees you in his class and then at the party of the frat he's joining. Now the only thing he wants to take is you on a date, but who are all these guys you seem to be around all the time? https://archiveofourown.org/works/28799757/chapters/70628661
The One Who Wept Pearls: The first time you met, Jungkook was a human on the brink of adulthood and you were a naiad who had never known sorrow. Parting ways once you realized your species were never meant to be, you cannot seem to forget about him despite your best efforts. Now reunited years later as Gods, can you both have a chance at love? Or are the Fates too unkind? https://archiveofourown.org/works/32371525/chapters/80254996
Rough Hands: How is he meant to confess that he’d tear off his left arm for you if you asked when he can see the way you look at him in disgust when his nervous rambling leads to retelling the raunchy stories of girls past? https://bratkook.tumblr.com/post/616528929129447424/rough-hands-m-jjk
I Don't Mind: What do you do when a cute boy barges into your car and demands you floor it because he’s being chased by security? Well, you floor it of course, and somehow manage to fall for him because of it. https://bratkook.tumblr.com/post/623839319011065856/i-dont-mind-jjk-m-part-one
Quiet Baby: “That’s it, slow and steady baby.” Jungkook’s voice comes from behind you, husky and teasing, edges of his lips ghosting around your ear as he sighs when you do exactly as he asks. https://bratkook.tumblr.com/post/633255429018894336/quiet-baby-m-jjk
Another Taste: The soft skin of your thighs rubs against Jungkook’s cheeks as he peppers kisses onto them, warm to the touch, slightly trembling from the earlier orgasm he had drawn out of you. He isn’t satisfied though, he never was until you were left in tears, writhing on the bed. https://bratkook.tumblr.com/post/643711765441593344/another-taste-m-jjk
#bts jeon jungkook fanfic#jungkook fic recs#jungkook imagines#jungkook smut#jungkook fanfic#jungkook fic#bts jungkook#jungkook#jungkook x reader#jungkook x oc#jungkook x y/n#jungkook x you#bts fanfic#bts jungkook fanfic#bts fic recs#bts smut#bts imagines
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The Lethe
An Ichor Veil masterlist
Ghost/Soap/female reader 7.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Greek mythology au, modern retelling. Reader is named Persephone but has no physical characteristics. Smut, M/M/F, loss of virginity. Praise kink. Breath play. Pain play. Feelings of fear, jealousy, and anxiety. Mention of abuse by reader's mother.
The next morning, you wake alone.
You lay alone too, dread swirling in the cosmos, a thick, uneasy tension swooping over the palace where you linger, the protracted creep of corroded hanging moss, a thick curtain of dying green.
Memory is sharp. It’s fickle. It has a hold on you, your mind, your body, and your legs shift restlessly in bed, thighs pressing together.
Cerberus snores on the rug in front of the fireplace, lean and lissome and stretched long.
They open their eyes as soon as your feet touch the floor, shaking off their stupor and trotting over to rest all three heads on top of your thigh.
Pet me.
How could you say no?
“I really have to use the bathroom.” You whisper after giving each ear a good scratch, stretching tall, bones and muscle all stringent, but not sore. Almost nothing feels tender, you realize, and when you inspect yourself in the bathroom mirror, there’s no evidence of last night.
No raw, punished skin.
No puncture wounds.
You’re relieved, the impending doom-like feeling that plagued you the moment you opened eyes lessens, and-
A small shard of disappointment settles in its place.
Did you desire to wear their mark? To have them on your skin, by choice?
Your back is an ugly crisscross of fine golden lines, all remnants of the Whip.
These, you did not choose. These, you do not wear proudly, or at all. You hide them. You’d rip them from your skin if you could. Pull them out from tip to tail, scratch yourself raw.
You’ve already tried.
Your fingers find the faintest remnant of last night, a small dip in your skin the circumference of a tooth. Everything comes flooding back, the sting of your palm against the John’s cheek, the indulgent dig of the cuffs in your wrists.
They stole you.
Do you care?
You expect to feel more unsettled. More enraged, but it only trickles through like a summer’s spring, barely bubbling up through cracks in the earth. You feel betrayed by their thievery of you, but something else lurks beneath the surface, something soft and beautiful, threatening to drag you in with it.
It’s dangerous here, but not in the way you were expecting.
Maybe it is the separation from the wildest part of your being that has cooled your temperament, somewhat.
Only somewhat.
After all, you did hit John in a fit of rage, did you not?
A loud knock rattles the door. Cerberus whines.
“My lady.” A Naiad stands on the threshold of the room, your room, you suppose, her black clothes, nearly white hair both ethereally sleek, hands clasped in front of her waist.
“Um…”
“Your presence has been requested, if you are…” she pauses, delicately, jaw tilting with a shadow, eyes narrowing into slits. “Awake.” She sweeps over you, performing an inspection for something from head to toe, and you find yourself studying her ears, their needle pointed tips accentuated by such symmetrical bone structure, she nearly looks like a cat.
She regards you like one too. Aloof. Holier than thou.
Bitchy.
“I am.”
“Wonderful.” But it doesn’t feel wonderful, the word overflowing with acid. Who is this female?
“I’m sorry, who…”
“I am Minthe, my lady.” Why is everyone calling you that? All the time? You frown.
“Like the plant?” Cerberus shifts at your side, rising on their haunches just so, and she glares at them.
“Yes, my lady. Like the… plant, as you say.” Her teeth shine into a smile, forced and uncomfortable.
Something is wrong here.
“Will you be joining us, or shall I inform them you deign to continue resting?” Us?
“No, I’m well rested, thank you.” She inclines her head, graceful movement elongating her already supple neck. You study her, cataloging her razor-sharp fingernails, polished heels, chin length bob. She seems like an assistant of sorts, heavy black book tucked under arm.
“Very well. I will wait for you here.”
“My Kings. The lady Persephone.” Gross. Minthe announces you, stepping to the side to allow you entrance from behind, the removal of her in your path revealing a large office, two dark stained wood desks with two very handsome gods seated behind them. Bookshelves blanket the walls, and in the middle of the room, a magic made map of the cosmos glows, gold and blue light dancing across the black marble floor. There’s a giant leather armchair in the corner, wide enough for two, and a soft blanket folded over the back. It’s cozy, homey, a welcome surprise.
Your body aches. Desire simmers in the bottom of the stomach, skin prickling with a shiver.
How is it two beings you hardly know are so capable of making you so crazy?
“Darling.” John croons, rising from his chair. There’s a sharp intake of breath to your side, barely audible, stifled. “How did ye sleep?” He’s close now, close enough that you could reach out and touch him, if you were so bold.
A magnet draws you closer.
A collar. A leash.
Hades holding the end of it.
“Fine, thank you.”
“That will be all, thank you Minthe.” Simon dismisses her, still focused on you. She steps away in silence, and when the door clicks closed- John is on you.
He presses close, arm snug at the small of your back, forehead dipping down to rest gently against yours.
“Sweet Persephone.” He murmurs, thumb tracing the apple of your cheek. “Are ye well?”
“Yes.” You breathe. You welcome his touch, this affection, and it feeds a sapling, roots trying to take hold, trying to survive. To grow. To bloom.
His lips lay above your brow, long kiss freezing into a slow moment, and Simon watches with a satisfied smile, a loving glance exchanged between the two as John pulls away. “Have ye eaten?”
“No, she, Mint, brought me right here.” He holds a laugh at bay. “Who is she, anyway?”
“Minthe was once our consort, now she works as an assistant of sorts.” Simon says the slowly, and the room darkens, shadows building in the corners, flooding the cracks and crevices of the bookshelves.
Well, that explains just about everything, then.
“Your consort.”
“Aye. But ye dinnae have to worry, we’ve not been with her in quite some time. We’ve been waitin’ for-“
“Johnny.” Simon stands, moving into your space. It’s only his name, and still so much more is communicated within those two syllables.
Waiting for what?
“Would you like breakfast?” He’s smooth with the disruption, steering and redirecting the train of thought.
“We hoped ye would want to take breakfast in here, with us.” John explains softly, and you nod. A simple request.
“Sure.” You pause, considering. “Could I…” Would they still have them? Is it rude to ask? You’re not quite sure how it works. Is there a kitchen?
“You can have whatever you like, darling.” Simon encourages.
“Portokalopita?” Johnny chuckles, tugging you a little closer, mouth to your temple.
“Of course.”
The orange cakes arrive with a fragrant pot of coffee and some Greek yogurt, slivered almonds on the side. Your usual breakfast. You blink, suspicious for a half second before remembering-
“Why were you watching me?” Simon tenses. “I mean, it’s obvious, now, that meeting John outside of Hebe’s was not coincidental, was it?”
“It was not.” You tuck your feet up into the chair, shifting on your side with a steaming cup in your lap. “We have been… curious about you.” Your blood runs cold. The marks on your back begin to sting, a phantom pain you know does not exist, but still plagues you. Hurts you.
