#apology cake AU
Text
Finally, c!Drunz like we all deserve.
Dream felt a hand gently touching his shoulder, it was a light push, just enough to rouse him before an instant retreat. A familiar gesture, but this time, a comforting one.
Or, well, the person was comforting. Their presence in this moment was concerning. Still, his body was too tired to provide him with any kind of panic. Not when it recognized those hands.
Dream groaned softly. His headache wasn't quite gone, but his ears did feel better. He could at least turn his head with only a moderate stab of pain.
Slowly, he roused himself, pushing himself upward and rubbing at his eyes before properly taking in Punz in front of him. The bedside lamp was still off, but Punz had a small redstone lantern that lit up enough for both of them to see.
Taking a quick sniff, Dream determined that Punz wasn't hurt. That was good. It didn't explain what he was doing there though.
Punz waited for Dream to settle in an upright position before carefully moving to tap his communicator in an obvious signal.
Rather than grab his own communicator, Dream checked the time and tested his hearing. It'd only been a few hours since his ear drops. And his ears felt better than they had in days.
"Talk. I think I'll be able to hear you. Just, slow."
Punz nodded, and thankfully raised the light just a bit so his lips could be clearly made out.
"Sam's asleep, I've got invis if I need it. Needed to make sure you were okay."
The unspoken 'because of what happened last time' was loud and clear, regardless of Dream's hearing issues.
As much as Dream wanted to be annoyed, one look at the dark circles under Punz's eyes quashed those feelings. Guilt prickled at his chest.
Punz had seen almost all of the... aftermath of the prison. Had helped Dream through the worst of it. Dream could hardly fault him for worrying.
"I'm-" and he cut himself off from saying fine, because it would be a lie and lying right now would only put Punz on edge. "I'm recovering well." Better. "Ponk did a good job. If Sam was going to try something, he would've done it when I was weaker. My ears are getting better. Ponk should be back in a few days."
While Punz didn't look entirely convinced, he still nodded, before reaching out a hand in a silent request. One Dream didn't mind complying with.
Dream shuffled out from under the blankets. He was only wearing a t-shirt and shorts, so there wasn't a need for him to remove anything. He gave a single instruction before letting his eyes slip shut, "Be careful with my ears, they're sore."
He didn't need to look to know Punz would listen. Punz always listened.
Gentle hands reached out, starting with Dream's fingers and working slowly towards his shoulder. Checking old wounds and searching carefully for new ones.
When Punz finished with Dream's arms, he moved on to his shoulders, lifting his shirt carefully to check for anything new, making his way down in a familiar motion.
Dream's legs were new, at least in this state. That was evident in how Punz's movements got hesitant once he reached fur. Still, he persisted. Carding his fingers through the soft texture to search for any lingering injuries.
He paused on the left leg, hovering, and Dream answered the unasked question.
"Warden got my leg. Hunters threw a net at me, so it got a hit in. Ponk set it already and it doesn't even hurt anymore."
"Got it." And the inspection continued.
Dream found himself almost drifting off at the familiar and comforting motions. The two of them had built a habit of inspections up after the prison. Dream's own pain threshold had gotten so fucked that he failed to notice infections and new injuries until they escalated to a dangerous degree. Having an outside check prevented that situation.
It took several more minutes for Punz to completely go over Dream's legs, and Dream found himself half asleep. He had to shake himself before tilting his head forward to allow Punz access.
When Punz touched his head, he carefully skirted Dream's neck, instead moving to smooth out the tangles in his hair and gently feel for any sign of blood or trauma.
Dream's ears were moved incredibly gently, it still sent a soft ache through his head, but it was tolerable. He could feel the warmth from the redstone lantern and the soft puffs of breath from Punz as he carefully took in the damage.
Eventually, Dream passed the test. Punz let out a sigh of relief that he felt more than he heard. Then the other man was flopping down on the bed next to him. It was risky, it was stupid, but Dream was too tired to argue. He just let Punz pull him down into a protective embrace.
Punz would be gone when he woke up, Dream knew he would be, and that was fine. Even if Punz wasn't there physically, Dream knew his loyal friend wouldn't be far away, and he knew for a fact Punz wouldn't let anything else happen to him.
For the first time since he got grabbed, Dream felt himself relaxing and falling into a proper sleep, feeling safe enough to let go.
#c!dream#c!punz#drunz#staged duo#dreblr#dsmp#dream smp#apology cake au#sif speaks#sif writes#they deserve to be a lil soft before going to commit murders together
252 notes
·
View notes
Text
Some fanart for @the-final-sif ‘s apology cake AU!!!
153 notes
·
View notes
Text
bunny dream is very sleepy and in pain, ponk is a good bro preventing bad decisions. i imagine they’re in the community house which is why it’s so homey and warm
apology cake au
#i swear I don’t usually post this much ?#but I think I have a lot of pent up creative energy from entirely lurking in mcyt for almost two years#apology cake au#dream fanart#dreamwastaken#ponk fanart#dropsbyponk#dsmp fanart#c!dream#c!ponk#mcyt#lynx draws
133 notes
·
View notes
Photo
Happy surprise (belated) Birthday @thatmooncake!
