#soap is my eternal sunshine

[brewed-pangolin]

Price called Soap 'Sunshine' on the last mission.

Remember that.

Next time you feel the gentle warmth of the sun's rays on a cold day, that's Soap.

Excuse me while I go cry in a corner.

[peachesofteal]

The Acheron

An Ichor Veil (of Flower Kings) masterlist

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

Hebe’s is humming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A place for everyone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nephele coughs.  

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, Nell.”

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

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

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

Who is this? 

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

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

Fairer than Adonis. Brighter than Apollo. 

Butterflies kick up a fluttering frenzied in your belly.  

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

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

Olympus tilts. Axis trembles. And so do you.

The stranger is keen, and glances around. 

“Everything okay?”

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

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

“Sorry, I…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only in passing, dinnae worry.”

“Who said I was worried?”

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

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

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

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

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

“The pleasure was mine, Persephone.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That does not mean they do not sting.

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

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

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

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

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

The Whip.

Your mother’s favorite.

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

“That’s enough.” She vows.  

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

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

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

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

Happy Birthday, you guess.

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

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

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

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

A failure. A disappointment. 

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

You cried a lot, then.

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

Ungovernable Persephone. 

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

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

The Greenhouse. Your home.

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

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

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

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

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

Outside the window, an owl hoots.

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

A trembling fawn. Still to this day. 

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

Ungovernable Persephone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pick your poison. 

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

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

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

“I know, sweetheart.”

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

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

Her hand extends, an invitation. A request.

He’s by her side within a second.

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

“You have been ignoring my calls.”

“I’ve been busy.” He tenses.

“You’re still angry with me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still… 

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

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

You cannot tear yourself away.

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

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

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

My darling. 

My darling… 

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

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

“Only if the girls can come.”

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

That’s when you see him.

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

John.

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

His eyes glow behind it, locked on yours.

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

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

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

“Why are ye here?”

“I’m sorry?”

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

Myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“I’m just… nervous.”

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

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

Reassurance.

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

Reassurance from someone, anyone but yourself? Comfort? 

No. 

“Do ye-“

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

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

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

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

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

Pain, to release you into yourself. 

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

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

A hand coasts over the swell of your ass.

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

“Yes.”

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

“Okay.”

“I need a yes.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll go to ten, then.” We.

“I can take more.”

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

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

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

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

Crack. 

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

“What’s yer name?”

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

Whack. Two, too quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmmm?”

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

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

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

“’kay, yeah. Yes.”

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

Your eyes open to a strange place.

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

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

A three headed dog.

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

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

Cerberus.

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

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

Are you dead?  

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

Nothing.

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

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

You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re-

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

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

“We need a yes.”

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

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

Dark. Dangerous. A wolf, circling a kill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh gods. You let Hades spank you. 

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

You are a fool. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morning comes slow.

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

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

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

Fuck. 

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

“Hades.”

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

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

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

“Only if you cannot behave.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you’re good.

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

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

You can’t help it. You’re mystified.

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s… okay. I- what did you say?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought Hades…”

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

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

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

“Bacon?”

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

“I- you too.”

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

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

“Uh…”

“We don’t bite.”

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

“Is that a sun?”

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

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

“They are Hebe’s.” Simon murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What kind of deal?”

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

“Two days? And then I can go home?”

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

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

“No.”

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, you’re married.” You deduce.

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

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

The Acheron is the river of woe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello.”

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

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

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

“Are those for me?”

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

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

“Johnny? Not Hades?”

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

Your heart skips.  

Fuck. 

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

“Okay.”

Simon is not at dinner.

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

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

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

For making you a fool. 

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

“He apologizes. Somethin’ came up.”

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

“Persephone.”

“What?” You ask, innocently.

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

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

Trapped. You’re trapped. Like always. 

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

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

Only watches you with cold, wrathful eyes.

The air chills.

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

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

He’s hard.

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

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

Did you?

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

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

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

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

Oh, gods. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s not enough. 

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

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

You clench. The tide rises.

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

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

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

No. You are. 

You scream.

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

To where they catch you below.

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

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

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

All the while, they talk.

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

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

“-talk about it tomorrow.”

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

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

*Hymn 2 to Demeter, line 347

[dreamrk99]

Endless blooms -mark lee 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Cw/ :mentions of nudity ( that's it is really a fluffy little work )

As I slowly opened my eyes, I found myself nestled in our cozy bed, surrounded by rose-colored sheets, and wrapped in my lover's arms. His warm breath brushed against my skin as he whispered, "Wake up, my love. " Although I knew he was right, I couldn't help but groan at the thought of leaving the comfort and happiness of the moment. My body was so comfortably nestled into his, and I felt a sense of contentment that I never wanted to let go of.

He gently placed a soft kiss on my forehead while lifting me with a gentle hum. "Good morning, my sunshine," he said in a tone filled with admiration that only I could understand. I nodded in response, slipping out of his arms and making my way to the pink vintage bathroom. I turned on the faucet and let the water run, enjoying the sound of the water filling the bathtub. The warm water was inviting, and I couldn't wait to soak in it

I stand by the bathtub, my gaze fixed on the tap as it slowly fills up the tub with steaming hot water. The sweet fragrance from the floral-scented soap wafts up, as the bubbles gradually form a foamy layer on the surface. As I wait for the tub to fill up, I notice a soft pink tint creeping up the water, giving it a soothing effect.

Just then, Mark, my love, looks up and catches a glimpse of my shadow from the corner of his eye. He smiles and I feel a small smile curling up the corners of my lips as Mark's kind gesture warms my heart.

.

Mark had been preparing the bath for some time now, adjusting the temperature of the water until it was just right. As I approached, he had already stepped into the water, his hand stretched out for me to take as he safely guided me inside. The warm, toasty bath enveloped my body as I settled into the tub, feeling the tension in my muscles slowly fade away.

Mark occupied the end of the tub, his back against the cool tile wall, his legs spread open, inviting me to sit in between them. The sensation of his warm skin against mine was comforting, and I felt safe and content in his embrace. The sound of the water lapping gently against the sides of the tub was soothing, and I allowed myself to relax fully, enjoying the moment of peacefulness and tranquility.

As I settle into the warm water, I feel Mark's arms wrap around me, his knees gently brushing against my sides. I turn to look at him and he smiles lovingly at me. I reach out and start playing with the bubbles on his knee, making little hearts and messages. Mark leans back, resting his arms on the rim of the tub, and I take a moment to admire him. The soap suds cling to his skin, creating a beautiful contrast against his toned body. "You look so pretty," he says, his voice soft and sincere. I feel my heart swell with affection for him as we continue to enjoy the peaceful morning together.

hmmm,” I hum as I lock my hands with his big ones “Pretty, “I say in a soft tone that makes him look down at me from behind me as I examine his pretty hand's moles adorning his skin locking so easily with mine all he can do is smile his face buried in my neck, leaving small kisses on it “ smells like home “ his whispers

My whole neck had turned rouge, and my heart was pounding. I was utterly in love with him. I turned around to face him, and our foreheads touched. I could feel his breath on my face, and I knew he was waiting for me to say something.

Without hesitation, I locked my lips with his. My hands wrapped around his neck as I relaxed into him. Our bare bodies pressed against each other as the warm bath water sat at my hips, tinted a pretty pink. I felt so safe and loved in his arms.

After a moment, I pulled back from the kiss and looked into his eyes. "I wanna be with you for the rest of eternity," I said softly, my heart pounding in my chest.

He looked at me with nothing but love in his eyes and replied softly, "You can." It was the happiest moment of my life.

[jiarkives]

julia’s favorites ! (i)

♡ - fluff ; ♤ - angst ; ☆ - series

harry potter / marauders

♡ new romantics - james potter

↳ @pretty-little-mind33

♡ chosen sister - fred weasley

↳ @potter-imagines

♡ please don’t touch the artwork - fred weasley

↳ @writesowhatnext

♡♤ after all this time - fred weasley

↳ @twelvegods

♤♡ sick of the silence - theodore nott

↳ @iloveinej

♡ untitled - james potter

♡ untitled - marauders

↳ @theemporium

♤ i’ve got plans, sorry (i) - james potter

♤ i’ll reschedule (ii) - james potter

↳ @livinginshambles

♤ secrecy - james potter, remus lupin

↳ @wolfmoonmusic

♡♤ what was i made for? - james potter

↳ @once-upon-an-imagine

♡♤ end up here - theodore nott

↳ @priniya

♡ untitled - sirius black

↳ @ddejavvu

☆ winter in the shade - marauders

↳ @willowbleedsonpaper

~

marvel

♡♤ only you - steve rogers

↳ @sunvmars

♤ obsession - bucky barnes

♤♡ graveyard (i) - bucky barnes

♤ sacrifice (ii) - bucky barnes

↳ @wkemeup

♤ heart of glass - bucky barnes

♤ nothing breaks like a heart - bucky barnes

↳ @buckybabesonly

♡ how could they not know? - druig

↳ @saintlike78

♡ sunshine - druig

↳ @itsapeterthing

♡ sushi and fun mugs - bucky barnes

↳ @lovelybarnes

♤ no questions asked - steve rogers

↳ @pellucid-constellations

♡ you have a girlfriend? - bucky barnes

↳ @antiquarianfics

~

jujutsu kaisen

♡ scent of a flower - geto suguru

↳ @jabamin

♡ family sleepover - choso kamo

↳ @potter-imagines

♡ no heart - gojo satoru

♡ i’m afraid that’s just the way the world works (but i think that it could work for you and me) - geto suguru