“Curious.” You croak. “Why?”
“We have heard stories. It is rare that we find ourselves so… fascinated by one who dwells in Olympus. John and I, we felt… a desire, to learn what we could.” John smiles, turning fully to face you, reaching for one of your hands.
You do not give it. You’re uneasy, like there’s a direness lurking in the darkness of the room, waiting to pounce. It’s an overwhelming inclination of trepidation, of misanthropy… much like the rivers spilling from this land.
“So, you spied on me.”
“We did.”
“And… you don’t see an issue with that?”
“I… understand how this may be unsettling to you.” Unsettling? More like a set up?
“I don’t…” You sip your coffee, trying to pick through a smattering of words. You must choose them carefully, you’ve come to realize, to get answers. “I don’t understand, why go to such great lengths? There are dozens of other goddesses, more beautiful, more composed, more worthy of your attention than… me.” You, Demeter’s daughter. Demeter’s failure. You, the goddess who rarely leaves her temple, the one who does not engage in socialite events or associate with the more powerful Golden ones in the city.
You, who talks to plants.
“I mean, look at Hebe, or Artemis, one of the Pleiades, they’re all-“
“No.” Simon cuts to the quick. “We do not care for other goddesses, sweet Persephone. We only care for you.” An undercurrent of power ripples, shuddering between the three of you. “Our affection, our care… is only true for you.”
“Me.” Because they do not know you. If they did, the affection would certainly wane. How long would it be, before Minthe was warming their bed once more?
“You, darling. It’s why we brought you here. To know you, as you are. Not as your mother intended, or how chatter portrays.” You look between them, slow eyes finding solemn faces, dogmatic in their assurance. “We had hope you might… enjoy our company, as we believed we would enjoy yours.” John shifts. It’s a fractured movement, barely perceived, but unsettled, and he cocks his head afterwards, gaze thick and focused on you.
“I told ye, we’d never hurt ye.”
“I know.” You whisper. You believe it now, to an extent. A pool of guilt tugs you into its current, an apology bubbling up over your tongue. “I’m sorry… about… striking you, last night. It was unbecoming of me.”
“I know ye are.” He soothes, and Simon interjects.
“The next time you feel an overwhelming urge like that, you tell us. We’ll take care of you.” His smile drips with a predatory gleam, and you’re suddenly inside a memory, the feeling of ichor sliding over your skin, spilling down around your fluttering rim, his finger pushing inside your body where you’ve never been touched by another. His mouth, covered in it. Golden lifeblood smeared across his lips, John’s cum spilling down your throat, molten earth, burning you anew.
What started it all? The idea that they locked your magic away? That they took you?
That they trapped you.
“I felt…” You tap over your heart, signifying the part of you that’s missing, and he nods in acknowledgement.
“I understand. It’s a difficult thing, we’ve asked of you, and you’ve done so well.” Your hands tremble, fighting the urge to preen like a raven beneath the praise.
It encourages you. Urges you to talk, spill secrets, let go of weights holding you at the bottom of the sea, where you cannot breathe.
“My- my mother. She used to do something similar. When she felt like I was out of control. When I became… too much. It’s a familiar feeling.” They exchange a long glance, and then John kneels, a hand on your knee, the other stroking deft circles into your thigh.
“Persephone. The scars,” Your eyes slam shut. “on yer back. They were made with a magical object. Did Demeter do that?” He demands, and you inch away, trying to create space, trying to escape this- this conversation, this vivisection.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” You whisper. “Please.” His eyes are so blue. Like the Aegean, a venetian, crystalline color that deepens when he frowns, his emotions worn so plainly for both you and Simon to see. He’s distressed, like he wants to scoop you up, carry you away. They’re both staring at you with… pity. “Do not pity me.” You snarl, hackles rising.
“It is not pity you see, darling.” Simon shakes his head. “We do not pity you, or your strength. The story of your temple is known far and wide, even to those down here. It is sadness that we feel. With you.” The lump in the back of your throat is thick, too thick, and it threatens to derail your composure.
You push past everything else. The assurance you could come to them, when you felt like you were going to explode, detonate across the world, when everything turns white and you need your pain, your pleasure.
You’re only here for a day longer.
The rest of your breakfast is put aside, and you stand between the two with an open palm.
“Well, then. What’s on the agenda for my last day?”
There are many places in the Underworld that hold you captive, but Hecate’s piece of it, a forest of dew dropped trees with gnarled trunks and lavender flowers, vibrant mosses shuddering beneath your feet, a hollow thrumming with the wildest of magics, leaves you breathless. The goddess is just as striking, tall and elegant, deep black hair that swings at her hips, emerald eyes and pointed nose perfectly set in her face. Her skin glows, a sepia drenched harvest moon, and when she reaches for your hand, you swear you hear the barking of a dog.
“My lady.” She gives you a graceful squeeze before she releases and bows her head. “You are more lovely than the rumors credit.”
“Oh.” Your face heats. “Thank you.”
“The rumors say ye’re as fair as Aphrodite.” John teases, and your eyes go wide.
“Surely not.” You brush it off, but the tingle across your skin remains, flattery nestling in your heart. “Your home… is beautiful.” You try to give it back, deflect it upon her, and she watches you with knowing eyes.
“Thank you. It was born from me, as I’ve heard your temple was from you?”
“Yes.” She motions to a winding path that disappears into the thick of the trees, and you oblige, soaking in the sparkle of the wood. The magic is dense here, heavy, like water, flowing through all things, the roots, the leaves, the crows adorning the branches, following you from perch to perch. You don’t notice, when John and Simon start talking, asking Hecate a question about… something, too transfixed on the multitude of colors flourishing at the tops of the canopy, leaves and petals fanning out like a muted rainbow.
Again, you’re struck with a confusing consideration.
How is it the Underworld is capable of such life?
Hecate’s piece of this realm is alive, lush and untamed, resonant magic oozing from every spiral and cell in the moss, in the bark, in the air. Amethyst leaves ranging in size from head to hand fall from the sky like the changing of seasons, and the entire hollow breathes with it, power pulsing in a light breeze all around you.
Even the crows are thriving, living things. Part magic, part bird.
You frown.
“Persephone?” Simon questions, gentle hand on your back. It’s warm, and firm, pulling you into the touch, butterflies in your belly slowly cracking their eyes opening, greeting the day with a flutter of wings.
“Sorry, it’s just… the crows, they’re… alive?” Hecate laughs.
“Yes, they live. They’re my own murder, traveling as I do, between the Underworld and Olympus.” She holds out a hand and an iridescent, onyx feathered companion lands gracefully in her palm, preening. “There are many corvids here, now. Magpies, jays, treepies. They’re supposed to stay confined to the hollow, but I suspect some of them have made friends in Asphodel Meadows.”
“Now? Were they not here before?”
“No birds lived in the Underworld, before Hecate’s residency.”
“Hades allowed me a home,” she smiles at them, gentle appreciation aglow on her face, and then turns back to you. “a gift in itself, and so, I give them one in return.”
“You are more than generous.” John says. He walks close, hand lax at his side, fingers occasionally grazing yours. The touch is hardly a moment, fleeting, but it burns you through, muscle, soul, and bone shivering in response.
“Hades is benevolent, though they’d never let Olympus know it.” She murmurs, raven black hair catching in the wind.
“I’m starting to see that.”
“This is the Lethe.” Simon gestures to the rushing river before you. It’s not a river of hopelessness, like the Acheron, but something else. Something different.
It’s a river of loss.
“What… what is it?”
“The Lethe is the river of oblivion. She takes memories from souls, freeing them from past torments, or pleasures.” John is gentle, grasping your elbow, keeping you close at his side. You don’t resist, sinking into the warmth of his body, letting his steady comfort guide you away from where you stood at the edge, entranced by the low rumble of the water, the melodic call echoing from the rocks below.
“Or it serves as a punishment.” Simon warns at your back. The chorus rises, song reverberating, and you tip forward, away from John, straining to hear who it calls, the repeated exhalation of your own name.
“Persephone.” He warns, heavy magic blanketing the ground, cypress and white poplar drifting on the breeze, thick with the weight of his magic. “If the Lethe were to take you, there would be no returning to Olympus, or your memories. She is a power even we do not control.” She.
“She? What do you mean?”
“She was, is, a goddess in her own right.” Your eyes widen, the river hissing and crooning to you, desperate vibrato just on the cusp of her song, a sound sharper than a banshee’s wail. “Of all the rivers in the Underworld, she is the one to be feared. We can free a soul from the Acheron, or the Pyriphlegethon, we can forbid a crossing of the Styx, but we cannot return memories taken by the Lethe.” Simon draws you away, arm around your waist. “Come.”
John drags you back to the meadow.
He cradles you in his arms, opposite Simon, who sits silently, eyes half lidded, reclined on his elbows.