Thank you for all the kind comments and good laughs you share, with their birthday popping up I thought I’d have a go at doodling up their versions of Sun and Moon from their Magical Mascots au (and I also got a chuckle out of giving Moon a Moon-shaped cake). Hope you like it! (-and don’t forget to share some cake with the caged Moon hehe)
This was initially going to do a lil’ quick doodle to drop your way on the day but I got to colouring and had too much fun not to shade it oop.
#aquadoodles#fnaf#fnaf au#daycare attendant#lil' excited Sun the beloved#likely my fave bit#Moon cake for thatmooncake and moon#triple moons#while this is a surprise apologies it's quite a bit late aaa-#This started as a simple sketch to let's add sun to clean lines to I gotta colour and shade this rn
118 notes
·
View notes
Note
im so sorry this is like the 3 billionth time ive sent an ask but
the way you describe the stone-like skin that covers fallen gabe's body makes me think of like. a ball jointed doll. which i might actually go for that kinda look if i ever finish and or post something in the next year. but does that make him heavier?? gabriel becomes a heavy class enemy real?!??!
READING MY MIND...it was just cut off in the first pic i posted of gabriel with his tail, but right above him i had this sketch:
so yes you're exactly right!!!! he's based on a combination of enemies like the hideous mass and ball-jointed dolls, which i thought was an appropriate mash-up for a fallen angel (plus he needed the ability to still bend/articulate, so it made sense to take this route) like in the sketch, the separations appear as more golden cracks...and i think he made them himself as his skin hardened, breaking himself open in order to move (v1 assists in stubborn areas) i'm working on a fully-finished piece of complete fallen gabriel (or....i have the idea of it. in my mind.), but his armor covers most of these details!
and for your question, yes again!!!! i mentioned it briefly in the gabe slam-storage ask, BUT he does become a heavy class so he's entirely grounded and acts as a very effective anchor point for v1 lol (it's not...canon ig, but i imagine anything in the medium/medium-heavy classes can be little unpredictable with the whiplash, so they can be unreliable sometimes if v1 wants to pull itself to them. not so anymore with gabe!!)
#i just love bjds ok!!!!#and i like just the slight cracked doll motif#but don't apologize for asks!!!#you all give me the chance to ramble and i'm so grateful!!!#in fact it just makes me so happy that ppl enjoy fallen gabe so much aaaaaa#cake answers#fallen gabriel#rise and fall au
47 notes
·
View notes
Text
I’m literally never going on tiktok again i just saw an animation to the most heart wrenching edit audio and it was about Afterdeath I’m not okay how am I supposed to be normalwhywhywhy
#never again#im delusional#im absolutely going back 😭#fguck#tiktok always shows me shit that makes me cry and does not apologize#this might be the last straw#it was that one with Betty and Simon from Fionna and Cake#where she goes#‘you were a wonderful experience’#and Simons like#‘you were… everything’#and then nothing new by Rio Romano starts playing#yeah that one#im normal#(on the verge of screaming)#tiktok#undertale au#afterdeath#reaper sans#geno sans#leaf posts
7 notes
·
View notes
Note
hiya toothpaste darling! was having a lil room clean this evening whilst watching some p&p and thinking about how much i adore a period piece and did i .. did i dream that you are writing an r/s one? did i make that up i just tried to search your blog for those wip thingies but one cute thing about this hellsite is their tag searcher simply . Does Not Work :) anyway this is long sorry hello good morning (??) how are you! kisses! xoxoxo
HIIII HELLO lovely lovely mads <3 good morning/afternoon/evening! how do you do!! i am good i am grand i am very sleepy (like remus) - my cat released a live rat :-(( under my bed last night. so that was hell. poor wee scabbers2 (i managed to save the lil guy tho. all is well!) hope you are SWELL <3
I AM writing a period fic! a regency au in fact; it was not a hallucination! tumblr's tagging system does suck but i do not make it easier. but i'm soooo glad you asked!!!! i’m so super excited about this one :o) let me tell you all about it xoxo
the dating season is about to start! which sirius finds so very dull and silly and uninteresting. he has a reputation for being a rake, but in actuality he just spends his time at his giant estate brooding and writing poetry + emotionally charged erotica. he wants love :-( but people only seem to want him for his money (and because he's hot) (but mostly for the money)
and SO! the dating season! ........ enter remus lupin! who was a childhood friend of sirius and james' that mysteriously disappeared without a trace 5ish years ago! just after he and sirius kissed for the first time :-o and sirius has been predictably Hung Up on him ever since. (readers have noted that themes of regret and lost love seem to be at the forefront madam puddifoot's (....hhaha) poetry. and in her erotic novels, the lovers never get more than one night together!). but remus is here to marry :-( to make a match! marriage is very much an economic proposition for him *cue amy's iconic speech* and sirius thinks it's all bullshit. and so remus goes on lots of dates! and sirius sabotages all of them :-)))
MWAH xxx
#think bridgerton but not as camp! think pride and prejudice but campier!#this idea originated as an exes to lovers fic where remus hooked up w lord byron just to piss sirius off.... and here we are!#but one can never have too many historical au's! so that one still very well may happen x#also! background jegulus!! happy and thriving for once!! i won’t break them up! or kill them!!#(sorry reg i am so sorry i baked you this cake and these cookies and these scones as an apology please accept them :-\\\ :-///)#(they wont bring you back to life i know :-\\\ but they might taste good xxx maybe xxx)#mads tag