↳ @saetoru

♡ cats & compromise - fushiguro megumi

↳ @augustinewrites

♡ weight - gojo satoru

♡ to protect - gojo satoru ft. fushiguro megumi

↳ @tender-rosiey

♡ untitled - gojo satoru

↳ @goroujo

~

top gun / top gun: maverick

♡ hollywood’s angel - javy ‘coyote’ machado

↳ @averagewriter-inthedark

♡♤ untitled - bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw

♡ a glimpse of them - bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw ft. pete ‘maverick’ mitchell

↳ @bradshawsbaby

~

criminal minds

♡ untitled - aaron hotchner

♡♤ untitled - spencer reid

↳ @luveline

♡ untitled - aaron hotchner

↳ @ddejavvu

♡ out of the spotlight - spencer reid

↳ @sometimesiwritebadly

♤ back to me - aaron hotchner

↳ @the-bau-quinjet

♡ a well-kept secret - spencer reid

↳ @astrophileous

~

genshin impact

♤♡ “i’ve got you, i swear. nothing’s going to happen to you when i’m here.” - diluc ragnvindr

↳ @lucluvr

♤ not enough - diluc ragnvindr

♡ mortal customs - platonic!xiao, zhongli

♤♡ i promise - shikanoin heizou

♡ solace - lyney

↳ @averageallogene

♤ replaced - diluc ragnvindr

↳ @littlequackerman

♡♤ strawberries and wolves - diluc ragnvindr, platonic!razor

↳ @uselsshuman

♡ papa of the melusines - neuvilette

↳ @i23kaz

♡ mischief & melusines - neuvilette

↳ @itadorey

♡ untitled - neuvilette

↳ @auratux

♡ another woman claims to be his girlfriend? - lyney, wanderer

↳ @gfmima

~

call of duty

♡ untitled - simon ‘ghost’ riley

↳ @rileyslibrary

♡♤ whatchya got, boy? - john ‘soap’ mactavish

↳ @roosterr

♤♡ as long as i’m here - task force 141 + alejandro vargas

♡♤ no one can hurt you - task force 141 + alejandro vargas + rodolfo parra

↳ @krypticcafe

~

bridgerton

♡ reunion of sorts - anthony bridgerton

↳ @ijustwant2write

~

attack on titan

♤ all too familiar - levi ackerman

♤♡ onwards past to eternity - levi ackerman

♡ and so it begins - levi ackerman

♡ it’s a wrap! - levi ackerman

↳ @jayteacups

♤♡ i want you with me - jean kirstein

♤♡ my love for you is endless - mikasa ackerman

♤ tell me i’ve been lied to - levi ackerman

☆ cherry - reiner braun, jean kirstein

↳ @damn-stark

♕ divider — @bunnysrph

[gravitycavity]

Sunshine (Pomni x Ragatha) Chapter 1 - Put On a Happy Face

[Click here to read from the beginning on AO3!]

Cover art by @blukiar

“You’re supposed to $%#&ing smile, Pomni!” Zooble's hoarse scream reverberated throughout the big top. “Are you stupid?! We can’t finish the new intro if you aren’t @#$%ing smiling!”

“Leave. Me. Alone!” Pomni, denied the catharsis of slinging her sailor’s mouth, expressed her disdain with her middle fingers instead. She only ended up seething harder, however, when a pair of other-dimensional censor bars appeared to obscure the rude gestures.

“Oh! So that’s how you want to play it, Puffball?” Zooble narrowed her eyes, limping toward the jester with as much aggression as their awkwardly-constructed body would allow — which, for the record, wasn’t very much.

Ragatha had seen enough. “Relax!” She raised her voice, swooping vigilantly between the bickering belligerents. “Both of you!”

Gangle, moping off to the side, sniveled pitifully. In all the commotion, her comedy mask had been shattered. For the second time. This morning. “Guys…! Please, just stop fighting…”

Jax crossed his legs, reclining smartly against Kinger’s impenetrable pillow fort. “Can it, crybaby. This is the best entertainment we’ve had in years!” He flicked a piece of popcorn into the air and caught it in his mouth. Meanwhile, a vibrating Kinger poked his eyes out from between two pillows, saying nothing and everything at the same time.

Ragatha’s good-natured attempts to keep the peace were all for naught. She flinched out of the way of Zooble’s punch — but before the strike could connect, a floating boxing bell materialized out of nowhere, piercing the air with a shrill shriek.

“Now, now! There’s no need for that!” Caine’s wagging finger appeared beside the bell, followed shortly after by the rest of the entity. He lifted his tophat, and a cheesing Bubble gingerly drifted out.

“Naughty, naughty~” Bubble chomped his teeth.

Caine snapped his fingers, and an unseen force pushed Pomni and Zooble apart. “The Amazing Digital Circus — copyright 1996 C&A Incorporated, all rights reserved — is a magical, marvelous CD-Romp for all ages! Zany shenanigans and cartoon mischief I can abide, but outright violence? Strictly out of the question!”

With a grunt, Zooble spiked their arm against the floor. “What are we supposed to do, then!? We’re on take fifty-seven of your dumb@%$ theme song because poor little Pomni thinks she’s the main character of the universe!”

Pomni responded to that, but whatever she said, it was profane enough to be scrubbed out entirely.

“Yes, well…” Caine crossed his arms, steeped in careful thought. The last hour-and-a-half of unusable footage played back through his mismatched eyeballs in a matter of seconds. “It’s nothing we can’t fix in post.”

Zooble swiped their discarded arm off the ground and crammed it back into its empty socket. “Great. Then you can edit me in, too.” They stormed off, reciprocating Pomni’s earlier gesture. “Eat $@#%, sad sack.”

Jax sighed. “Aw, shucks. Right when things were getting good…”

“Uh…!” Caine skipped a beat. He swiveled toward the five circus members still gathered beneath the big top. “Well, then!” he elbowed his soap bubble companion, “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us, Bubble! As for the rest of you, consider yourselves off the hook for the rest of the day — my treat! Take some personal time, get some sleep, and try your darndest not to dwell on the soul-crushing scale of eternity!”

“I have no soul!” Bubble turned upside-down. “So I don’t mind it one bit!”

“You and me both, old pal!” Caine’s laugh sounded forced and unnatural.

There was a pause. Gangle glanced around, then meekly raised her ribbony hand. “But what about—”

“Go on, now! I won’t take no for an answer!” the ringmaster stabbed the air with his cane, “I want you all in tip-top condition for tomorrow’s wacky adventure!”

🎪 🎪 🎪

It wasn’t long before everyone had gone their separate ways. Jax had slinked off to the digital carnival to terrorize the NPCs, Gangle had left a trail of teardrops all the way to the digital lake, and Kinger, as per usual, had just disappeared without anyone really noticing.

At last, Pomni was alone again. She curled her tear-stained face inward and filled her chest with three shaky breaths. She couldn’t hold it in anymore. Hands tightened into trembling fists, she threw her head toward the sky and let loose a long, ear-shattering shriek.

Why was this happening to her? What did she ever do to deserve this!? She was a person — a human being, for God’s sake — not some stupid, one-dimensional children’s character. How dare anyone expect her to just grin and bear it? She didn’t owe anything to anyone — not even one second of feigned emotion. As far as she was concerned, the moment she forced that goofy smile onto her face would be the moment she surrendered, and she would never, ever, in a million years—

“I’m always here if you need to talk. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

Pomni flinched, wrenching away from the sudden voice. After the emotional hell she’d gone through during her first day, unexpected noises didn’t exactly put her at ease — nor did anything else in this deranged digital purgatory, for that matter.

“Ah! Sorry!” Ragatha covered her mouth. “I didn’t spook you too bad, did I?”

“You did, actually! Wh-What’s wrong with you?” Pomni gathered herself quickly. She didn’t dare to even look in the direction of the person who had just watched her childish tantrum. The moment she found her footing again, she stormed off like her very life depended on it. “Don’t just sneak up on people like that!”

Silently relenting, Ragatha stepped aside to let Pomni pass. She watched the pouting jester jingle and jangle with every step, stomping with boundless confidence in the completely wrong direction.

“Uh…” Ragatha tilted her head. “Pomni? Do you remember the way to your room?”

“Ugh! What do you care?” Pomni doubled her pace. “Mind your own business!”

Ragatha smirked. “Alright, I guess I’ll just head back to my room, then. Which, for the record…” She pointed behind herself, “…is that way.”

Pomni stared vacantly as Ragatha sauntered off. The doll had read her like a book. Locking herself in her room for days on end meant she still had no clue how to get around the tent — if she wanted to get back to her regularly-scheduled self-pity anytime soon, she would have to swallow whatever was left of her pride.