“Do ye like it here?”
“It’s beautiful.” You trace the fragile petals, white velvet smooth and soft, canary yellow pistils shimmering in the afternoon sun. “I love narcissus.” Simon’s mouth quirks to the side, turbulent sea settling after a storm when you look his way, and John tucks your back into his chest, heavy arm across your shoulders.
“The Underworld agrees with you. It is not every day the Narcissus sing for a soul.” His mouth is on your cheek. You press, pushing skin between teeth, and he obliges with a nibble, not enough to sting, but with enough pressure you feel the edge of his incisors, vicious points of his canines.
“It’s… not what I expected.” This is easy to concede. Easy to close your eyes and slip away in the web of them, their hold, their touch. Easy to pretend they didn’t steal you outright, they haven’t locked your magic away, they haven’t taken you from your only home.
“Would ye come back? To visit with us?” Your eyes are still closed, and you hold them there, fingers sliding through the lithe growth of grass, stroking across stems and petals, feeling for the pulse of their power, the magical force of nature existing the same in a tiny blade of greenery, as it does in every fiber of your goddess hood.
“Yes, I think I would.”
They lay you down in a crux of a hill, legs spread upon a bed of Narcissus, fragile blooms crushed beneath sacred weight, a cacophony of power joining together.
Your mouths meet, again and again, limbs and tongues and teeth joining together in a rapturous haze, a firestorm brewing inside you, a swell of power so strong you can feel it tearing at your skin, glorious and brazen, clawing at the cage. It is wild in your heart, in your mind, and only burning brighter as Simon tugs you close, a hand over your heart, his mouth on your breast, teeth grazing your nipple atop muslin, an insatiable god devouring at a mystical altar.
When he bites down, your legs fall wide, and John kneels in prayer.
There are many names for it, you know, but in this moment, it’s as if time is old, a god’s back bowed for you, his mouth on your cunt, sacrosanct promises running free like the rivers of this land, like the spring bubbling up from the depths of your temple, pulled from the land like John pulls pleasure from you.
Ichor runs. It paints you in gold, drips from Simon’s mouth and between your legs, mixing with the slick and spit swirled by Johnny’s tongue, the cusp of a cliff’s edge growing closer and closer-
But not close enough.
A gilded hand fits your throat, a collar made of divinity, and he squeezes, enough to make your vision spot, fingers digging into the dirt and roots and stems of flowers long crushed. John does not relent, only pushes you farther and farther against the edge, sanctifying the bond stitching between the three of you each breath you draw, the spool of Fate spinning long woven threads stretching to the end and beginning of time, knitting you into the patchwork of their lives, their eternal existence.
Their goddess.
Your Hades.
“Come, Persephone. Come for us.” Light explodes, forcing your eyes shut, and you tremble between them, crying out their names in near hysteria, celestial light bleeding from your skin like a star in the sky.
John gasps.
Simon tips his chin to the sky, and laughs.
Their room is quiet. Dark in the daylight, an empty burrow dug by a fox, pitch black emptiness as far as one can see.
“I’ve never…”
“We know.”
They hold you like treasure, like glass. Gentle words and touch, John cradles you in the cove of his body, magic zinging across your skin, sparks flying in the room.
Simon kisses the inside of your knee, arranging you carefully between John’s spread legs. He’s hard at your back, heavy cock throbbing hot on your skin, but he only grabs your hand to hold it when you reach for him, tucking you gently back into his cradle with his lips on your neck.
Is this what it feels like? Love?
“What do you want darling?”
“You. Both of you.” Simon, aglow in the flickering fire light, smiles at you and John, pride and glory, divinity still fresh between his teeth.
“Let us care you for tonight.”
You nod, and clothes vanish. John’s cock weeps in the cleft of your ass, his body trembling with effort to hold himself still, and you turn your face to his, letting him work his tongue into your mouth as Simon stretches you a finger, tiny explosions of pleasure imploding with each stroke.
Hands, teeth, tongue- a tangled mess of divinity.
Powerful gods, together mightier than Zeus, worshipping between your legs, glory abound in the sound of your moans. Simon gives you more, languid touch turning fevered, adding another finger to your soaked entrance, and you gasp, spine quivering in pleasure.
The gods kiss. Simon cups John’s cheek, holding him steady, exploring, deep and true. You can only watch, mouth ajar, taking in every lavish touch exchanged, Simon’s bicep flexing as he pumps John’s cock, a crease in his eyebrows when there’s a huff and moan.
“Darling.” Simon murmurs, thumb and forefinger holding your chin. John presses his lips to your neck again, nipping and sucking your skin, fingers ghosting over your belly and breasts. It makes you squirm, insatiable hunger rising in your throat, in your soul, and you yearn for them, for this, for it to culminate and flower.
Bloom.
“Please.”
“Ye dinnae need to ask.” John hums, delicately lifting one of your knees, exposing you like a spring blossom. “Look at ye, already desperate for him.” He strums through the wet mess between your legs, fingertips lifting to his mouth, lashes fluttering as he licks.
You want to correct him. Want to tell him it’s not only for Simon, but for him too. That everything is for both, a balance of scales, pain and pleasure and passion all revolving around the two of them, with you in orbit.
But your words fail, and John looks at you with eyes full of stars, endless night dotted in endless nova, like you’re the one being orbited, being loved, being worshipped on consecrated ground.
“You give us a great gift, little goddess.” Simon’s palm rests on your thigh, thick, swollen cock leaking against your skin. He’s big, bigger than you’re sure will be comfortable, a little bit of fear starting to pique as you shift, and he leans, an elbow near your shoulder, face above yours, level with John’s. Everything slows, Olympus stopped in its tracks, the Underworld holding its breath, and the three of you breathe, magic tugging and tearing at your souls, dragging you closer to the cusp of something unknown.
You can feel it.
“We’ll go slow.” He strokes your cheek. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much, yes?”
“Yes.” There’s a softness in him, intimidating edges all worn gentle, and his eyes are heavy, focused as he pushes into your body, fire and flood making your fingers dig into John’s thigh.
It burns.
It hurts.
It’s good.
The agony is decadence, sharp tinged pain morphing into fiery pleasure, burning in your soul and your veins. You moan, and John presses his thumb to your tongue, holding your jaw firm as Simon begins to move, carefully working you open with gentle strokes, gritted restraint clear in his jaw.
“F-fuck.” You hiss around the digit in your mouth, and they both watch, observing, waiting for a safe word or a warning sign.
Nothing comes.
Only pain.
Only pleasure.
“More.” You croak, and Simon noses your cheek, lips drawing a line up Johnny’s forearm as he strokes, hips swinging to meet yours, body trying to fold in half when he seats himself so deep you swear you can feel him in your belly. “Oh gods.” Your eyes roll back in your head.
You’re on fire. Burning in the pits of Tartarus, crammed between the gods of death, exalted through mounting pleasure and pain, twisted together in veneration.
Simon shoves deeper, up through your cunt to your throat, through your magic and out your mouth, insanity leaking from your lips like you drip around his cock. It’s obscene, the way he batters into his body, the lap of John’s tongue in your mouth, his finger against your clit, how you light up beneath them like a supernova.
“There it is.” Simon’s eyes glow, observing and inspecting, watching the way you take his cock, celestial light spilling from your pores. You cling to them, shiny like a pearl, iridescent and wild, groaning with each thrust.
They split you open, crack your very soul wide, broken cypress beneath an axe.
It’s an unrelenting pace, an lewd show of slick and tears and sweat- ichor that runs down your throat when John pinches your clit, inside of your cheek crunching between your molars like a meal.
“Ahh, please- please.” You’re rambling. Begging.
More. More. More.
“Sweet little thing.” Simon spits, cadence transforming into something slow, the subtle rock of a boat on the sea, nudged up against your cervix. “Perfect little pussy, made for your gods.” Plural. Like they’re both housed in one, experiencing together, breathing and fucking and biting, as one.
John pushes his nose under your jaw, iron grip lashed across your waist, holding you steady, keeping you in place over the reverberation in your chest of screams and moans, noises unlike a goddess and more like an animal, a tiger, a bird-
Simon slams into you. The pain is shocking, and you scramble, reaching for purchase, clinging to him, to John, explosion of stars illuminating your vision.
When he rains a hand down across your flank, your eyes roll back, slipping beneath the swell of pleasure and pain, a war raging between the two.
“Good girl-“ Simon grits, and you pulse around him, greedily, squeezing with another strike against your flesh, fingers dug into your hip. There’s a glimmer of darkness in the room, ebbing cruelty lingering in the corners, watching in wait, bidings its time, knowing it needs the right moment, the perfect crescendo in order to strike.
“Look a’ him.” John marvels. “Makin’ a mess of ye.” You blink up at them both, lashes webbed with tears. They’re beautiful, etched from marble, perfectly cast in the image of ultimate power, dark and decadent, decay and hope, sculpted together.