21 notes
·
View notes
Text
More memes! More memes! More memes! Starring the dragon elders, aka the ones that raised Aizzayd
Don’t worry they’re all good at their jobs, which is protecting whatever villages are in their territories. Essos lives in a forest full of Dryads and the only ones she threatens to feed to her plants are abusive people
#nexo knights#memes#Dragons in Knighton AU#Aizzayd brought Axl the tuna as an apology#she accidentally set the oven on fire trying to bake a cake#Axl was slightly terrified#tuna are fucking strong fish#and she’s tiny#he full on thought that she wrangled a fish
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
Super ironic posting this above that previous reblog, but I'm going to try my hardest to fight my anxiety and eventually post some of my art on here! I still probably won't be a SUPER frequent poster, but at least my page won't be completely filled with reblogs lol
#And if I still don't really post my art on here#then you can have the apology cake below this post#I also might forget#or not have motivation to draw#anyways prepare for me simping over an AU Springtrap#while also drawing my deltarune and omori comfort characters#there also might be some OCs but idk yet
1 note
·
View note
Note
I know this is like so random but do you have any geto, gojo, nanami, or megumi ao3 recs because the only good fics I’ve read of jjk are ones you’ve written 😭
you have come to the right place :,) i post more recs than fics at this point haha
most of these are copy pasted off previous rec lists but have been added onto! the ones with green + marks are NEW RECS
here's a post on how to use ao3 to find fics by yourself for those who dont know <3
gojo + ao3:
+ intrinsic warmth: my favourite fic of all time. like genuinely. insane writing, fucking amazing in every sense of the term. 2nd time recommending this! reader's character is so sick BUT updates real slow (which isnt a bad thing!! good things take time!!) so i wouldn't read if you aren't patient // 122k words, 15 chapters, incomplete
+ ripverse: not really a series, more like a compilation of fics! it's got a lot of angst and the one titled 'interlude' contains smut i think so beware, and it's also a lovetriangle/poly-but-geto-goes-crazy-so-not-poly moment // 55k words, 8 pieces
+ the witches' brew: super cute fluff! reader owns a cafe, gojo is a regular, it's all around adorable // 2 chapters, 11k words, completed
+ all that is solid melts into air: arranged marriage trope! i haven't read but @/aanobrain loves this one // 7k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ cake batter: established relationship w/ dad!gojo & megumi <33 not much to say, just short n sweet, i am such a sucker for dad gojo so its no surprise there's one of these on the list.. // 2k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ best of luck: initial concept is really unique!! confessions, slight angst, takes place at the beginning/middle-ish of s1 i think? so cute loved this <;3 // 5k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ afternoon tea(se): gojo torturing megumi. classic !! so so cute love the banter // 1.7k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ my apologies, gordon ramsay: god i hate this man. jk. reader is a teacher and a functional human being; gojo is not. loved! // 8k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ a name known only to paper: platonic, angst- beautifully written, such a unique idea. reader is gojo's older sibling. // 3k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ heart beats: another collection! i looove gojo in this so so cute i also adore bff nanami in the last one haha // 11k words, 3 pieces
+ exposure therapy: this is 1/2 of a 2 piece collection. when i read this for the first time i was floored- i love the creative take, and the reader's character (it was a 'she's so me' moment). this author writes with such a subtle but unadulterated take on love and i adore it // 5k words
+ how to be a human being: 2/2 of the previous rec and the perfect continuation in every sense of the term. oh my gosh, is this masterful- from the relationships & writing of megumi and tsumiki to gojo (i almost forgot this was a rec for him) it's all around amazing // 20k words
+ the sanctity of a name: SO SENTIMENTAL !! what an adorable work that rly goes into the psychology and significance of his technique + upbringing. so real and raw and very him // 2k words, complete, 1 chapter
+ assumptions: omf jealous gojo...... he's so cute in this!! you guys are married and it's almost his birthday, but while you're planning his surprise party he suspects something else.. // 6k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ even with the lights off: RAHHHH another fic that has me floored and pushing the #saveijichi agenda at the same time // 8k words, 2 chapters, complete
nanami + ao3:
+ math help: dad!nanami w son!yuuji.... yeah that's all i really need to say i think! // 1 chapter, 2k words, complete
+ photo albums: nanami shares abt his childhood! // 1k wc, 1 chapter, complete
+ i don't really read for nanami but i would check out @aanobrain and maybe shoot them an ask bc she's a big fan :)
geto + ao3:
+ lessons in love: DAD!GETO.................. im such a sucker for a good family dynamic in fics and this is adorable !! no curse au if i remember right! // 4k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ forever is in your eyes: angsty but ends in fluff :,) touches on his mental state, riko's death, all that! so sweet, i adore how this author writes him <;3 // 2k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ ripverse: not really a series, more like a compilation of fics! it's got a lot of angst and the one titled 'interlude' contains smut i think so beware, and it's also a lovetriangle/poly w gojo-but-geto-goes-crazy-so-not-poly moment // 55k words, 8 pieces