Pomni grumbled under her breath, fast-walking to catch up. “Hey! W-Wait!”

🎪 🎪 🎪

There was no ambient noise to dampen the tension; the dormitory hall’s plush carpet absorbed the sound of Pomni and Ragatha’s footsteps. Ragatha led, hands tucked politely below her waist, while Pomni trailed behind.

The complete, unbroken silence wasn’t exactly the most comfortable thing in the world, but it was preferable to whatever inane smalltalk would have filled it. That’s how Pomni saw things, at least.

In the time it had taken to walk here, she had managed to cool off a bit — and the unwavering quiet gave her plenty of mental space to reflect on the last few minutes.

She wasn’t sorry. Pomni didn’t care if Zooble hated her — she could hate them right back. Breaking bread with Jax was pointless; that creep preferred to provoke. Gangle was friendly, but to interact with her was to walk on eggshells, and Pomni lacked the patience. And Kinger? Was Kinger.

Arms crossed, Pomni looked up from her big, dumb clown shoes. Her gaze settled on the doll in front of her. Pomni despised everything about this place — but now that she was going through her laundry list of grievances, she had to admit: she had nothing on the redhead.

…What was her name? Ragatha…? She was by far the most mature of the circus’s captives. She was kind. Predictable. An island of calm in a stormy sea.

Pomni’s harsh features softened. Ragatha was the only character who had shown her the slightest shred of compassion since she’d arrived here. The realization weighed down her stomach with more than a few pangs of guilt. Ragatha, of all people, certainly wasn’t a deserving outlet for her angst.

Oh, no — nice going, you idiot. Ragatha was the one thing about this place keeping you anywhere close to sanity, and you’ve already repelled her by acting like a petulant child. She probably hates you now. You know that, right? Actually, it’s not ‘probably’. It’s ‘definitely’. That’s why she isn’t talking. That’s why this is so awkward. That’s why —

“So…what’s under your cap?”

Pomni stumbled. Had the wall not been there to grab onto, she absolutely would have fallen flat on her face.

Stabilizing herself, Pomni gawked up at Ragatha as if the doll had just beamed down from another planet. What’s under her cap? Did she hear that right? It was such an odd, out-of-the-blue question — but at least it had yanked her out of her head.

“I’m sorry?”

Ragatha bent down to Pomni’s eye level. “Your cap.” She said gently, resisting the urge to prod one of the little bells dangling from either end. “It comes off, doesn’t it?”

Pomni blinked. She hadn’t really given it any thought. In fact, until Ragatha had brought it up, she had forgotten that her ridiculous new form came with a hat at all. Doing nothing but hiding under the covers and sobbing for days on end had that effect.

With much bigger problems weighing on her mind, Pomni didn’t really care to check — but something about Ragatha’s expectant gaze possessed her anyway. Very carefully, she hooked her fingers beneath the golden rim. She felt a small amount of resistance as she pushed up, almost as if the headpiece were attached to her body through some kind of magnetic force.

With a just a little effort, though, it popped right off.

“…Huh.” Pomni held the striped cap in her hands. “Look at that.”

“Oh, goodness!” Ragatha tried and failed to suppress a squeal. She paid no mind to her question’s answer, too distracted by the worst hat hair anyone had ever seen. It was certainly a look; a chaotic mess of tangles, knots, and flyaways did as it pleased atop the jester’s capless crown.

“Hey! What gives?!” Pomni ducked her cap back onto her head. A few extra clumps of hair stuck out from underneath. “Why are you laughing?”

“I’m so sorry! Your hair is just…” Ragatha giggled. “Well, it’s a bit messy at the moment. But I like it!”

Pomni leered. “…Liar.”

“I’m not making fun of you! Honest!” Ragatha crossed her hands over her heart. “I love your hair, Pomni. It’s…”

“It’s what?!”

“It’s so cute!”

Pomni’s eyes grew two sizes. That was…not the answer she expected to hear. She didn’t know what to say — just that her face felt a lot warmer than before.

“Obviously, you could use a comb…or three. But who cares about that?” Ragatha’s hand drifted through her own thick, yarn-like locks. “You really lucked out, you know. I’d trade your hair for mine in a heartbeat.”

Despite everything, the smallest of half-smiles lit Pomni’s face.

“I, um…” Pomni took a deep breath. And then two more. Her whole body slumped closer to the floor. Try as she might to keep her personal pity party alive, Ragatha’s radiant energy made her forget her troubles, if only for a moment.

“…Why are you being so nice? And to me, of all people?”

Ragatha just shrugged. “Do I have a reason not to be?”

Pomni gripped her other arm, gaze flicking down the corridor. Her smile faded in the silence.

“Well, um, anyway…” Ragatha glanced at the door behind her — Pomni’s awkwardness was infectious. “You have your room key, right?”

Pomni’s heart skipped at the thought of having lost it, but eased at the feeling of cold metal in her pocket. She nodded.

Gently, Ragatha took the cartoonish key from Pomni’s hand. With a turn and a click, the way to the jester’s room was open.

Ragatha held the door, smiling warmly. “You look like you could use some space. Go enjoy some quality alone time, okay, new stuff?”

“O-Okay.” Pomni didn’t hesitate to do just that — until she did. “Um…” She peeked behind a door half-open. After the longest pause, a simple, stammered “thanks” was all she could manage to get out.

Her door clicked shut. And audibly locked.

[Next Chapter]

[therenlover]

Put Me Back In It (I Would Do It Again) Chapter Three: My Dear Old Friend

Pairings: Haarlep/Tav, Raphael/Tav, Past Astarion/Tav

Word Count: 4,000~

Synopsis: Haarlep offers to distract Tav from her monotonous reality, but the face the incubus chooses to wear is a strangely familiar one.

Rating: E (+18)

Warnings: N/A

Tags: Memory Loss, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cunnilingus, Dreams vs Reality, Imprisonment, Loss of Identity

You can find this fic on AO3 Here or find the other finished chapters on Tumblr Here

------

There was no day or night in Avernus. No stars or moon cycled towards the horizon to make room for warm sunshine or stormy grey clouds. The skies burned orange forever and forever and forever with only the occasional blast of smoke or flame to break up the eternal sameness. 

Tav ended up looking into that empty orange a lot while on her back in Raphael’s bed. 

If she turned her head and watched through the frosted glass she could imagine anything in that endless ochre sky. Sometimes, when her situation felt too real, she’d imagine a fleet of red dragons descending from beyond the jagged peaks in the distance, an army of githyanki soldiers with Laezel at the lead coming to rescue her. Mostly she just let her mind leave her body as she accommodated Raphael for what felt like the thousandth time. It could have been, too. There were no clocks in the House of Hope, at least none that were honest. Each and every one had been meddled with in some way to torment the residents. 

Between the clocks and the lack of a sunset, Tav had no idea how long she’d been at Raphael’s beck and call. She measured her life in what she could manage to do between being bedded again and again. It wasn’t unpleasant or painful but it was an empty existence. She seemed to exist only as an object of pleasure. Sometimes she wondered if Haarlep felt the same way, or if the incubus’ nature made things easier. 

Time was an endless stream of eating and sex and reading and sex and bathing and sex. Tav would sleep when she felt the need to, but mostly just to feel like time was passing. She’d given up looking for her contract what felt like an eternity before. The punishment of being locked below with the rest of the souls after she was caught just wasn’t worth it. Rebellion would do nothing besides break the fragile bond she’d begun to build with Raphael. He didn’t trust her and he definitely didn’t love her— she doubted he was capable of really loving anything but himself— but he treasured her, and as long as she remained placid and beautiful no object in his great hoard could hold a candle to the triumph of domesticating her. Docility was safety and safety was a blessing. If only it wasn’t so damn monotonous. 

She was on the bed watching the sky again when Haarlep came into the boudoir looking slightly charred around the edges. “Rough day?” 

They shot her a look that said she shouldn’t have had to ask. 

“Oh, poor baby,” Tav mocked slightly, “Can I kiss it better?”

“Would you?” Haarlep toed off their boots and sighed. They had taken Raphael’s form for whatever errand they were returning from, leathery wings shaking off ash and dirt as they undid their leathers and the harness below them. As soon as they were fully undressed they waded into the bath with a pained hiss. 

Tav crawled to the edge of the bed, flopping onto her stomach and setting her chin on her palms. “As long as you tell me what you used my body for today,” 

“You were awake for that?” The incubus winced, rubbing soap into their hair. “I figured with Raphael gone on business you’d be resting,”

She hummed an affirmation. “Woke me up, actually,”

“Sorry, Tavvy. Forgive me?”

Any small bit of resentment she’d had for her lost rest was gone the second she heard her nickname. 

Her relationship with Haarlep was complicated just like things were complicated in her life these days, but whatever it was that she shared with Raphael’s other pet was the most normal relationship she had left. They were compatriots, like a matching set of pretty tamed tigers in their hellish zoo, and that made Haarlep her only equal. They could talk to each other like people; share jokes, meals, books, beds. After all of his years of servitude, Haarlep understood exactly how important something like an apology or a teasing nickname could be after experiencing Raphael’s special brand of affection and neglect. 