They will break you.
“Please-“ the plea breaks off in a gasp.
“We know, darling. We know.” John soothes, syrupy and smooth, a hand running over your ass with another whip of his fingers. He probes at your rim, lightly testing before pushing in, stretching, exploring, and you keen, curling around them, muscles burning red like hot coals. It sears. It nearly pushes you over the edge.
You want to fall with them, into them. You want them to take everything, to give you pain and pleasure until you’re not sure who or where you are, remake you in the image of these emotions, this wildness flowing between the three of you.
John pushes a second finger in beside his first, and you see stars. Three become one, bursting into light and bathing the room, touching over the bed and walls and gods, casting opalescence across their faces.
“Fuck!” you gasp, and Simon’s lips curve on your skin, voice low and rough when he speaks.
“Ours.” He vows, chokes, guttural. “Our goddess." He fucks you deep, relentlessly, firm hand gripping you flesh. "You can take it, show us your light.” He’s lost himself in you, and you in them, crying out as they throw you over the precipice. “Come, darling.” It takes no urging. You’re already there, praise and agony and explosions of nerves imploding, throwing you into an orgasm that has your legs locking in place around Simon, your fingers tangling in John’s hair.
You become light. Divine incarnate. Celestial dawn, touching the peaks of existence for the first time. It flows and flows from you, overpowers your senses, drowns you in a sea of exhalation.
Simon shouts something. His mouth finds yours, but you’re lost in the waves of your own pleasure, still holding tight to both, anchoring yourself through the erratic thrusts of Simon’s body, his hips jerking as he fills you with his own gift, a touch of divinity lodged where he ends and you begin, his hand wrapped around John’s cock and stroking until he’s spilling. Simon’s tongue on yours, on John’s, open mouths and wet faces bent together to make one, hallowed, consecrated temple, the planes of your bodies twisted together in the depths of the Underworld.
Your light shines and shines until you think your heart may give out.
Maybe it does. Maybe it bursts into stardust. Maybe it becomes theirs.
“Will ye have dinner with us? A last meal?” John presses a kiss to your shoulder, decadent and sweet. You’d forgotten about your need to leave, forgotten about Olympus, and the reality is somber. Still in their arms, and you already long for them, mourn them, dread the lugubrious return to your own realm, where your life awaits.
“The door.” You murmur, fingertips tracing over Simon’s chest, the hallowed ground where your head lays, where you listen to the steady thump of his heart. “Will you show me?”
“After dinner. Please.” John murmurs it into your skin, and though it’s a shattered promise waiting in the wings, there is nothing in you deciding to protest or say no, not when he tugs you free, rolling you onto your back so Simon can tuck you into his arms. “After dinner, we’ll show you.”
He spreads your legs, stroking a finger through the seam of your cunt, watching lazily with heavy lids as you whimper.
An offering he will give.
An offering you will receive.
“After dinner, then.”
You wake to an empty bed, much like this morning.
“John? Simon?” The sheets are soft against your skin, but there’s bitterness in the air, magic like death lingering in the room.
It feels like rot.
The door is ajar, barely. It allows light to spill in across black marble, the faint, sharpened pitch of an argument echoing down the hall.
You sit up.
What’s happening?
There’s a wine-red robe draped over the edge of the bed, and you don it, quickly, quietly slipping down the onyx halls, straining to listen.
“The Fates decided, and they chose benevolently. We are honored by such a gift.” The Fates decided what? There’s a strangled, indignant laugh. A female’s.
Power snaps, rough and wild.
“You cannot possibly mean to make this… this goddess of spring your Queen.” What? Acid brews in the pit of your stomach, swirling together and forcing you forward, desperation on the balls of your feet. Is that Minthe? Is she talking about you?
“Persephone is to be our wife; ye will speak of her with respect or not at all.” John snaps. You’re what?!
“We have waited, and would wait centuries more, to receive her. Her presence brings an eternal season, to us, to all who would love her, here in the Underworld.”
“But you do not truly care for her.” You tremble. A sea devours you, pulls you beyond the black water, down into the trenches, far deeper than anyone ever knew existed. There, it tosses you side to side, virulent rage and sorrow rising beneath your feet, pushing you back up to where you break the surface.
And break free.
The agony in your heart shatters the strongest magic, draws your own power back into yourself, twists it together to become something more, something wicked, something villainous.
Ungovernable Persephone.
“It is more than care. It is devotion, an all-consuming passion. One you would not understand.”
“But she’s a freak! A shut in li-“ Minthe’s words do not continue. They flail in her throat, the same way her soul does as you appear around the corner and twist it, making it malleable, ripping and tearing until it grows anew, sprouting with vigor into a new form.
The ground shakes. John shouts something at you, but you’re far past reason, far past explanation, and now there is only Demeter’s vengeful daughter, a wicked soul.
Rotten to the core.
Your magic swells. The palace trembles, and you feel the flow of life, Hecate’s grotto, the souls, Asphodel meadows. Every bloom and blossom cry out with you, and you scream your rage into a terrible power, one with thorns and vitriol. They surge together, and you draw from them like drinking from a river, pulling and pulling until you can no longer see, or hear, lost in the wind, the bliss of your wicked soul, your weaponized magic.
“Persephone.” A gentle voice calls, Hands cradle your face, a thumb smoothing your brow. “She cannot hurt you, Persephone. Stop this. Now.” A demand, sweeter than primrose and lily, drips like nectar against the will of your rage. “It’s alright. There is nothing to fear.” He murmurs, empyreal restraints tightening at your wrists, harnessing your power, redirecting it into the ether, commanding it still and steady.
When your vision clears, it’s horror you face.
Horror of your own doing.
You stumble away, clutching the robe to your chest, mouth agape.
On the floor between you and the Kings of the Underworld, is a small mint plant. It sprouts from a tiny clump of dirt, timid and frail.
It harbors a soul.
It harbors your wrath.
You are a monster.
“No, darling-“ John tries to reach for you, but Simon stops him, an arm out, catching him at the waist. There is sadness on one face, aloof calm on another.
Are these really the gods you gave yourself to? The ones you believed would care for you?
You are a fool.
You turn for the door and run.
You’re sprinting towards a river.
In the dark, you can’t be sure which it is. You’re not sure of anything, in these moments, these shattered clips that fracture your heart, the confusion that ricochets inside your brain, a silver pinball bouncing off walls with lights and noises exploding in the silence. Everything competes with the rush of a river, roaring swell crashing against rock, humming alive in the dead of night.
Their wife.
They brought you here to be their wife.
You laugh out loud to the cool, crisp air.
A fool.
Fate’s tool.
They weren’t interested in you. You aren’t special. You’re only a sanctimonious fortune from the The Moirai. Something promised. Something they feel you deserve.
Something you have no choice in, again.
But would you choose it?
Simon’s words ring in your ears.
“Persephone is to be our wife; you will speak of her with respect or not at all.”
“We have waited, and would wait centuries more,”
“It is more than care. It is devotion, an all-consuming passion. One you would not understand.”
The Fates.
The Fates decided.
The Fates decided to honor them… with a gift.
A gift.
You laugh again. It catches, hysterically, building and building into an explosion, a wild streak of pain taking root in your heart, and beneath your feet, Narcissus blooms. Even at a full sprint, the rage in your voice is palpable, and it breaks, cracking your chest wide with a sob.
They were never going to let you go.
They do not care for you. They only care for what has been bestowed to them. Their gift.
Not you. Not Persephone.
“Persephone!” A shout in the distance echoes over the valley, and only urges you faster, feet flying through a meadow. No flowers grace your shins, only grey grass, silvered in the moonlight.
Another voice calls to you.
The promise of oblivion. Of freedom. Memories laid to waste in her path, scars and agony and heartbreak all put to rest, buried beneath a mountain built of abeyance, weightless in the face of true nirvana.
Freedom.
Freedom from this truth, this betrayal. Freedom from your own stupidity, your foolishness washed away, soul wiped clean. Freedom, from the crack of your mother’s Whip, a magical object sculpted from the breadth of her power, built to hurt only you, for eternity.
You stand at the water’s edge. She’s too strong, and you cannot pull away, feet glued to the riverbank, fixed upon the rage of her waters, the power behind the swell.
Would it be so terrible?
You see Hebe. Melia. Nell. Their light, their laughter. The way their smiles sculpt their faces, how their power tastes when it infects the air. Your friends, forgotten.
But still she calls. She lashes her power to your own, strips of bark laid against your soul, binding you to her, tugging you closer and closer to the water.
You dig in your heels. The cacophony thunders, drowning everything else out, the scream of your name, the haunting in your heart.
You fight.
You fall.
Simon has never felt such terror.
Ichor turns cold in his chest, fear and panic rising into a tidal wave, an epic monster of emotion, filling his lungs with leaded salt water, choking out his last breath.