+ dog days are over: a series!! by the same author who wrote ripverse which is how you know it's going to be brilliant !! marriage, parenthood, some nsfw moments // 30k words, 5 chapters, incomplete
+ curious cat: cat gojo and neighbor geto.. i love this one! it's so so cute and sweet, if you're looking for some light fluff this is definetely for you // 8k words, 5 chapters, complete
megumi + ao3:
+ complicit: college!au !! i remember reading this and loving it omg, the unique concept kept me hooked and interested, especially paired w the lovely writing! one of my fav series ive read. be warned, last chapter is nsfw // 18k words, 5 chapters, complete
+ a very special december 22nd: cute bday fic :,) forgive me for reccing all this author's megumi fics... theyre just too good !! i love the dynamics, all of it! // 5k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ kisses and cough syrup: THE BANTER!! THE FLUFF!!!!! i love this fic sm, so cute! // 1k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ nocturnal: establishING relationship fics are one of my fav genres and this hits the nail on the head.. he's so stupid silly in this and i know you'll love it like i do // 2k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ lover boy: 2nd year reader, annoying meddling gojo, placed at the beginning-ish where megumi gets beat tf up- what more could you ask for! // 2k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ difficult to not overthink: todo strikes again! you ponder megumi's type // 1k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ ten confessions: megumi: ten dif confessions in dif tropes each time, so they can all be read as stand-alone pieces! so so cute and beautifully written.. we all know i love a good confession // 19k words, 7 chapters, incomplete
+ therefore, i am: reader gets mixed up in the world of sorcery.. megumi's there, too! // 3k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ takes one to know one: flowershop au..... convulsing on the ground. my fav trope, ever, and so so cute oh my GOSH // 2k words, 1 chapter, complete
+ i really (x6) like you: fluff!! this is the one i linked in my og ask but it deserves a place here too <3 // 4k words, 1 chapter, complete
#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk x reader#gojo satoru x reader#nanami kento x reader#geto suguru x reader#megumi fushiguro x reader#getou suguru x reader#gojo x reader#fushiguro megumi x reader#nanami x reader#this is the most i've written in ages LMFAO and i didnt even do anything.. but look at me!! replying to an ask on time!! unheard of honestl#mitz recs
7K notes
·
View notes
Note
c!Sam seems surprisingly chill about c!Ranboo in the Apology Cake au. Is he aware that c!Ranboo was perma-dead and got resurrected and is just rationalizing it as a favor to Techno or something, or did he just miss that c!Ranboo lost his final life at all?
He did know that c!Ranboo got revived mostly because it happened quickly in this AU (aka c!Techno got back and c!Dream was like 'okay I know we're dealing with shit but let lemme bring back Ranboo's ass before we do anything else or I'll forget' and c!Techno went from panic and misery to 'oh that's right you can just bring back the dead guess this actually wasn't as big a deal as I thought') and so c!Ranboo just showed up to kick his ass personally when they went to get Michael back.
Putting that aside, c!Sam is less worried about c!Ranboo partially because he's having too many crisis already to handle another one, and partially because there's a general truce on the server given the whole "hunters on the smp" situation. It's like the Egg but taken to a higher extreme. People are willing to put aside their current grudges to handle the outsiders because everyone is fucked if they don't, and hunters are very likely to swarm a small SMP like this if they don't get stamped out. It's incredible dangerous and people are too worried about that issue to be infighting.
29 notes
·
View notes
Text
Mafia!au part 5!
A bit of fluff, a bit of drama, a bit of Soap!
Content:
Attempted Gaslighting, Violence
“Gooood morning, sir!” you sing as you sweep into Mr. Price’s office. “And happy birthday!”
His head shoots up from whatever he was brooding over, brows arched high in genuine shock. Surprise is a good look on him.
“How the bloody hell did you know it’s my birthday?” he demands, sitting back in his chair.
You beam, sauntering right up to his desk. His eyes flick to the round white box balanced on top of your tablet. Nothing big, a little something you baked at home after a couple dissatisfying trials.
“It’s my job to know,” you reply easily.
He blinks– a habit you flatter yourself thinking he might have picked up from you. “What else do you know about me?”
You tilt your head at him, a smug curve to your lips.
“Just the basics. Your full name and birthday,” you demure. Hold up your free hand and start rattling off on your fingers. “Height, allergies, tea preference, pastry preference, blood type, drink of choice…”
You set the box in front of him and resettle your tablet in the crook of your arm. He stares at you for a beat, expression bleached from surprise to outright shock. You spin your stylus around your fingers.
“Which is why I made you a marble cake with whiskey instead of rum.”
His eyes lock onto the unassuming white box. It’s not a big cake by any means, about six inches in diameter and only one layer. Just a small something for Price to have for himself. God knows the rest of the boys (and Farah) get enough treats from you as it is.
“You made this?” he asks, leaning a bit forward.
“Yessir,” you declare, “and I’m pretty good at it too. Perks of stress baking.”