If they hadn’t been there for her, she surely would’ve been dead or worse already. 

Tav nodded. “Just tell me and all will be forgotten, Haarlep. Come on! Man or woman? Where did you do it? Were they any good?” 

“You’re going to be disappointed,” they replied. 

“I don’t care,”

Haarlep dunked their head under the water and remained there for a good few seconds before resurfacing and wiping their face dry. “It was just Raphael,” 

It should have been some comfort that it was only Raphael and not some stranger who’d had their way with her shape and form while she wasn’t there to experience it, but it wasn’t. In fact, it was incredibly disappointing. Tav drooped, letting her face fall into the duvet.

“You should be flattered, Raphael wouldn’t usually pass up the chance to fuck himself while I’m around. He insisted that he wanted you.” The incubus rose from the bath and grabbed their robe from its hook on the wall, shaking the water from his wings and tail. Tav didn’t respond. She just remained limp on the bed burying her face further into the silk sheets, hands hanging sadly over the edge. Haarlep came to sit beside her. “It was pretty though. The full moon was out and the sky was clear enough that, if someone put their mind to it, you could count every planet and star,”

Tav’s head lifted minutely. “You fucked outside?”

“You think Raphael is the type to wait long enough to get to a tavern?” They set a clawed hand on her back, scratching the skin lightly through the back of her dress. It was an affectionate gesture and a welcome one. Tav shifted closer to their leg, enjoying the contact. “No, we were in an alley. It was a nice change of pace from the heat down here, though. There was probably a foot of snow on the ground and…”

As Haarlep continued their description, Tav’s mind wandered away. A foot of snow in Baldur’s Gate? It must be winter then, deep into the cold months too. They’d defeated the netherbrain in the oppressive heat of summer when the phlox and lambs ear covered the parks and the sun had borne down on them every damn moment of the day. If it was snowing now… had it been almost 6 months since she’d sold her soul to Raphael to keep the crown out of his hands and save Baldur’s Gate from his demonic army? She’d been deprived of sun and wind and grass for almost half a year. She wondered distantly if Karlach had ever felt similarly during her time trapped in Avernus. 

Oh, Karlach. Was she even alive? Had the tiefling made it back to Avernus in time or had she succumbed to the engine in her chest? 

How were Shadowheart’s parents? Did she still get pains? And Wyll! Had he taken on his father’s position? Was Gale teaching again? Laezel was strong and powerful, she probably could have defeated Vlaakith just in the time since Tav had given up her soul as forfeit, but had she?

Her heart ached. Had they forgotten about her sacrificing her soul for them? They all knew how to get into Avernus, but none had attempted to save her or even visit. Did they care that she was gone? Had they really been friends at all? She hated that she was even thinking it, but the reality of her situation didn’t leave much else to imagine. It was looking more and more like she’d been forgotten to rot in Avernus for the rest of eternity. 

At least Raphael still saw something he liked in her. 

The blanket beneath Tav’s face was cold and wet. When had she started crying? She sat up and wiped her tears with her draping sleeves, nudging off Haarlep’s hand. 

“Hey,” they scrunched their eyebrows together, “were you even listening?”

“I’m sorry Haarlep, I’m just distracted,” she sniffed. Why was this affecting her so much?

The incubus shook their head, flashing a sad, fanged smile. “Homesick?” 

Tav shook her head. “No, just… confused. I’ll get over it,” She smiled back at them with everything she had in her, but she was sure they saw right through her. Haarlep had a way of knowing just what she was thinking especially if she tried to hide it. Maybe it was because once, a millennia ago, they had been just where she was, so far from home and everything they’d ever known. 

“It’s ok to get frustrated with Raphael you know, sometimes I hate him myself,” Haarlep sighed. 

She drew her legs up to her chest. “It’s not that. I don’t hate him, there’s no reason for me to. He wanted me enough that he put aside his plans for dominating the hells just to keep my soul. I just miss… being a person. I miss days being days. I miss choosing my clothes and my breakfast and what I wanted to do with the day…”

“Tired of reading the same ten books over and over?” They both laughed at that one. Tav’s tears had stopped but the great aching emptiness in her heart was still there. 

“I just wish I felt like myself again, I guess. I was a hero once and now I’m a trophy,” 

Something dark and mysterious flashed in Haarlep’s eyes as their grin grew, wings flaring beneath the fabric. “I think I might be able to help take your mind off things,” They let the shoulder of their robe fall slightly. 

Tav laughed. “Seriously?” 

“What! You need to blow off some steam,” Their voice was lilting and oh-so-inviting as they let the robe slip further. “I can give you that. I can be anybody you want. Maybe, just for one night, pretending you’re not stuck down here would be good for you,” 

This was a game they’d toyed with a few times before, and Tav had accepted once or twice. It was always under Raphael’s watchful eye, though, and somewhat for the archdevil’s pleasure, never just for her. Her eyes shifted nervously. “Do you think Raphael would be ok with it? I don’t want either of us getting on his bad side for this,” It really might be nice to have something different. A secret between the two of them. 

Haarlep shrugged and nodded. “What the boss doesn’t know, the boss won’t mind. Besides, he isn’t due back for quite a while. No reason he ever needs to find out,”

“I just…” Tav gritted her teeth, “I want to feel like me. I want to feel like I felt before all of this, just for a few minutes. I want to feel powerful and desired and- agh, like I’m making love to someone, not just fucking. Does that make any sense?”

Something shifted in Haarlep’s posture and he sighed again, long and deep this time. Their nails clicked softly against the banister. “It does,” 

“If you think you have a chance of giving me that, I’ll keep this between us,” Tav whispered. 

“Good,” Haarlep was their old, confident self again, smiling bright, and yet something had changed. Gods, Tav hoped it wasn’t pity. She had worked so hard to stand next to Haarlep and not behind them. If her crying and whining had put them on shaky ground again… The incubus eased her worries before she could fuss anymore. “Close your eyes and lay back,” they winked. “When you open your eyes you’ll be wined, dined, and wooed. Should be just the right cure for your ails,”

So Tav did. 

She took a deep breath and shifted, laying back on the wooden headboard in anticipation with her eyes gently shut. 

This part was expected. For all of Haarlep’s showmanship, their ability to shift forms was a deeply personal one. It was a side of them Raphael rarely saw given the fact that Haarlep was so used to residing in his preferred form. Still, Tav had learned quickly that the incubus preferred privacy when changing bodies. 

The process was quick but just long enough to build some anticipation in the air. Then cold hand was in Tav’s hair and the game was afoot. “Open your eyes, darling,”

The man before her was a vision. 

Still wrapped in Haarlep’s robe, his elvish ears poked through flowing white hair, broad pale chest glowing in the candlelight. Crimson eyes raked over her body. Tav’s heart thumped an uneven rhythm. What was that feeling? Affection, longing… fear? Desperation? She wanted to reach out and grab him, pull him in close. She wanted to bare her throat and beg him for anything and everything he’d give. Her body was nothing but a puppet to the strange, overwhelming urges in her mind. It was as if she was some sort of animal enslaved by their instinct. 

She squeezed this strange elf’s body to her own, shoving all the air from Haarlep’s lungs.

They were rigid at first, clearly they hadn’t expected this, and then the tears came. So many tears. Wrenching sobs rang out against the domed ceiling. 

Haarlep softened against her, wrapping those cool, pale arms around her back and laying beside her. “There, there,” the voice was posh and gentle, “you’re safe here. You’re so loved here, Tav,” A hand reached into her hair, scratching with rounded, manicured nails. She just buried her face deeper into the chest before her. “You’re home now, and no one will ever be able to hurt you again,”

She had been here before. She had known this man. She had to have known him. Why didn’t she know him? 

Tav’s head hurt. It was like her brain was threatening to throb right out of her skull. The pain didn’t deter her from him in the slightest though. She pushed through the agony in the futile hope for any sort of an answer. “What’s wrong with me?” Her voice was a groan. 

“Nothing at all, my love,” small fangs peeked from their lips as they spoke, “what can I do for you?”

The first thing that flashed into Tav’s was pathetic, there was no way that she’d ever be able to say it out loud, especially to Haarlep. But…

“Will you just hold me for a while?” 

Haarlep nodded. “Anything you need,”

Tav lay still in the blissful coolness, half wishing she could free herself from the heavy wool of her dress to get closer to the incubus’ skin. Everything was always so blistering in Avernus. Hells, even the water and wine she drank were room temperature at the least. It took a lot of restraint to not worm her way out of the sweltering fabric and cling naked to her poor bedmate. The thought of being out of those arms for even a moment was the only thing that kept her from making it a reality. 

She breathed in and out. Her shoulders relaxed. Exhaustion finally took its toll, beating out the constant adrenaline pumping through her. 

“What a strange creature you are,” Haarlep purred in that smooth voice, “I wrap myself up like a present for you and you’d prefer to hug me than fuck me. I can’t say it’s not flattering in some odd way,” They kept speaking, but Tav was drifting away again. Her eyelids felt like lead. She nuzzled closer, relishing in the softness against her cheek. When was the last time she’d been held by anybody? She couldn’t remember. 