“Simon!” John shouts. He pushes his power into the river, cutting the current effectively in half, slowing its pace to a trickle. It will be enough, to find you.
It won’t be enough to save you.
Simon stands motionless. He cannot see anything, except the memory of your fall. Slipping into the river, disappearing beneath the water that will take your mind, your memories. The intricate pieces that make you, you.
He does not deny he had considered it. Allowed it to darken his mind, disrupt his intentions. He discussed it at length even. Argued with Johnny about bathing you in the water, bringing it in through a spring, disguising it as something it was not. Something safe.
“If she bathes in the Lethe, we will be all she has ever known, Johnny. She will no longer hold the pain, the torment from her mother’s hand, she will not carry the grief, the guilt of leaving Olympus behind. She will be ours. Wholly.”
“Ye’re talking about erasing who she is. The things that make her ours. Without them… what is she? An empty soul. A husk. Ye know what they’re like after they bathe in the Lethe. Ye cannae possibly want that for our wife.”
Johnny was right, of course. A million little pieces made up the goddess that you were, and Simon was a selfish being. He wanted every single one.
But now…
Johnny finds you in the bend of the river, limp and unmoving.
You’re almost gone. Simon knows it, can see it, can taste it. He can hear the realm, weeping for you. Your meadow, covered in Narcissus, each flower’s face wet with tears for you.
“Open yer eyes, Persephone.” John shakes you roughly, grip tight with panic, and then cradles your head to his chest like a babe, rocking back and forth. “Come on, little goddess. I’m here, we’re right here. We’ve got ye.” You’re silent. Near death, eyes and skin a thin membrane, everything washed away in the Lethe.
You’re gone. They’ve lost you.
Your heart slows. Your breathing stutters.
He’s been here before. He knows this feeling all too well. The frightening emptiness that even he, Hades, cannot combat.
“Simon.” John snaps. His hand hovers over your diaphragm, more magic, more power releasing into your body, filling you with all that he can give, all that you will take.
They’ve lost you. Before they even had a chance.
Too proud. Too arrogant. A monster on a throne.
He caused this.
“She is not gone, Simon. Help me.” John hisses, tenacious and hopeful. Strong. Simon’s compass in the dark. The brightest star in his sky. Forever buoyant.
Unstoppable John MacTavish.
Ungovernable Persephone.
And… him.
Your skin is cold, ice, and you’re so delicate in John’s arms, so broken, that Simon considers falling into the Lethe himself, just for a moment. “We need to get her inside.” John rocks you, cooing above your ear, trying to soothe the radiating distress, the rattle of your chest. “Sh-sh-shhh. Ye’re safe. We’ve got ye.”
Simon tugs all his power around you and Johnny like a jacket, a blanket tucked snug on your shoulders. It warms you, easing the shivering and jerking, and he holds it there, unleashing the untouched depths of his power, of Johnny’s, of this realm, forcing it into your soul the only way he knows how.
An idea blossoms in his heart. One born of midnight flower, bat orchid and hellebore, black dahlia and elderberry. Framed by the flowering vines that cover the outside of your chambers.
It’s an idea blooming from the very essence of your magic, your goddess-hood.
It’s reactionary. It’s wicked.
Rebirth.
Split your soul, and theirs, again. Merge their power, and yours.
Wed you.
“Johnny.” He whispers. He steps closer, hovering, a hand strong on the back of his neck, the other cupping your cheek.
“We shouldnae.” He shakes his head. “I cannae do it.”
“We must.”
“She will ne’er forgive us.” He cradles you tighter, almost defensively. You moan, the sound wretched and pained, and Johnny pales.
“The Lethe has taken her from us. She is fading, I know you can feel it.” Johnny slams his eyes shut, brow quivering. “Look at me.”
“Si.”
“This is our only option.” For every protest, he has an answer. For every reason why not, he provides an alternative. It snakes forward, through John’s rebuttal, through the time it takes for Simon to pull both him and you into his arms, on the banks of the Lethe in one moment, in the din of their bedroom another.
“She might remember, one day.” John lays you on their bed, the rasp of your lungs only increasing with each moment. “Her magic is strong.”
“Then we will beg for forgiveness and hope her vengeful spirit gentles.”
#peaches writes#AIV#ghoap x reader#ghost x soap x reader#ghost x reader x soap#simon riley#john mactavish#john soap mactavish#john mactavish x reader#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader#soap x reader#simon ghost riley
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I keep going to the river to pray
Written for the March pop-up challenge of the @steddieholidaydrabbles
Prompt: spring
Rated: M
Tags: Italian Steve Harrington; naiad Eddie Munson; past lives
CW: child molestation (not from MC); nudity; fade to black sex
Notes: Moooom, hype is turning the blorbos into water creatures again!
Steve is five years old and the water whispers to him.
“Steven, come back inside,” Mom scolds and yanks sharply on his hand. “Nonna told you the woods are off limits. The water is too dangerous. Heavens, I can't leave you alone for two seconds, can I?”
Steve wants to cry. To thrash and kick and scream at the injustice of it all.
Because she is leaving him alone. All alone in this strange country where there's nothing fun to do and where nobody speaks his language, for an entire summer. How's he even supposed to listen to Nonna when he doesn’t understand her half the time?
The only place where he finds comfort is the spring. The little pond with its crystal waters surrounded by crumpled pillars. He doesn’t know why, just knows there's something here that calls to him.
Mom doesn't understand, and Steve is too small to fight as she drags him away. Something splashes behind them, like a large stone sinking underwater, but by the time he turns, all he can see is ripples on the surface.
He doesn’t know why he says it, because there's nobody here. Nobody he can see. It feels like the right thing to do, though.
“Don't worry,” he whispers to the water. “I'll be back, promise.”
The water whispers back.
*
Steve is thirteen and a man follows him into the woods. He's been lurking in corners and doorways in the village all day, smiling, staring, speaking saccharine words in broken English.
Pretty boy, sweet boy, come here.
By the time Steve notices he's trailing behind him on the lonely road in the fading daylight, it's too late to cry for help. He ducks into the shelter of the trees without thinking, not looking back when he hears the man give chase. Darkness is falling around him, but he doesn’t need to see.
All he needs to do is follow the pull.
The spring reflects the moon and stars, silver waves bouncing off the trees and pillars.
“Help me,” Steve whispers, just as a hand grabs his wrist and spins him around.
The man's face is a mask of primal hunger. His eyes glint, dark and unblinking-
-and then they catch on something behind Steve's back and bulge. All the color drains from his face. He stumbles back, releasing Steve’s wrist, muttering a word in Italian that he doesn’t understand. Then, he turns and runs.
Steve stares after him, heartbeat roaring in his ears. By the time he remembers to look behind him, there's nobody there. The spring lies silent in the starlight, but the water isn't smooth anymore. A circle of ripples is spreading, not far from where he's standing, waves lapping against the shore. Steve imagines he sees something slipping out of sight in the water, like dark tendrils of seaweed. Then he blinks and it's gone.
Steve smiles.
“Thank you,” he murmurs softly.
*
The water murmurs back.
Steve is eighteen and everything is bullshit. He perches on a fallen pillar, toes dangling in the water, watching the sunset behind the trees, and feels sorry for himself.
He can't protect his heart from being broken, can't get into college, can't even get his parents to love him. They probably believe they're punishing him by sending him back here, he thinks with a laugh. Idiots. They know nothing about him, nothing about the pull he feels towards this place. He's been feeling it more and more lately, even with an entire ocean between them.
“Have you finally come to stay, sweetling?”
Steve doesn’t startle. Simply blinks back from his thoughts and lowers his gaze, like it's always been the two of them out here. Maybe that’s true.
“You're not scared,” the boy from the spring observes. His head is poking out of the water between Steve’s legs, long dark hair brushing his ankles. He's naked under the water, skin pale and smooth as marble. “Do you not fear me?”
“Why would I? You've never given me reason to.”
The language that slips from his lips is strange. Not English. Something closer to the butchered Italian he's picked up over the years. He frowns, briefly, but the boy's lips - pink and full and glistening with tiny droplets - curl into a smile and he forgets to wonder about it.
“Clever child.” Long fingers curl around Steve's calves, sliding up his legs. “I'd never harm what's mine.”
The fingers slip under the hem of Steve's shorts, gracing his inner thigh, and he gasps.
“Yours?”
The boy hums, pulling himself from the water a little, so that his shoulders emerge. His hair is a dark, tangled halo around his pretty face. It tickles Steve’s skin as the boy noses along the inside of his knee.
“Yes, mine. You feel it, do you not? The pull.”
Steve nods breathlessly and the boy smiles against the soft flesh of his thigh.
“Of course you do, sweetling. It has been forever since I met someone as responsive, but you? You remember, don't you?”