He runs a hand down his face, as if his beard got ruffled. “Christ, you need a raise.”
“Yes. Anyway – I’ll get you a plate after I’m done,” you say, swatting at his curious hand. He huffs but sits back to give you his full attention. You smile in reward and begin reciting his schedule for the day.
He listens, only interrupting when he needs clarification on little details. You try not to be too endeared by the way his eyes occasionally flick to the covered cake. When you finish, you twitch your nose at him knowingly.
“I’ll get you a plate before I get started on that expense summary,” you say, turning on your heel.
You hum in surprise when a large, calloused hand catches your wrist. It’s not the hand of a businessman, you think, but a man used to work. A man who does the hard things for himself. Before meeting John Price, you would have scoffed at the thought of a rich man knowing labor. Price though… well, he’s been proving to be a welcome exception since the very start.
“Thank you for this, love,” he says, voice hitting that tone and pitch that makes your insides squirm. He caresses his thumb over the tender skin before releasing you. “Really.”
You can already feel the blush climbing up the back of your neck, over your ears, creeping onto your cheeks. Can’t ever catch a break with him.
“Well, don’t thank me ‘til you’ve tried it,” you try to deflect.
“Weren’t you the one saying you’re decent at baking.”
“Yeah, well… maybe I poisoned you or something – for that time you closed my skirt in the door.”
He sputters a bit. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from giggling at the indignance on his face. Such a handsome, almost regal man. You love to rile him up.
“I apologized. Profusely.”
And offered to buy you a new skirt entirely. The way you’d shrieked that that was not an appropriate response made Soap choke with laughter as people stared.
“Yeah, well, I hold a grudge,” you reply, shrugging.
It’s true, but not about things like that. Graves and his assistant? Oh, that’s practically a blood feud at this point. A silly little accident where your boss left a crease in your fourth favorite skirt? That’s not even something to forgive him for, but you sure as hell will never forget. Especially when he still seems mildly sheepish about it.
“You wouldn’t be the first,” he grumbles. You’re not sure if he’s talking about grudges or poisoning, but the dramatics finally make you laugh.
“But I could be the last,” you call over your shoulder as you flounce out.
Not for long though, returning with a disposable fork from the breakroom. There’s something amusing to only you about a man in a thousand-pound suit using cheap plastic.
“Come to see me keel over for yourself, then?” he asks.
“Well, I can’t have you getting cake crumbs on the expense reports,” you reason.
He’s already got the lid open. No icing on the cake – you’re shit at decorating, so you chose a recipe without icing. The flavor of the whiskey and sugar should be plenty. To make up for it, you folded a tiny placard and wrote “Happy Birthday, Boss!” in your best loopy cursive.
He takes the fork, fingers brushing yours in the process. You remind yourself not to snatch your hand away like a scandalized Victorian lady. Christ, you really need to get it together.
“Tell me how you like it,” you say, making to leave again.
“Come try it yourself,” he protests.
You pause, give him an amused look. “I didn’t actually poison it, sir. You’ve not done anything that heinous. Yet.”
He snorts, carefully digging out a respectable bite from the edge. “If you see fit to toss a little rat poison in, then I’ll likely having it coming.”
You hum. “Arsenic is more my style. Classic.”
In the corner of the room, Simon makes a little noise you’ve come to recognize as repressed laughter. You shoot him a quick, amused look, before shifting your attention back as Price gestures with the fork.
“Regardless, you should get a little taste of the fruits of your labor,” he offers.
The fruits of your labor, you think with a bit of regret, will be his enjoyment of your baking. You’re not sure when his admiration became your favorite part of the day, but you’re spoiled for positive feedback from your otherwise stern boss.
“You first,” you insist, “it’s your birthday after all.”
He keeps unnerving eye contact as he brings the bite to his mouth, tongue flicking out to catch any spare crumbs. He hums, eyes closing a for a second in enjoyment, before opening and fixating on you again.
“That’s bloody brilliant, love.”
He scoops up another piece, brings it right to your mouth. You hurry to put a hand beneath in case it falls; don’t even think before parting your lips. Sugar and whiskey, chocolate and vanilla, burst across your tongue.
“Oh!” you hum, hiding your mouth while you chew. “That is pretty good.”
It only occurs to you as he takes another bite for himself, a twinkle in his eye, that you just ate after him. Used the same fork like it was nothing, like that’s an acceptable thing to do as his assistant. You’re not squeamish by any means, no. It’s just… it’s gotta be crossing some sort of professional line. You can’t imagine any of your previous bosses ever sharing with you like this.
“Let me tell you, if you did poison it,” he muses, “I wouldn’t mind it being the last thing I ate.”
You roll your eyes, swat lightly at his arm again. “I told you; it’s not poisoned.”
“I know, you just took a bite,” he answers smugly.
You click your tongue at him, playing at exasperated. “I’m going to work now.”
“Ta, love.”
--
“Oi, li’l miss?”
You glance up at Soap curiously.
(Recognize, in the back of your mind, that it’s a nickname that’s not only spread – thanks, Simon – but that you’re responding to as quickly as your own name now. You should probably feel some type of way about that. Probably righteously annoyed or something. You don’t.)