Sleep was approaching rapidly, threatening with every passing second to pull Tav into its arms, but she resisted as long as she could. This was a rare moment. It would be such a waste to squander it. “Thank you, Haarlep,” Her voice was breathy. 

They shook their head, soft white curls shifting on the pillow. “Nothing to thank me for. Now rest,” Haarlep pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead, “We can have our fun when you wake up,” 

As soon as Tav stopped resisting, the darkness of sleep pulled her down and swallowed her whole 

———

She was lying on a bedroll, breathing the smell of fresh wet earth into her lungs. Rain! Dirt! Tav wanted to shoot up and dig her hands into the earth below her but no matter how hard she tried, her body wouldn’t move. Instead, it stayed curled there, watching the wind blow and the rain pummel the grass through a small slit in her tent. 

A pair of fine leather boots came into view, pausing at the entrance to the tent. “Tav?” That voice… “May I come in?” 

This other Tav, whoever was in control of her, replied. “You don’t have to ask before coming in, I know you don’t care if I’m sleeping or not,”

And there he was, that man Haarlep had worn in bed, in some loose cotton shirt covered in specks of blood. His eyes glinted garnet in the moonlight. “It’s a force of habit, darling.”

“Oh yeah,” Other Tav laughed, “the whole vampires asking permission thing. I forgot about that,”

Vampire? That explained the eyes and the fangs…

“Sorry to barge in this late, but I,” he paused, “well, to be honest, I couldn’t stay away.”

Tav laughed, sitting up. “That hungry?” 

“Yes, amongst other things,” Something shifted in the vampire’s eyes, his cheeks flushing with borrowed blood. 

“Wait,” Tav put up a hand, “Are you jealous?” 

His face flushed redder. “No! I absolutely am not-“

“Of Gale?” 

“I- Well- YES!” He was gesticulating wildly now. “Maybe I am jealous of Mr ‘Let Me Show You The Weave’ Dekarios flaunting all of his wondrous talents around camp. So what? You’d still prefer his company to mine on the road, after all, so who am I to talk about it? Maybe you like that sort of thing,” 

Tav was stifling her laughter now, biting down on a finger to silence herself. “So that’s what this is about,”

“Just forget it!” He threw his hands up. What a drama queen. It was a little bit endearing, though, if you looked past the fit. “I don’t know why I thought you’d care,” 

“Astarion, wait,”

The vampire lingered a bit longer, hands on his hips, eyes filled with spite.

Astarion. Finally, a name to put to the beautiful face before you. 

“I do care, I promise,” Tav’s voice was genuine. There was no fake compassion in her, just concern and care and… love. She was in love. “And I promise I definitely don’t prefer Gale’s company to yours. I just needed someone who could open the magic seal on that stupid Selunite lockbox I found in the well and we got sidetracked for a few days. If it really means that much to you, I’ll take you with us tomorrow, ok?” 

Crimson eyes flitted around the tent, landing anywhere but on Tav’s own. He crossed his arms. “I swear you’re going to wind up dead someday,” he snapped, but despite his harsh tone, he sat down right next to Tav on the bedroll, sighing loudly in the night. His hair was wet and it glistened in the thin rays of moonlight that made their way through gaps in the fabric of the tent above, dripping freezing water onto his shoulders. “Being nice to strange vampires is exactly the kind of thing that will get you killed one day,”

“Good thing you’ll be around to set me straight,” 

Astarion hummed thoughtfully. “I supposed you’re right. It would be a shame if you died on me. Who else would keep Shadowheart and Laezel from killing each other and making a mess of camp,” 

Tav was smiling that lovestruck smile again. “Now that that’s out of the way, you hungry?” 

“I thought you’d never ask,” 

She shifted a bit, reclining until her back hit the bedroll while Astarion positioned himself above her. Then she tensed and he laughed like the pealing of bells. It was distracting enough that Tav barely felt him burying his fangs in her neck. 

Being drained was a cold feeling, like having bolts of ice running through her veins, and yet somehow it wasn’t all that unpleasant, especially when it meant Astarion’s lips were against her neck, so low he could almost brush her collarbone with them. He would run his tongue against her pulse every few seconds, lapping at the blood escaping the two neat punctures he had made. It was terrifying. 

It was also the most erotic thing Tav had ever experienced. 

The other Tav whimpered lightly as if she could sense the unbridled lust running through her distant mind. 

Astarion pulled away all too soon. His lips were painted red with the very essence of her. “Thank you, darling. You taste divine,” And then he brought his face down to kiss her. He tasted metallic but somehow sweet, almost sugary on her lips and tongue as she drew him in closer. It occurred to Tav that Raphael tasted similarly. Perhaps it was the lure of a predator, that sweetness on the tongue. That didn’t matter now though. Not when Astarion was purring sweet nothings into her ear and fussing with the hem of her nightshirt. “Let me repay you,”

“You can’t pay for something I offered freely,” 

The vampire seemed hesitant for a moment but pushed forward, pulling Tav’s nightshirt over her head and quickly ridding her of her pants as well. She began to make work of his own clothes but he tutted at her. “I’m not done eating yet,” 

Oh. 

If Astarion had seemed like a predator before it didn’t hold a candle to the look he gave her from between her parted thighs. He held them there, pressing them apart with his hands as he nosed at her core, and when he finally ran his tongue through her folds Tav knew exactly why. The vampire kept her still even as she attempted to buck her hips into his mouth. He held the cards. Hells, he held the whole deck. 

And she let him.

With her shirt shoved between her lips to muffle her sighs she gave over full control of her pleasure to the man worshipping her. 

Rain pattered lightly on the roof of the tent as Tav’s legs shook. 

He was gazing up at her, nose nudging her clit softly while his tongue delved into her cunt, and it seemed as though he was hanging on to her eyes like a lifeline. Looking for approval, looking for pleasure. Something was… off, but only if Tav looked closely. If she hadn’t made that face hundreds of times while sleeping with Raphael, she wouldn’t have recognized it. The half-lidded foggy haze was something she was intimately aware of now. 

Speak of the devil, she smelled sulfur in the air. 

Astarion’s face looked foggy now. It was like an oil painter had run their thumb along his drying portrait. His features dripped with the rain but his tongue continued to work against her throbbing heat. He lifted his odd, distorted face from her cunt, and a husky, bone-dry voice came out. 

“Remember,” 

———

Tav woke with a start to the smell of burning and rot, her strange dream instantly forgotten. 

Raphael was standing at the end of the bed and Haarlep… Haarlep’s black blood was soaking the sheets beside her. 

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Raphael hissed, “Looks like sleeping beauty has decided to join us. 

She was so fucked. 

--------

(A/N: Thank you for reading! Alrighty folks, are we Team Raphael, Team Haarlep, or Team Astarion here, I need help deciding how this damn thing will eventually end lol. If you'd like to be part of a taglist for future chapters just let me know)

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[the-cult-of-riley]

Sleeping With Ghosts (Act One: Chapter Twenty Four)

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Female OC

[[Masterlist]]

A/N: The wedding is here!!!!

Thank you once again to everyone showing love to this story. It’s nowhere near done but my brain is getting antsy. I have like a billion Ghost stories I wanna write, some I've started already, some mere ideas in my pesky brain. I’d love to hear which ones you guys are most interested in first. I can’t list all of my ideas here because it would take too long but some of the ones I’m doing are;

-Ghost/OC/Soap story. MC is on the task force.

-I don’t wanna call it an alpha/omega story because the MC is human, but it's kinda along those lines with mates and stuff. But it falls into obsessive Ghost and reluctant (at first) MC. If you think this Ghost is pussy whipped for Lottie then… lmao just wait and see bby.

-a sunshine/grumpy trope story. Ghost absolutely wants nothing to do with her but she's so cute and ridiculous and happy and she worms her way in anyway >:)

-mediaeval ish story. MC is the princess, Ghost is a knight.  

-an actual alpha/omega story. Our poor little omega is traumatised and Ghostie takes care of her.

-Zombie AU story. Deals with some pretty dark and depressing shit.

I have more ideas but those are the ones pinging around my brain the most and some I’ve already started. Don’t be shy to let me know.

The wedding dress and the lingerie for reference.

I actually managed to pick a song that wasn’t the usual bands lmao My brain allowed it because good ol’ Greg here is the singer from The Dillinger Escape plan, who I believe our Ghostie listens to lololol

Greg Puciato - Heaven of Stone

In the earth below with

Nowhere else to go

I know that we'll belong

Set free from all the wrongs

In eternal gardens

Fallen flowers grow

I've held you all along

In heavens made of stone

‘Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.’ Simon tried to remember who said that, if he remembered right, it was Aristotle. Made sense though, didn’t it? Maybe that's why he’d spent most of his life miserable, feeling cold and empty like a haunted house. Maybe that was why he always felt like something was missing. He’d been only half of a soul, floating around like a wraith, trying to find his other half. Now he’d found her, had her stumble right into his life and now he knew he could never look back. He felt whole, he felt complete, he felt like everything was right and the world made sense.