Steve pauses. Is that what pulls him here? Memories of a time he shouldn’t recall? Of a place far more splendid than the crumbling ruins around them, a place filled with song and laughter and the strange but familiar language that keeps tumbling from his mouth?
The boy - the god - watches the shift in his face and smiles. Nimble hands settle on his hips, pulling him closer, and Steve slings his arms around slender shoulders as the pillar slips out from under him.
His god's eyes are bright as he walks them to the middle of the pond.
“It has been so long, sweetling, and I hunger for worship. Will you give yourself to me again?”
“I do not need to,” Steve smiles as he is slowly lowered into the cool waters. “You've always had me.”
His god smiles and pulls him in, and Steve sighs against those beautiful lips.
The water welcomes him home.
In Roman mythology, naiads (better known under the name of their Greek counterparts, nymphs) are nature spirits most commonly associated with water, guarding rivers, springs and the like. Some were worshipped as local deities, with shrines built in their honor.
#steddie#steve x eddie#steve harrington x eddie munson#steddie brainrot#steddie fanfic#fanfiction writer#fanfiction#fanfic#my writing#steddie holiday drabbles#hype's holiday drabbles 2024
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If I had a nickel for every time I debuted in a new fandom with a role swap AU, I'd have 2 nickels.
Here's the golden trio of ladies from me & @protagaster's Warrior!Penelope AU. Though I took a lot of inspiration from @gigizetz, @sloanslone & @vioofc, I tried to put my own spin on them.
Close-up doodles of them post-war/Odyssey.
EXTRA NOTES:
Penelope
her armour is more elaborate to reflect her status & the boar represents Ares' favour.
jack-of-all-stats, she can rotate between a bow, sword & spear.
pointy ears because she's a Naiad's daughter!
Ctimene
short queen, she's a potted plant next to her forest tree besties.
offensive type, hence the bigger pauldrons.
she can crush a watermelon between her thighs the fastest, make of that as you will.
Circe
changed OG!Polites' headband to a hair ribbon she knots to somewhat resemble flowers.
her outfit has elements from Penelope & Ctimene, reflecting her role as the mediator & foreshadowing the effects of her death.
master with a dagger & prefers a spear over a sword, the type to keep her distance and rely on speed.
#epic the musical#warrior!penelope#role swap au#penelope#ctimene#circe#this is my first time drawing armor pls go easy on me asjkhakdhk#i salute every artist out here who draws armor#but yeah this was fun!
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could you do a luke fic where an apollo kid reader teaches him how to play guitar?(and maybe sing together) also i love your works🫶
Taught Strums
Pairing - Luke Castellan x Apollo!reader
W/c - 1.5
Master list
A/n: you are so sweet ml <33
✧���༻∞ ✧༺༻∞ ✧༺༻∞
Attempting to engage a handful of demigod children proved to be tedious. It was more tempestuous than a quest ever could ever be. You were exceedingly grateful for your students' inherent abilities to produce music, but it sounded as pleasant as a group of seven could on untuned guitars.
This was the most demanding part of your mornings, seeking out gratitude amongst the ringing noises. You woke with the desire to teach and would leave feeling mildly accomplished, but mostly drained. You loved your siblings, but they had demonstrated to be rather difficult.
You moved your brother’s grip to grasp a chord and allowed a gentle note to caress your ears.
“When can I learn a song?” He asked, strumming gently against his instrument.
“You keep this up and maybe by the weekend.” You replied with a soft smile.
“Really!?” The small blonde you assisted, beaming at his success.
You wouldn’t admit to favourites amongst your siblings, but the Solace boy raised your spirits.
Your sister called for your assistance and you were once again whisked away to help, oblivious to the eyes that remained on your applicable frame.
Your boyfriend was at the dining pavilion playing a distracted game of cards, his gaze gently on you. He watched you lean forward, the beads around your neck slipping over your shirt, his sight set on an additional emblem that graced the thread around your neck and his. Few campers had nostalgic pieces adorned to their threads, Annabeth had her fathers college ring, a few of the demeter kids had resin pressed flowers, but you and Luke shared a small stone carving a Lyre. It represented your gift, your love and the ever dreamt of Elysium. The charm is a constant affirmation of who you belonged to and who he would seek out in the depths of Tartarus.
“Luke,” Chris gestured, having to repeat his name to gather his attention, “your play man.” He mindlessly set out a card and let his gaze return back to your attentive grasp, soaking in your warmth. He couldn’t help but dismiss the meaningless game when you were near, he was like a moth to a flame, your fire slowly making his other priorities melt.
“Dude just go.” Connor took the pile of cards back and began to shuffle them, a few of them floating on the ground.
Luke didn’t have to be told twice and let the invisible guide between you tug him to your presence, to your sweet smile and gentle hands. His inherent nature was dependent on you, he was forever reaching out.
“Hi Luke,” a few of your siblings chorused, your head turning at his arrival.
“Bad time?” He asked.
“Just a minute,” you replied, turning to your sister. While you assisted the girl your siblings instantly flocked to Luke, asking questions about swords and fighting, the real world and about anything that came to their small minds.
As to your promise you salvaged him from your pestering - loving - siblings, explaining that practice was to be finished later, leaving them with a guitar’s neck in your grasp.
“Where to, ‘Lucy Gray’?” he asked, his calloused hands finding yours.
“You’ll see.”
The sun followed wherever your feet trailed, an ever glowing halo making your skin warm to the touch, Luke forever in the palm of your hand. You led him towards the lake, just to where the stones met the lush grass and blanketed at the base of an Oak tree, a seat woven from the flora and roots.
The plants saved you from your troubles and moulded around you, sculpting against your body and Luke’s alike, your guitar resting in your lap. Your eyes flickered to the splash of Naiads who retreaded under the rush of waves, the women’s tails snapping against the tension of the water, and letting it ripple against the tide. You turned your gaze to Luke, who’s never left yours. Your boyfriend had a tendency to stare, his mind would buzz and his head would tilt a little, but you couldn’t sustain contact for as long as he could, so you turned to your instrument.
The notes your fingers strum were pure and resonant and echoed through the stillness. Your fingers pulled across the strings with ease while you let a soft hum leave your lips, a whisper to the passing breeze.
You had a gift, distinguishable from your siblings. Children of Apollo had a tendency to lean towards the liberal arts, but you could manipulate sound like none of your siblings. The gift came after a rather uneventful evening in Olympus, Apollo was feeling bored and after your generous offerings he decided to grant you with the ability to hypnotise through your music. Your art tempted people, it made them forget their own names, it was a temporary trip from their troubles and had them craving your sound, fumbling under your voice.
Luke was not immune to your gifts and he adored them greatly. With you beside him he could appreciate his surroundings, the music pushing his stresses into the background.
“Can you sing?” He asked, his tone gentle. This was his request any time an instrument was in reach.
You smiled at his question, he still made you feel needed after years of people’s pleading. Your fingers smoothly eased between chords and began to play a song which plagued your mind, the lullaby which kept you at ease and proved your love is yours, all yours.
Moon a hole of light
Through the big top tent up high
Shinin’ down on me
The words rolled off your tongue with ease and were sent directly to Luke, slipping through his entire body. You fingers continued to toy with the strings and he continued to lean towards your presence, becoming completely in awe with you once again.
My baby, here on earth
Showed me what my heart was worth
So, when it comes to be my turn
He felt as if the words were crafted for him, each strum and pluck had him in mind, that the choreography of your fingers embraced him. It felt that way at least.
'Cause my love is mine, all mine
I love mine, mine, mine
Nothing in the world belongs to me
You lingered on the last note and then changed your grip and speed, confusing the brunette. Your hands trailed up the instrument then stopped looking over to him, setting the guitar beside you and nearing closer to him, resting your legs over his and pulling the instrument into your grip once more. You pushed the head in his direction which he graciously took then plucked at one of the strings, a painful sound from his flicking.
“Here.” You took his hand and settled it above the strings, his arm resting against the pure wood waiting for instruction. Your fingers climbed over his and delicately plucked at the string closest to him, pulling at it in a repeated manner. Once he grasped it you leant over to his other hand to linger between a few frets, the pattern continuous and difficult for his feeble fingers.
“Mhm, just like that,” you praised, your words lightening his view. He continued to pluck the strings and move his other hand, occasionally forgetting his next move which he picked up easily.
Once he became comfortable with the pattern he noticed your hands underneath his, playing a more complex tune. The two sounds - out of time - familiar to him.
You had shifted so you were practically in his lap and spoke “Ready?” To which he nodded, he would always be ready for you. You started, him following sourly after you, you slowed a little gaining motion with him.
“What is it?” He asked, his fingers messing up, his lips letting out a soft hum.
In your response you sung the chorus in time lowly.