Soap is standing at your desk, shifting from foot to foot. Uneasy. But the expression on his usually friendly face isn’t nervous. It’s… something else. Something you don’t know how to decipher but makes you sit up a bit straighter, alert.
“What’s up, buttercup?” you ask, voice light.
“There’s some bloke down in the lobby, says he’s got a date with you?” he explains, frowning deeper than you’ve ever seen.
It gets deeper – and angrier – when he sees the blood drain from your face. You push your chair away from your desk to hide the tremble that’s trying to infest your hands.
Absolutely not. This is your place of work, dammit. Where you’re calm and collected, the person anyone can turn to for solutions. You’ve worked so hard to craft this sleek vessel of professional grace and you’re not about to have it sullied like this.
“He does not have a date with me,” you state, keeping your voice flat and tight. “Would you come down with me, please?”
“’Course,” he replies instantly.
You stop by Price’s office, knock twice, then poke your head in when he calls for entry.
“I’ve just got to pop out for a mo’,” you explain, “I’ll be right back!”
He nods and you duck out again before he can notice anything amiss. For a rich bastard, he’s too observant of others. (Especially you.)
“What’s he here fer, then?” Soap asks in the elevator.
You let out an annoyed puff of air. “A reality check, I assume.”
He side-eyes you but doesn’t ask any further before the doors open.
Sure enough, standing in the lobby, is the last man you want to see. Your ex, Brandon.
“There you are, bunny. You’ve been keeping me waiting for—”
“One, do not call me that. It’s inappropriate,” you interrupt, crisp and sharp. “Two, I haven’t been keeping you waiting, because there’s nothing to wait for. Three, get out.”
He rolls his eyes, that smarmy curve to his lips never leaving. You don’t think he’s even noticed Soap just behind you yet.
“Look, I know you’re still in a mood about everything,” he says, “but that’s why I’m taking you out. To smooth things over. Clear the air, and all that.”
“You’re not taking me out,” you repeat. “Get out.”
He crosses his arms, tilting his head in that condescending way you’ve always despised. It sets your teeth on edge, makes you burn with anger.
“This isn’t your building,” he goads, “you can’t kick me out.”
“Might as well be hers, mate,” Soap interjects, “she could kick out the goddamn queen.”
Brandon’s focus shifts to him. You feel a curl of vindictive satisfaction when his expression curdles a bit. Soap may not be a particularly tall man, but he can be intimidating. Built thick and strong, doesn’t bother to conceal his physique at all with his sleeves rolled up his forearms. And you’re not oblivious to his looks either. Soap is a handsome man. A walking ego bruise for a man like your ex.
“Fine,” he huffs, “then come outside so we can talk like adults.”
You click your tongue, fold your hands behind your back to conceal the way your fingers clench into fists. “We did talk like adults. You just failed to listen like one.”
And ohhhh, the petty satisfaction that bubbles through you at the way his teeth click in shock, a flush of embarrassed anger curtaining his face.
“Now, I’ll ask one more time and then my coworker is going to toss you out himself.” Soap chooses that moment to crack his knuckles. “Leave this building. You’re not welcome.”
You drop your arms and turn on your heel, ready to get back to work and compartmentalize this until you’ve got a fuck-off sized glass of wine in front of you.
“Hey, we’re not—”
Even if you did see what happened, you don’t think you could have followed. It happens so fast. One second, Soap’s eyes are on you. Burning with questions and fury on your behalf, checking that you’re okay. The next, he’s darted past you. There’s a scuffle, fancy shoes squeaking on polished floors, a thick, wet pop. Then Brandon is shouting in pain.
You jump, twist to see what the commotion is. Soap’s got a white-knuckled grip on Brandon’s extended wrist – though now it’s bent at an awful angle, you realize he must have been reaching for you. Your skin crawls.
“Away ‘n bile yer heid,” Soap growls, shoving Brandon back roughly.
He doesn’t fall on his ass but it’s a near thing. With the eyes of reception, a few employees, and you on him, he spits a curse at Soap and retreats. You stare after for a moment, lips parted in shock.
“All set, miss?” Soap asks, adjusting his sleeves.
“Um, yeah,” you say. Blink and pull yourself together. “I mean, yes. Let’s head back up before the boss misses us.”
He places a hand on the small of your back on the short walk back. It feels grounding rather than proprietary; you’re grateful for it. He lasts until the doors close before turning to you.
“The hell was that about, lass?”
You sigh, smooth your skirt down for lack of anything else to do. “That was my ex. He wants to… reconcile, I suppose. And he’s quite keen on getting his way.”
Soap mutters a few choice words under his breath. Scottish slang, you suspect. You’ll have to get him to teach you sometime.
“Anyway, thank you for your help,” you continue, eyes on the elevator doors. “I can’t believe he showed up here. I’m so embarrassed.”
“You’ve nothin’ to be embarrassed about, hen,” he protests. “He’s the creeper here.”
You sigh. “I know, I just… you don’t think less of me, do you? That I didn’t… take care of him myself.”
Soap’s expression softens. He draws you into a quick one-armed hug. “You did take care of ‘im, far as I’m concerned. I was just there to enforce. No need to mess up yer pretty nails, aye?”