Despite these feelings, he was greedily sucking nicotine from a smoke, his second in  less than fifteen minutes, as he sat perched on the wall outside of the courthouse. To say he was feeling nervous would have been a gross understatement. He wasn't having cold feet, in fact Tommy had been stunned by the lack of cold feet he’d shown all morning. He’d never been more sure of anything in his entire life, he knew he wanted her to be his wife. But he was nervous for a lot of other things, the variables in this scenario, the things beyond his control. Just as he hated that bullshit out on the battlefield, he hated it in his personal life. He loved to be in control, it meant he was less likely to get hurt, a feeling he’d been subjected to far too much as a child. He’d vowed never to feel that vulnerable again. 

What if she was the one having cold feet? What if she decided she didn't want to marry a tosser like him? What if she decided she didn't want marriage at all? What if she decided she was bored of him and that she didn't want to be with him full stop? What if she didn't turn up? What if he went home and all her stuff was gone? What if, what if, what if? Too many thoughts, too many feelings and he was trying to calm himself down by chain smoking. 

“You're gonna get lung cancer before she even gets here at this rate,” Tommy huffed from next to him, snatching the pack of smokes out of his hand and pocketing them. Simon glared at him, stubbing out the end of his cig before flicking it into the bin not too far away. 

“I’m fine,” he grouched and Tommy eyed his leg that was anxiously bouncing before raising a smug brow at him. “Fuck off,” he huffed and Tommy snorted.

“It’s okay to be nervous, Si,” he murmured and Simon ran a hand through his hair in agitation.

Lottie would be here soon and he wished she’d just turn up early, to see if she would in fact turn up or if his life was about to quickly go down the shitter. 

“What if she doesn't turn up?” he asked, his voice so quiet with the shame of his admission. Tommy glanced at him, a sympathetic smile on his face as he clapped Simon on the back.

“She will turn up,” his simple answer just annoyed him and he heaved a sigh, glaring at him. “She thinks the world of you, Simon, anyone with eyes can see that. She’ll turn up. If anything, she’s probably panicking just as much as you right now. Probably convinced herself you won't be here,” Tommy said quietly and Simon knew he wasn't wrong. He knew his girl so well and she was probably working herself into an even bigger tizzy than he was. He just hated this anxiety, hated being away from her like this. He knew she loved him, his nerves were just getting the best of him. 

Tommy’s phone dinged and he glanced at it, grinning before he stood up.

“Come on, arse wipe, up you get. They’re on their way,” he beamed at him. 

Relief flooded his system then, knowing she was coming after all, Beth and his mum in tow after helping her get ready. He wondered just what she’d look like walking down the small aisle of the courthouse. 

He was wearing a suit, nothing too fancy, just a simple black and white suit that he’d worn to Tommy’s wedding. He’d contemplated getting something fancier, something just for this occasion, but Charlotte had told him to do what he wanted, whatever was comfortable for him so this is what he chose. He wasnt much of a suit person to begin with and he didn’t want to waste money on something that made him so fucking uncomfortable. He felt he scrubbed up decent enough anyway. 

He followed his baby brother into the courthouse to await his bride and his stomach felt like there were a million roaches inside, all squirming around trying to get out. He felt sick, breathing slowly so he didn’t fucking pass out and make a right knob of himself while he waited at the end of the aisle. The officiant was an older man, a kind face who had been nothing but nice and polite to the boys since they arrived. They all stood waiting for the girls to arrive. 

There wouldn't be music, the wedding march or anything of the like as she walked in. They could have requested it but she’d said no. He'd been a little surprised that she wanted a bare bones wedding like this but he hadn’t minded at all. He tended to agree with her though, weddings were shite. He just wanted to marry her. 

He heard the door start to open and he stood taller, as if standing to attention in front of his commanding officer. As the doors fully opened, he felt like all the breath got stolen from his lungs. The feeling was so reminiscent of when they first met and he never would have thought back then that he’d wind up making her his wife. 

She was an absolute vision and his throat constricted painfully as he couldn't stop staring at her, eyes unblinking, not wanting to miss anything. The dress suited her perfectly, the lace as delicate as she was and he felt his eyes prickling with unshed tears as the emotion overflowed inside of him. His mum was linking arms with her, giving her away as she had no parents of her own. He remembered how hard Lottie had cried when his mum had offered, remembered how he himself had cried no matter how embarrassing it might have been. 

Beth was behind them, holding the train of the dress in one hand, the other arm having an almost one year old Joseph perched on her hip. He was wearing fucking suit and everything. Little man looked proper dapper. 

His mum led Charlotte to him and his girl was staring at him with wide eyes and a tentative smile. After a pat to the arm off his teary mum, she sat down with Tommy, Beth and little Jo following along. He couldn't take his eyes off Lottie though as they stared at each other. Her brown waves were up in some braided updo thing, a few waves framing her face. She was perfect.

“You look like an angel, love,” he whispered reverently, his voice thick with emotion as he grasped her hands. She blushed, that pink looking so pretty on her face as she smiled shyly. Always acted like he was complimenting her for the first time. He never tired of making her blush, he loved that he could still have that effect on her. 

“You look so handsome, Si,” she murmured, making those moon eyes at him as if he’d hung the moon himself. Fuck, he wished he did. He’d do anything she asked of him no matter how impossible the task. 

He wanted to keep going on about how beautiful she was, wanted to kiss the gloss of her perfect lips, wanted to do a lot of things, but then the officiant started speaking.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness and celebrate the union of Charlotte and Simon in marriage. This ceremony marks the beginning of their journey together as husband and wife,” he started and Simon felt the anticipation thrumming through his entire being. His eyes were still glued to his girl, even when he heard his mothers sniffle from her seat. 

“Charlotte and Simon, today you come before us to express your love and commitment to one another. Before we proceed, do you both affirm that it is your intention to enter into this marriage willingly and with full understanding of its significance?” he asked and Charlotte smiled up at Simon in a way that rendered his heart to mush.

"We do," they both answered and it made his lips tug up as he squeezed her soft hands gently.

“Excellent. Charlotte and Simon, marriage is a sacred bond, a union founded on love, respect, and mutual trust. It is a promise to stand by each other through life's joys and challenges. It is a commitment to support and uplift one another, to cherish and nurture your relationship each and every day. Now, Charlotte, please share your vows with Simon,” the officiant said with a warm smile. 

He could tell she was nervous, felt her hands trembling against his own. He expected her to pull out a piece of paper with her vows on, like his own that he’d stuffed in his pocket. Vows he’d agonised over and rewrote a billion and one times because no words could ever be able to sum up what he wanted to say to her. She didn't seem to need to read her vows though, apparently she had it all stored in her head.

“Simon… from the moment I met you, I knew there was something special about you. You've brought so much joy and love into my life, and I’m grateful for every moment we've shared together. You’ve changed me as a person, for the better. Made me see I’m worthy of being loved. I can never repay you for all you’ve done for me but I’d love to spend the rest of our lives trying,” she started with a wobbly voice and shiny eyes. His chest felt heavy, like a weight bearing down on him as he suppressed the urge to cry like a right mard arse. He gave her a watery smile and she gripped his hands tighter. 

“I promise to stand by your side through thick and thin. I promise to support you, to encourage you, and to be your partner in all things. I vow to listen to you with an open heart, to laugh with you in times of joy, and to comfort you in times of sorrow. I choose you today and every day for the rest of our lives,” she murmured earnestly and he had to blink rapidly to quell the onslaught of tears threatening to break through. 

“Thank you, Charlotte. Now, Simon, please share your vows with Charlotte,” the officiant smiled. 

Simon swallowed thickly, one of his hands leaving Lottie’s so he could retrieve the little piece of paper in his breast pocket with a trembling hand. His breathing was shaky and he tried to calm himself, didn't want his voice to crack.

“Charlotte, from the moment I saw you, I knew you were the one I wanted to spend my life with…” he hated how close to tears he sounded, how the lump in his throat got bigger with each word leaving his mouth. Charlotte gave him an encouraging smile, bringing the hand she still held up to her mouth and placing a tender kiss to his knuckles. “You’re my best friend, my confidante, and my soulmate. Today, in front of our family, I promise to love you unconditionally, to support you in all your dreams and endeavours, and to always be there for you. I promise to cherish you, to respect you, and to honour you for the incredible person you are. I’m so grateful to call you my partner, and I vow to spend the rest of my days makin’ you happy,” he choked out, stuffing the paper back in his pocket before wiping his eyes quickly. The officiant looked at Tommy then and he hopped up, fishing around in his pocket before grabbing the two rings, handing them to both he and Lottie. “As Charlotte and Simon exchange these rings, they are symbolising the commitment and love they have pledged to one another. These rings are more than mere adornments; they are a visible representation of the promises and vows made here today. Charlotte, as you place this ring on Simon's finger, may it serve as a constant reminder of your love, loyalty, and devotion. Let it be a symbol of the unbreakable bond you share and a promise of your commitment to him,” the officiant said, gesturing to Charlotte and she smiled up at Simon, a heart melting smile before she slid the ring on his finger with the utmost care.