I heard he lives down a river somewhere
With six cars and a grizzly bear
He's got eyes, but he can't see
Well he talks like an angel, but he looks like me
He smiled sweetly, still out of pace, but his dimples showed for your accomplished work. His soft curls fell over his gaze, obstructing him slightly, but he didn’t mind, he enjoyed the simple pleasures as your hands brushed against one another, his lips buzzing a soft sound.
I heard you sold the Amazon
To show the country that you're from
Is where the world should want to be
You both choked out verses and let your voice guide his. He was not a child of Apollo - his voice cracks were questionable - but it was sweet being amongst one another with no other priorities.
When Luke’s fingers became numb he relaxed into your side, his curls tickling your neck and soft breath hitting your skin. You continued to toy at the strings and drifted between a piece you’ve been working on and trying to memorise.
You were a ballad and he was dyslexic, your relationship was a constant blur.
✧༺༻∞ ✧༺༻∞ ✧༺༻∞
Tag-list
@prettyinsatiable @daisydark @creamsweets @auttumnsayshi @ashr0 @y0urm0m12 @2hiigh2cry @niktwazny303
#luke castellan#luke castellan fluff#luke castellan imagines#luke castellan x reader#pjo x you#pjo x reader#percy jackon and the olympians#riawrites
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Cod Men with a Monster!Reader (PT. 2)
Requested: No
Warnings: ✨Spice✨, Somnophilia, Human Consumption, some traditionally Female monsters but I wrote them GN
Alex - Naiad
Alex was on a mission in the heart of a deep and dense forest when he found you, having gotten separated from his team and left stumbling through foliage and low hanging tree branches. And then he found you. You were naked and splashing around in a river that was so clear that he could see everything. You seemed to be oblivious to his presence, your humming mixing with the sound of rushing water as you moved around.
Then you turned to him, and he was liked that your eyes completely white, ears slightly pointed at the ends, a faint shimmer like glitter on your cheeks. You stared at him and he stared back, entranced by your gaze and your beauty.
And then you beckoned him closer, and it felt like his whole brain just shut off, barely even taking the time to strip himself of his gear before he was wading through the surprisingly tall water just to get to you, watching you coyly swim backwards, a mischievous grin on your face.
It would take him a moment to catch you and when he did, it was only because you let him. Let him haul you into his arms and breathe against your face,let him run his hands over your body, cup your face and kiss you so sweetly that it could make someone cry. But all it did to you was make you hum, soft and pleased against his lips, letting him drag you to shore and invade your body, all while scraping sharpened nails down his chest and back, marking him for all the nymphs that surrounded your river to see.
Your human now. You weren’t letting him go back to his people anytime soon.
Alejandro - Succubi
Bad dreams were frequent for Alejandro. And if he wasn’t having them, then he got nothing. It was disappointing but he couldn’t escape into a more peaceful reality, even for just a few short moments, but such was his life. That was, until he started having those dreams.
At first he dismissed them as a fluke, a one in a million. It had been so long since he had had a wet dream that he was sure he wasn’t going to have it again.
But then it came again.
Dreams of you, someone he had never even met, under him. Splayed open and whining, clutching at him, calling for him, begging for him. It went straight to his cock, leaving him aching and dripping, covered in his own cum when he’d shoot up in bed in the morning. He didn’t understand.
It was affecting his day to day life too. He was more tired and that was affecting his attitude. He became more snappish, stricter, crueler almost. And there was this feeling on his chest, like someone was nuzzling against him all the time. And when he laid down it felt like he was being crush by something.
But today he was determined to get his rest, taking two of the sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him (even though the bottle said only one), and curled in on himself like a baby, trying to ignore that feeling in his chest as he drifted to sleep.
Only he dreamt again. But this time it was different. He could tell he was more awake this time as he pounded into you from behind, bullying his cock into your entrance as you cried and writhed, trying to fuck yourself back against him, calling his name. Alejandro. Alejandro. Like it was some sort of prayer for safety as the room around you crumbled, revealing the truth to his eyes as he awakened.
You, speared open on his cock, wide eyed and clearly shocked at seeing him awake. He was certainly surprised as well. Of all the things that he expected, this was not one of them. He would have liked to pretend that you were some pervert, some lunatic that broke into his room, but your horns and tail were a dead giveaway that this was not anything of the normal variety. Especially with how your tail kept rubbing against his leg like some sort of needy pet.
He flips you under him, smirking at your squeak as he starts rolling his hips, watching you go cock dumb for him as he uses your body to his liking, determined to pay you back for all the sleepless nights that you had caused him. It was only fair after all.
Horangi - Kumiho
His things were going missing. And when they weren’t going missing, they were being moved. It was Horangi’s only clue that something was different than usual. It felt like someone was constantly shifting the world just a little bit to the left every time he turned his back or did so much as blink. It was the most annoying experience he had ever had the displeasure of enduring.
Everyone was subject to his wrath while this was happening, even his superiors. Demanding to know who was playing these “pranks” on him and why they would do such a thing. Everyone vehemently denied having any part in what he was saying but it did little to deter Horangi from interrogating each and every one of them to no avail. Eventually he got sent home to calm the fuck down while his superiors investigated.
But when he went home and found that these same events were still happening, he knew something was off. No way any of his teammates had managed to sneak home with him, let alone stay hidden. This was his home, he knew every nook and cranny of this base, down to its very foundation. If anyone was here, anyone human, he’d know.
Cue a ransacking of his own home, throwing around clothes and knick knacks to get to any sort of hiding spot in his home, checking every possible entrance and exit, a man gone mad in an attempt to find someone that wasn’t actually there.
Or so he thought, until he felt something hard drop onto his head and bounce onto the floor beside his feet. He looked down, looking at the shimmering and glowing marble by his feet, bending down to carefully pick it up. He….was sure that he didn’t own anything like this.
Something brushed against the back of his neck when he stood back up and he immediately whipped around to face it, surprised to come face to face with a….was that a tail? It was definitely a tail. A tail that was connected to a human being when he looked up slowly, your eyes wide at getting caught red handed, all nine of your tails fluffed up in panic.
Well….that explained that at least.
Keegan - Ghoul
Keegan was visiting the graveyard when he met you, flowers in hand for the mother he barely remembered at this point, just another loss that ached in his chest. He was late today, so late that the stars were shining in the sky and he needed a flashlight to see anything. The graveyard was technically closed but it was easy to hop the fence, even with a bouquet and a flashlight in his hands. He made a note that he should talk to the owner about upping security.
The walk was short to his mother’s grave but to him it felt like an eternity, especially when he kept hearing the rustling of bushes and twigs snapping, likely some sort of rabbit or deer but he was still on guard from all his time in the military.
Only, as he grew closer, he realized that he could hear a different cracking sound, something he couldn’t quite place, especially when the sound of slurping followed it. It became all the more clearer when he was but a few feet from the grave he planned to visit, a giant mound of dirt laying on top of it while there was a hole in the one beside it.
He peered slowly into the hole, shining his flashlight down and seeing….a person. You. An arm in your hand that you were ferociously tearing at with your teeth, mouth covered and dripping with blood. So busy with your feast that it took a minute before you realized that you were being watched. You turned your head slowly, following the light up to see him just….standing there.
He was in shock, especially now that he could see your dagger-like teeth. And then you were hissing and he was reminded of an alley cat he had cornered once as a small child, wanting to pet it. It had not gone well then, and it would surely not go well now. He slowly backed away but stayed close by, watching you carefully crawl out of your hole, arm tight in your jaw’s grip, watching him warily as you start to shovel the dirt back into the hole.
You watched him, he watched you.
And then you scampered off, startling him with your sudden movement. He could do nothing but stare dumbly at the direction you had run in, wondering what exactly you were.
And how he could encounter you again.
#call of duty#cod#mwii#mw2#call of duty mwii#cod mwii#call of duty mw2#cod mw2#Alex Keller#Alex Keller x reader#Alejandro Vargas#alejandro vargas x reader#Kim Hongjin#Kim Hongjin x reader#Kim Horangi Hongjin#Kim Horangi Hongjin x Reader#horangi#horangi x reader#Keegan russ#keegan russ x reader#keegan p russ#keegan p. russ x reader
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Fablehaven headcanons that have no basis in canon but they're correct (trust)
Newel and Doren read manga in their free time (specifically Shoujo)
Seth enjoys drawing and painting, and his work is surprisingly good
Ronodin can play the violin very well
Kendra has a slight fear of dogs (<— me self projecting)
Kendra and Alyssa were actually friends when they were in kindergarten, but then drifted apart due to going to different elementary schools. They then reconnected in late middle school when they joined the same soccer team
Dragons human avatars look different based on how powerful they are. If a dragon is weak and doesnt have much power, when they transform into their human avatar they can be easily clocked as a dragon. Scales, horns, claws, unnatural skin color, ect. tend to appear on weaker dragons avatars. Colorful hair and eyes are the most common signs of a dragon at medium power. If a dragon is particularly powerful, their human avatar can look nearly indistinguishable from any normal mortal (for example, Navarog)
It’s the same case with unicorns. If a unicorn isn't very powerful, they can have more horse like features in their human avatar. Cloven hooves instead of normal feet, horse ears, and the horn still attached to the forehead. This usually only tends to happen to younger unicorns, who don't have as much control over their magic and havent gained their third horn
Before Stan became caretaker, and was in his 20s or so, he was good friends with Newel and Doren. He consistently hung out and partied with them, until he became caretaker and married Ruth. They're still friends to this day, but not as close as they used to be
During the first few years of Patton and Lena's marriage, Lena would visit the pond and chat with her sisters, though they usually either ignored her or beckoned her to come closer to the water. Her visits slowly waned over time, the nail in the coffin being when one of the naiads managed to grab her leg, and was only saved due to Patton being with her. She never visited again after that
Dale has a noticeable southern accent. Warren also has the slightest hint of one, but it becomes much more noticeable when he's emotional
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of birds and honey
(simon "ghost" riley x reader) medieval AU
part 1/part 2
Mass in the early morning is, like most things in this mortal life, something to be silently suffered, on your knees with your hands clasped.