You smile, small but genuine. “Thanks, again.”
“Anytime, li’l miss.”
The elevator chimes as it reaches the top floor. You turn to Soap just before the doors open.
“Oh, and please don’t tell the boss.”
#cod#my writing#fanfiction#reader fic#mafia boss price#mafia!au#assistant!reader#oddly wholesome for a mafia au#john price x reader#john price#john soap mactavish
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
i needed something to doodle and luckily @the-final-sif just posted a funky au idea called the apology cake au (check it out!) :D ill be honest in my head c!dream is even smaller than he is here but compared to sam he’s already pretty tiny so I left him be. little bunny boy
unshaded/no background version under cut
#apology cake au#dream fanart#awesamdude fanart#dreamwastaken#awesamdude#c!sam#c!dream#lynx draws#I don't tag people but I think its more polite?? so I did#and sif is very cool so everyone should see the original post#pretty happy w this tbh for just a phone drawing it came out pretty cute!
138 notes
·
View notes
Text
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
#peaches writes#ghoap x reader#ghost x soap x reader#simon riley x reader#soap x reader#john mactavish x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#john soap mactavish#simon riley#ghost x soap#soap x reader x ghost#AIV#ghost x reader#hades and persephone#AIV(OFK)#modern retelling
876 notes
·
View notes
Note
Ight I hope you don't mind me putting this here but-
BAM!
This is my oc for your fallen gabe Au if that's alright!
His names Enoch (no relation to the book of Enoch) he's a throne angel so about one rank or two above Gabriel. Hence why his face is a bit more humanoid
Also side note he is a fallen angel of wrath but I haven't finished the drawing for that yesterday and this one's been done for awhile and I reaaallly wanted to show him off so I'll be talking more about him pre fall.
Basically after God's disappearance he was one of the founding members of the council (though not for long).
During the Sisyphus insurrection he lead the charge against Sisyphus unfortunately permanently loosing the use of his wings, rumor states that his wings were torn off by Sisyphus himself but the validity of this statement is iffy. Though it was confirmed they where torn off in the battle
Part of the reason he didn't get his wings back is because he's from one of the oldest generations of angels makeing his wings extra fragile (plus eh, more of a head cannon to me that angel wing are so fragile it's hard to heal them from terrible injuries like that)
Both before and after the Sisyphus insurrection though he was an avid believer in the "ferryman have paid for there sins" and to let them into heaven (part of the reason he's now fallen). He's also had a tendency to yell when he got angry (and he got angry a lot).
But the thing he's most famous for is haveing either A. Brought the idea of tearing the light from angels as a punishment to the council or B. Taught the council how to tear the light from an angel without God's assistance (like god had to approve of an angels light being torn from them before hand). But I'll let you decide whatever.
And he was all for this "tear the light" out of the heretics bodie's". At first the council didn't agree but once they realized how useful it was to keep people in check they also went full force on it.
Part of me is thinking he either went a bit Robespierre and went crazy with tearing the light from people he thought was heretics or he thought the council was going crazy with tearing the light from people (probably the ladder)
Eventually though the council got tired of Enoch yelling about how the ferryman should be forgiven. And whatever stance he had on the councils use of tearing the light out of people. and in turn used the very punishment he brought to the council against him, tearing the light from his body. Over the years heaven forgot about him and the council said he retired.
He became a fallen angel of wrath and there's a lot of ideas I have there but this is already a wall of text so I apologize. In short as a fallen angel of wrath he went a bit crazy from the constantly drowning.
Final notes,
He probably knew our favorite archangels, maybe interacted with Gabriel a couple of times from being on the council, and Raph from haveing lost his wings in the insurrection (the one patient he couldn't heal other then Micheal)but I don't think he was to to close to either of them. Part of me wants to think of Enoch as a kind of mentor to Uriel but that's up to you. I just think it would be neat since Enoch Pre fall and after the insurrection was a pretty decent guy typically spending most of his time trying to find ways to make heaven better overall, once haveing been this source of enlightenment turned into this monster of rage and anger.
It would probably hurt Uriel to see what Enoch becomes but not destroy him completely. But that's more for when I get fallen Enoch art finished.
Ight, thank you for dealing with my ramblings and this monster of an ask I just really wanted to show my boy off.