“Simon, as you place this ring on Charlotte's finger, may it be a symbol of your eternal love and unwavering dedication. Let it be a reminder of the promises you've made and a testament to the love that will continue to grow between you,” Simon’s thumb brushed over her finger before he slid the ring on, giving her hand a squeeze as he gazed down at her adoringly. 

“May these rings forever signify the love and unity you share as husband and wife. With this exchange, your lives are forever intertwined, and your journey together as partners begins anew. And now, by the power vested in me by the City of Manchester, I am honoured to pronounce you husband and wife. You may seal your vows with a kiss.”

Simon wasted no time, gripping either side of Lottie’s face and leaning down, capturing her lips quickly. He’d wanted to do nothing but kiss her since she’d turned up. He kept it tame, he did have an audience after all, he he tried he pour all of his love, all of his emotion into the kiss. When he pulled away, her cheeks were aflame, amusement dancing behind her pretty blue eyes as she smiled at him.

“I love you,” she murmured and he felt himself melting all over again.

“I love you too… Mrs Riley,” he smirked and her smile widened.

They stayed a little longer to sign all the forms to actually be married before they all left the courthouse. Not before his mother had clung to him, weeping into his chest at how proud she was, how fucking happy he was for him. Made his heart feel like it had grown three sizes seeing his poor mum like that about him. 

Much to Tommy’s chagrin, there wouldn't be a reception. Charlotte hadn't really wanted one and if he was honest, neither did he. All he could think about as he looked at his new wife in that dress was wanting to get her home and getting inside of her. Before they left, his mum was adamant on getting some pictures that she could print off so they’d posed for her outside of the courthouse and he didn't think he’d ever had a picture taken of him smiling quite like this.

They’d gotten congratulations from the taxi driver on their way home after parting ways with his family and Simon felt his chest puff with pride that Lottie was now his wife. His other half. She was fully his and he felt like he was on top of the world. She seemed so happy, smiling and giggling as he told her shitty jokes on the way home, clutching his arm as they made their way inside and into the lift. 

As they walked down the hallway of their apartment, he scooped her up bridal style, making her squeal before she started laughing, gripping around his neck as if she thought he’d drop her. As if he ever would. He was smiling so fucking hard his cheeks hurt and he was sure he probably looked fucking psychotic at this point. He couldn't help it though, he’d never felt happiness quite like this, never thought he would. Hadn’t thought he deserved it. Yet here she was, beautiful and sweet Charlotte, giving him every drop of love she had in her entire being and he wouldn't waste a single bit of it. 

He carried her through the threshold, gently placing her on her feet as they got indoors and he shut the door behind her. His eyes turned hungry then as he gazed at her, eyes trailing over her in that fucking dress, looking like some angel sent from heaven to tempt him. 

He stepped towards her and the look in his eyes had her stepping back until her back hit the door, lips parted, pupils blown wide as he gazed up at him. He rested his hands either side of her on the door, caging her in, knowing she loved his size and loved feeling helpless around him, little minx she was. 

He trailed his nose along her delicate throat with a hum and she let out a soft noise that had his hard dick aching in his pants. He placed a wet and open mouthed kiss on her pulse point, making her moan quietly before he leaned back up to look at her with his blazing eyes. 

“You look good enough to eat, sweetheart,” he purred and she smiled, a delighted flash glinting in her eyes. 

“Be careful of the dress, it's a rental,” she smirked, making him snort softly.

“That’s a shame, wanted to fuck you in it,” he muttered wickedly, loving how she swallowed thickly, squirming where she stood. 

“I have something better… you should take the dress off,” she murmured, looking at him all coy like and batting her lashes. 

He was intrigued and horny so he did what he was told like a good husband, moving his hands from the door to around her waist. She gasped as he pulled her flush to his chest, her hands splaying on him as she blinked up at him. His large hand slid around to her back, finding the zip and unzipping it slowly, slow enough to make her shift impatiently. 

Once the zip was completely down, his hands trailed in a featherlight touch up to her shoulders, pulling down the dainty straps there. He tugged the dress down, revealing lingerie he hadn't expected underneath. His movements became a little faster now, pulling the dress until it pooled around her ankles and he let out a deep groan, his eyes darkening. 

“You dress up for me, angel?” he asked in a mere whisper and her blush swept up her chest to her face as she nodded shyly. What a fucking sight she was like this, white lingerie with delicate straps and flowers adorning her. She’d been right, it was better than the wedding dress. His hands slid up her hips to her waist and he leaned down, nuzzling her nose with his.

“You look absolutely beautiful, Charlotte,” he murmured, brushing his lips against hers and feeling her smile against him.

“You like it?” she asked almost meekly and maybe it shouldn't have made his dick even harder, but it did.

“Fuckin’ love it,” he replied breathlessly. 

He trailed hot and wet kisses from her mouth, down her jaw and to her neck, lavishing it with attention, just how she liked it. She let out a breathy moan and he groaned in response, pulling her closer to him as his hands slid around to her arse. It was then he realised the lingerie was a thong and her perfect arse cheeks were on display for him. A growl rumbled in his chest as he gave them a firm squeeze, and she moaned a little louder this time. 

“On the bed, love,” he ordered, pulling himself away from her painfully. He needed to get out of his fucking clothes so he could have his way with her before his dick fell off. She flashed him a pretty smile before they both made their way to the bedroom and she sauntered over to the bed. He watched her lay on her side, watching him with rapt attention as he started to undress. His lips tugged into a smirk at her blatant ogling so he made sure to take his time as he unbuttoned his shirt before peeling it off, his pants soon to follow. 

Once he was finally free of his constraints, he made a beeline for the bed and Charlotte rolled onto her back waiting for him. He climbed on, parting her thighs and groaning in delight at the view of her soaked cunt behind the sheer white material. 

“Look at you, all wet and ready for me already like a good little wife,” he drawled and he didn't miss how her breathing hitched at his words. Her pupils were blown wide as she watched him keenly and he slid his hands up the inside of her thighs slowly, loving how soft her skin was. He could feel her shaking with anticipation, his cock twitching at how she arched her back, trying to get closer to him. 

He couldn't tear his eyes off her, he loved her so much it felt like it caused him physical pain sometimes. He leaned down, kissing every morsel of skin he could that poked out of her body suit, worshipping her body like the goddess she was. Fucking hell, he’d give his life to her, devote everything he had in him to her. 

She was writhing under his touch, at every flutter of his lips against her skin, every brush of his tongue, every nip of his teeth. He was reverent with every touch as he made his way up her body, paying extra attention to her neck and getting a lovely moan from her. 

His lips finally claimed hers and she was so desperate for him that he felt like he might spill his load without being touched. How had he gotten so lucky? What on earth had he done to deserve such a beauty in his life that was the radiance she exuded? She was absolutely everything to him, the beginning and the end, completing him like the puzzle piece he’d spent his life searching for. 

“What?” she asked shyly and he realised then he’d stopped kissing her and was just looking at her with those soft eyes he had, only for her. He felt heat bloom high on his cheeks, in the top of his ears and she noticed because she smiled warmly at him, her fingers caressing the back of his neck lovingly. 

“I just… I love you. Never thought I’d have this,” he admitted quietly and her eyes softened, her smile widening. 

“I love you too,” she fluttered a pretty smile at him, pulling him back down and massaging her lips against his. 

He melted into her, his hand trailing down her body like some sacred object before it brushed her dripping cunt over her underwear. She gasped and he moaned, practically salivating over how needy her body was being. Part of him wanted to go all out, fuck her with his fingers, lick her pussy until she was a shaking mess, but he couldn’t. Seeing her in this pretty white lingerie, seeing her in that dress, seeing her with his ring on her finger, branding her as his… It was too much. He needed her so badly he was sure he’d die. 

He hooked his finger in the string of her underwear, dragging it from where it lay over her cunt and arse, pulling it to the side to sit in the crease of her thigh. He gripped his aching cock, rubbing against her soaked heat and she let out a needy noise that had his blood running hot. 

He sunk into her with a loud groan of relief, her own moan bleeding into his. He bottomed out deliciously and she had that pretty look on her face that told him he was filling her tight little cunt up to the brim, filling her up good. The hand beside her head was used for leverage, his other winding around her lower back to angle her better and keep her as close as possible before he started rutting into her. 

If he wasnt half gone with lust, he might have felt sorry for the neighbours as his pretty little wife started keening, clawing at his shoulders as he fucked the soul out of her, trying to claim it for his own. The legs of the bed squeaked, the headboard slamming into the wall and the room was full of obscene sounds. Their moans, the sound of their skin slapping together as he fucked her like a man possessed. 

He wanted to tell her she was his now, belonged to him in every way possible, wanted to tell her she wouldn't be leaving him ever, not if he had anything to do with it. He wanted to say a lot of things but his mouth could do little else but moan like a needy whore at the pleasure he felt. She was divine, being with her like this was a holy experience for him and it set every nerve ending in his body on fire. 

His lips crashed to hers and the kiss was messy, desperate as they both clawed and pawed at each other, chasing a release that felt higher than any other. Her hand was on the back of his neck, pulling him impossibly closer to her as she tangled her tongue with his and he could feel the cold metal of her ring on his skin, a reminder of how she willingly gave herself over to him today. They were no longer separate souls, two halves separated into two bodies. They were joined in union, tied together forever. He’d follow her even after death if it came to it. 