The chapel is chilly in the hour where the sun has barely peeked over the horizon. As the priest drones on quietly in Latin, she clasps her rosary and attempts to focus on his words. Incense hangs heavy in the air, cloy and sweet smelling. The birds chirping outside are louder than the priest. You should exercise more caution, when listening from rafters and castle walls like a little bird.
She does not glance to her left where the hungover knights sit, irreverently chatting amongst themselves, crowded together on the pew. And she does not feel the skull-faced (Ghost, she had heard the Scotsman call him) ones dark eyes follow her when she steps up to receive a blessing. Instead, she focuses on the gilded, shiny cross resting on the wall above the priests head. Strange that the only display of finery in the modest chapel would be what killed the Christ, rubies dripping off it like his blood.
Delight thyself also in the Lord; And he shall give thee the desires of thine heart, the priest mutters, making the sign of the cross above her head. What are the desires of her heart, she wonders. Are they as they should be?
Sundays are slow days, in her fathers castle. Those who labor in the fields put away their plows, servants do as little as they can get away with, and her father spends the day hunting and resting. With her maids and father distracted and relaxed, she’ll slip away to walk the grounds, down to the edge of the wood to practice balancing on fallen logs. If she is stopped and inquired after, she claims it is to meditate on the message of mass.
On the Lords day, she does not feel like a fine lady, or a forgotten child- she can walk by the edge of the river and climb trees until the sun sets and the restlessness in her heart is sated.
Today something urges her to strip down to her linen smock and climb down slippery tree roots into the river below. The water is ice cold, numbing her toes until she can scarcely feel the mossy stones they glide over. Involuntary shivers wrack her body.
She sinks lower and lower until the water reaches her shoulders, then her ears, then over her head. Scrubbing a hand over her scalp, she relishes the way her hair floats in the water around her face, like long grass in the wind. She holds her breath until she feels ready to burst before she resurfaces.
When she does, a skull with dark eyes is there to greet her.
She gasps and kicks back in the water on instinct before recognizing him. Annoyance and something bashful takes fears place.
“I nearly mistook you for a river otter, lady.” Even in the privacy of the wood, he wears a cloth mask with an embroidered skull emblem and a hooded cloak, revealing nothing but his coal-dark eyes. In his hand is a bow, and on his broad shoulder a quiver. He must have been hunting.
“Then I pray you do not shoot me for my skin, sir.”
He kneels down as if to get closer to where she wades in the water. A chill goes up her back. It must be the cold.
“I’d never slay a naiad, lady. Wretched luck would befall me.” How can a voice, so harsh when ordering his men, suddenly sound as mellifluous as the river she swims in? How can a ghost look so very corporeal and present before her?
She only responds by tilting her head, wondering where he learned of Greek, pagan spirits.
He clears his throat, standing straight. “Your maids were askin’ after thee, before I left.” He readjusts his cloak. “Get out before you freeze, and I will escort you back to the castle.”
Defeated, she sighs and turns, climbing up the slick roots on the riverside where her discarded garments wait. So much for an afternoon of peace.
She is squeezing river water from her shift when she realizes the immodesty of the situation- white, soaking wet linen does little to hide the curves of her body or her nipples, pebbled from the cold.
Peeking under her damp hair, she expects to see him shielding his eyes or cowering away at her lack of modesty. Instead he is leaning against a weathered tree, toying with an arrow, appearing bored even as his eyes track her every move. Every bit a hunter.
She should be aghast. She should scamper behind a tree or imperiously demand he turn his back to her.
She ignores the things she should do, and instead bends at the waist to wring water from her skirt, tilts her head back to comb through her long hair with her fingers. Layer after layer of the dry, simple clothes she wears on these excursions are on next- her kirtle, her belt and pocket, her surcoat and woolen cloak. Last are her stockings and leather shoes .
She rests on a tree stump and struggles to fit them over her wet skin, the wool catching. All the while the knight stands and watches her, even when she hikes her skirts up to her knees. To better access her shoes, she tells herself.
He carefully steps on the river stones and reaches the other side without so much as a drop of water staining him, until he is looming over where she ties her laces, eyes trained on her ankles.
She starts her way back to the castle, ignoring the hulking shadow of a man behind her, plaiting her hair as she walks. Humming, crunching leaves beneath her feet, trying to enjoy her few moments of freedom before the week begins anew. Trying her best to not think of the way the Ghosts eyes felt on her, as tangible and real as the water droplets slipping down her back.
#simon ghost riley#simon riley x reader#simon ghost x reader#cod mw2#ghost cod#ghost mw2#cod mw ghost#cod mwii x reader#simon riley x reader angst#part 2 coming soon#call of duty#simon ghost riley x you#simon ghost riley headcanons
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Open Starter — Get in… the water?
Telemachus first finds out that… he is slightly a naiad, and it has long lasting effects. (He’s 18 in this by the way-)
The prince of Ithaca was near the river, chilling. Whatever. He noticed a figure nearby. But shrugged it off, he was naive like that.
He whistled, and when you were going to walk up to him, someone dashed up to him, grabbed him. And pushed him into the water- he yelped, and SPLASH.
Oh gods—he can’t breathe underwater can he!?
Incorrect.
You were about to dive in, before he emerged again.. except, he was slightly.. different.
He coughed out. Not realizing his skin was a slight bluish-green now, his ears were more.. siren-like. And his freckles were now white, and were those gills!? His teeth were more sharp as well! He opened his eyes, they were still normal. But.. more darker.
“Ugh, what the?-”
(ooc: yes. I did a whole transformation for him in detail. FIGHT MEEEE)
taglist: @when-fate-is-mistaken, @little-birdie-cass , @sillypuppetmeister , @reigningprincesstofithaca, @penelope-is-waiting, + anyone else who wants to join !
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Edit: baha i totally forgot to put my watermark somewhere, oops
So I went ahead and turned Odysseus into a Lykoi cat
I still think its clever, especially if Telemachus is a lykoi cat too, just because hes called little wolf
It's kind hard showing the patches on a lykoi where the fur is thinner/thinnest, but I tried
I didnt do any serious lineart, and the athena emblem was completely from memory, and idk what sword to give him in that lil doodle there
But this was fun
I didnt intend for they eyes to look like that but ngl i kinda like it. Reminds me of how some of my favorite artists draw cat eyes
So ig i can go over my ideas for the premises of this cat au
All the normal humans, like odysseus, are normal cats. Any breed bc i am not serious enough about this is do research on what cats where made in which time.
Some limitations I will break for the sake of recognizable character design, but I am also not a good character designer at all, so ehe
Characters who look human but have some godly power, or close lineage with the mythical, will look like normal cats but have patterns or features that separate them from the typical. Like Calpyso, though a typical classic brown tabby, will have some markings that are a sunset palette ombre. Im still thinking about Circe.
In the case of Penelope, she is the daughter of a naiad nymph, so perhaps she would have, idk, sharper ears or webbed paws or smthn, for hydrodynamicism or something like that
Now for gods, they will be cats as well, but they have major features that displays their status. Hermes and Athena have wings, Hermes all across his body and Athena two large owl wings. Aeolus is a cloud..? shaped? like a cat? i'll draw them soon
For the gods whos animals are like, bovine or equine, they will have hooves. Thatll be weird to design
It'll take awhile to turn all the characters into cats but i am determined
It'll just probs be slow
Everything is the same in this au, just everyone is cats. They can still build, the can still row boats, they can still sword fight
Theyre just cats
I have listened to every saga so many times just to imagine the characters as these feline creatures, I cant get enough of it
I love Epic the musical, guys
I love cats too
Putting two of my favorite things together is the best
#epic the musical as cats#epic the musical#art#cats#epic the musical art#odysseus#cat odysseus#lykoi#character design#characters as cats
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