OOOOH i really like the idea that he introduced light being torn from angels and so, whether he knew it or not, he ushered in the age of the council's tyranny once they realized how useful this could be. tbh it's interesting to consider a council corruption arc, although i do think they were at least already halfway there just from assuming god's throne (they 100% encouraged michael to leave and i think that was the tipping point into "anything goes" for them to maintain power) also attached to the idea of a primordial angel, sort of one of lucifer's time, who were made before much of creation and act as advisers to all the younger sets (CUTE to have him know and work with uriel) makes it all the more intriguing in a character sense when the wiseman falls as an angel of wrath...falling deeper and deeper into that pit of concern over heresy, what he brought into heaven, and the denial of the repentant. poor guy ;o;
#also made me think of like. the full fallen au#since uriel becomes an angel of heresy....HM HM....#oh and!! i go with the idea that all the archangels are cherubim since they're placed so much higher than the virtues!#with archangel existing purely as a title#which is. really not here nor there since he would still be subject to enoch as a member of the council and due to his age imo#plus any of the thirds of the hierarchies are pretty loose in power structures due to their grouping and close ranking besides#apologizing once more for my au being!!! a mess!!!#cake answers#long post
12 notes
·
View notes
Text
➳ unintentionally (a boothill x gn!spouse!reader oneshot)
cw: major angst w/ open ending, reader has a bruise (unintentionally) from their ranger husband, accidental slap (also unintentional), established relationship, married au, lots of apologies and crying present here, ooc boothill (first time writing for him)
a/n: alright, as soon as i saw boothill for the first time, I was like "bet lemme write something for him". he's gonna be ooc cause 1. i didn't play the game yet (cries incompatible tablet) and 2. i am still learning the roots of this game's lore (and him once he's released) lol
!! fic contains sensitive topic, steer clear if this fic ain't your piece of cake !!
"darlin'?" a voice called out in the side of the storage room. "please come out, i-i didn't mean to hit you and im really sorry.." your husband called out for you softly to avoid scaring you further. his constant knocking and coercing you to come out lasted for 5 minutes, making you curl up further within the corner of the walls. "leave me alone.." you meekly spoke, voice still hoarse from your earlier cries as you held your bruised, swollen face.
his constant knocking just faded away as you sobbed, using your free hand to wipe away your snot and tears dripping from your face. if you just steer clear from him and not pestering him because of his anger, you wouldn't be hit and to be screamed by boothil to just leave him alone. you knew that your husband is like a dynamite, ready to explode at any moment due to his occupation. boothill assures you that he will never lay a hand on you, even when the both of you are either arguing or disagreeing over something that's simple and stupid.
but this day, he broke that one promise that kept you safe since the day he asked you out. just because of his anger towards that one outlaw who's on the run for weeks. almost captured but alas, his luck ran out once again as the prisoner kept on taunting him that he will never be caught by him.
boothill, on the other side of the door, won't give up as he waits for you to open the door and letting him treat your bruised lip and swollen cheek. he knows that it's not an excuse for him to let out such anger towards his spouse. guilt kept on creeping through his system, hearing you sobbing telling him to just leave you alone. "im sorry, sugar.." he sadly spoke, reluctantly returning to the sleeping quarters that the both of you shared.
at around 4:30 am, he quietly opens the door of the storage room and looks around to see if you are sleeping soundly; tear stains on your face, a bruised and swollen cheek, and using a rolled towel as your pillow. his heart shattered what he has done to you and knew that he doesn't deserve your forgiveness. he feared that there will be a day that you would leave him all by himself, all because of how he acted towards his own emotions and anger.
boothil scooped you into his arms as your head leaned towards his warm body. he knew that you liked it when you huddled close towards his chest as he placed a chaste kiss on your head. placing you on the shared bed, he cleans your bruises and places an ice pack on the side of you. he stared at your sleeping face for sometime before he murmurs soft apologies to you, even promising that he will never do again.
the soft light from the curtains woke you up from your sleeping slumber after the ordeal last night. 'strange..' you thought to yourself as you saw the ceiling of the bedroom you shared with your husband, not the plain white ceiling from the storage room where you seek safety during your husband's anger episode. you placed a hand on your bruised cheek and felt a small gauze on top of it and a bit of cold from the ice pack he placed on the side of your face last night.
you tried to get off the bed but felt a robotic arm wrapped around your waist. "no, no..." boothill softly murmurs. "five more minutes sugar, needin' you here right now.." a wave of anxiousness just came rushing towards you as you saw your husband on the bed with you, snuggling as he finally woke up from his sleep; his cropped jacket is gone and only had a pair of short as his sleeping attire, his hair smells like newly lit cigarettes from his trip to the saloon yesterday.
if you aren't anxious, you would be flustered of his appearance.
"mornin' sugar.." he softly spoke as he leans in to give you a kiss. afraid, you quickly jumped off the bed and quickly make a beeline for the storage room once again. "w-wait!" his quick reflexes caught your arm. "don't leave me, let's talk it here my love. I know what I did is unacceptable and I'm really sorry for hitting you." Silence looms within the bedroom as you eyes avoided his. "Please.." He pleaded, his eyes soften as guilt crept on his back.
it's up to you to decide of you should stay for him or choosing your own peace...
a/n: not my best work but hopefully you guys liked my take on boothill ( ◜‿◝ )♡
Do not republish, edit, or repost to other websites. Reblogs and likes are appreciated! 💕
#cw slight violence#cw angst#hsr x reader#hsr x you#hsr x gender neutral reader#hsr boothill#honkai star rail#hsr angst#boothill x reader#boothill#boothill x you#boothill angst
626 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
fernsims
fern sims
andthesunwillalwaysshine
You better lose yourself in the music, the moment
miltonshortnewboston
MiltonShortNewBoston
wandanats-wife-quotes
Welcome: My Daily Life W/my Fellow Avenger Wifeys
margrettucker62-blog
How Do You Get An Actual Online Divorce