He angled his hips just right, brushing that spot inside of her and pressing against her clit with his public bone and the noise she let out would make a porn star blush.

“Fuckin’ Christ…” he moaned, struggling to hold into his sanity as her cunt fluttered around him 

“Don’t stop,” she choked out, her pale cheeks flushed red, irises nowhere in sight as her eyes were overtaken by her pupils. Her voice was pleading, bordering on desperate as she clung to him like she might float off the earth if she didn't. 

He didn't stop, he kept his brutal pace, sweat trickling down his temple with the effort it was taking to not fill her up, not yet. He felt the moment she came, felt her pussy grip him so tightly he was worried she’d cut off his blood supply. It felt like she was trying to suck him inside of her, trying to consume him and he’d let her. He let out an embarrassingly loud moan, guttural and primal as his cock spurted thick ropes of cum inside of her, over and over. He felt like he'd never cum that much in his life. 

They both lay there, panting and sweaty and he tried not to squash her as they came down from their highs. His lips found hers, the kiss tender, slow, loving. Her hand was on his cheek, soft and sweet and it made his chest feel tight. When he pulled away, she was radiant, glowing from the inside out as she blinked her pretty eyes at him. 

“I’m the luckiest girl in the world,” she murmured and it made the tightness in his chest worse. 

He couldn't fathom being something someone wanted, that someone would be lucky to have him. But he knew she meant it, down to her fucking bones and god if it didn’t feel good. If it didn't make him feel like he could do anything when she looked at him so lovingly. He felt like he could take on the world. He was the lucky one and he knew that, to have such a loving partner, now wife, to have someone with so much love inside of her, all to himself. 

She’d raised herself, had been starved of love and basic human decency for most of her life and she’d turned out perfect. She’d raised herself and done it right and it made Simon feel like he could take on his own demons. If she could come out of the other side burning brighter than the sun, then so could he. 

They would chase each other's demons away, make the shadows crawl back to wherever they came from. She lit him up from the inside out and it made him feel warm. Made him feel like he was actually living and not just existing. Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies and he refused to part from her now he found her.

[oceangirl24]

Find the Word- We're back!

Thanks so much for the tag and for doing this @axolotlsupremacyowo!

Find the words you're given somewhere in your works. Then give the people you tag a set of words to find. No worries if you can't find them all.

My words: tile, gown, foundation, fuss, overlook, sniff, infinite, trouble, clay, personality

Your words:

chowder, clatter, visage, eternal, skeptical, irate, jaggernaut, lime, superhero

Tagging: @justanotherpersonwhowrites @tsunderesalty @mrsmungus @fattybattysblog @danceswithdarkspawn @udaberriwrites @the-orion-scribe @amberlide @stealing-your-kittens @violetrose-art @winterlovesong1 @aleksandriel @kayedium-writes @bees-and-sunshine @sliebman10 @mikaharuka @axolotlsupremacyowo

This is an open tag for anyone who wants to play. If you wanted be tagged and I missed you, throw something at me. If you'd like to be included in future tags, let me know!

The Return: The Christmas List

"Like, would you date someone Jon's age?"

"It would depend on the person." She could not be direct any more than he could be.

Shawn scratched his fingernail across the tile of the kitchen island, unable to look her in the eyes. "What if the person is Jon?"

The Return: Cult Fiction Revisited

The way Jon laid in the hospital bed was same the way he laid after the motorcycle accident. There were wires stuck to his chest coming up through the neck of his hospital gown. An oxygen cannula aided his breathing. The only the casts and bandages were missing.

Jon was as still and lifeless as he was back then.

Saudade: Fishing for Answers

It took Riley a long time before she could give voice to her fears. "That they'll start fighting and being unhappy with each other. I'm afraid they'll end up divorced."

Letting out a slow breath, Maya watched her breath dissipate in the cold air around them. She didn't want to admit that Riley's fear was attaching itself to her, but it was. If the foundations of two of the most solid relationships in existence could be shaken and cracked, what hope did her mom and Shawn have?

The Return: Questions and Answers Part II

"Yeah, I know the job's been bad," Cory admitted. He had been holding back his own concerns for the past several months, not wanting to alarm those close to him if he was wrong. "Listen, I'm only tellin' you this- Topanga would kill me if she knew- but sometimes I create problems at school that force Jon to come down and deal with."

Shawn didn't know whether to laugh or be upset. "Seriously?"

Cory gripped his knees with hands. "Yeah, I mean, nothing major that would cause real problems for anyone. I just make a fuss knowing he won't ignore me."

"You are kinda of hard to ignore when you make a fuss."

Saudade: Preparations

Shawn forced his attention away from the bike; they had to leave for the hospital now. He stood and pulled the key out of his pocket that Audrey had left him. The key was still on the same Pentagon keyring Jon had way back then. He checked the bike over once more to make sure everything was ready to run. That's when he noticed something was missing.

He smiled as he recalled the time he tried to take the bike to Audrey's but couldn't get it started because he overlooked a small but important detail-the key.

The Return: The Keys

"Cor, look around." Shawn gestured to the crowded place they were in. "Who don't you see here?"

Cory looked around suspiciously, then looked back at Shawn, and shrugged. "That blonde lady from the park," he said, repeating how Riley had referred to Miss Tompkins. He drew curious looks from both of the men at the table.

Shawn sniffed. "You're welcome."

Autumn in Philadelphia: Cory and Shawn's Miracle Soap: Tuesday

(the closest I have to infinite is eternal)

An ear-splitting scream shook the Matthews' house early Tuesday morning. Amy grimaced at the eternal shriek as she set a plate full of hot cakes down in the center of the kitchen table.

Birthday Wishes and Valentine Kisses: Accidental Discoveries

Shawn spun around ready to fight. This was an instinctual reaction to being approached from behind. Growing up in the Pink Flamingo Trailer Park taught him that being ready to fight was the only way to avoid being pummeled.

It was good thing he repressed the urge to blindly swing, however. If he had, he would have connected with Brad's stomach.

And he would have been in a lot of trouble.

No clay. Hmm...

Flashbacks: Better Days

While he favored the bikinis worn by the girls on MTV's Beach House, he knew Audrey would not be comfortable in one in public and they were also going to a family theme park for young kids, not the Jersey Shore. Begrudgingly he put the suit back and resumed searching.

At one point he thought he found the one- a pearlescent two-piece. He had to struggle to reach it as it was shoved in the back behind a bunch of one-piece suits with weird ruching and ruffled skirts. He was terribly disappointed when he finally got it into the light.

It wasn't even a bikini; it was an off-white one-piece.

No doubt Audrey would make this boring garment look like haute couture, but Jon couldn't stomach the idea of putting her into something so plain. He shoved it back where he found it and continued to look for something that matched her personality.

[anna-neko]

hello and welcome to moar Scary cosplay adventures

did ep16 or or ep20 break me more… not sure… both were hella punch in the feels! But also the whole memory-removing syringe? That is so much my jam when in comes to SciFi concepts! (never get me started on Eternal Sunshine, we'll be here all day)

As mentioned before - cannot draw, but hadda get it out somehow. ONE of ideas was how would Scary deal with further loss (this is October, when threat of Terry Jr's death was looming lower than the Doodler's ass over everyone's head) and so my spiel involved her with a bunch of crumpled up napkins and broken memory-syringes, alone in a corner of shop... etc etc..**

**if anyone wants to draw this, plz tag me! I wanna seeeeee

Here you see the gremlin before the shoot

Now lemme just set the scene here - we did our hottest Myspace snaps, I was bought delicious things (eternal prosperity be upon my dear friend feeding this gremlin), and we're walking back. It is cold, it is night, shops are starting to close up and I am rambling on As we're walking past some kinda food place I point at the one dark corner of their outdoor tables (the rest was pretty well lit from street ) and go "just like that"

and this absolute nerd (adoringly) gives me a look, turns into the shop, takes out actual cash money and buys a slice! Purely to be prop to try and shoot something outta the tangled mess of my words from last 20 minutes!

Rad Fact: the blue stuff is dishwashing soap

"What if all of our memories are darkness and decay? Stuff we don't really want to remember?"

wait fuck… did I say the soft weak sounding thing… if I stab moar places maybe will forget extra hard (yes yes, we all know that's not where the memories are stored)

Don't make me shove my worst menstrual cramps memory into your weak mind!

AND THIS LAST ONE IS MY FAV!! being a total gremlin to … scandalize? annoy? perturb? Terry!

[darkmatter-nebula]

Au Colli and Hunter become orphans and are sent to an orphanage there they are forced to hand over their old clothes that would go to the trash and Colli and Hunter are embarrassed and give towels for them to cover themselves so they enter the bathtub and begin to be washed uncomfortably, Colli was stuttering when they started washing his back and armpit then taking his leg and rubbing it with that horrible soap and Hunter tried to comfort Colli but he couldn't when they started washing his scar on his cheek, hair, start washing his back and Colli doesn't like it when they wipe his shoulder and it gets worse when they confiscate his rubber duck that he brought and that his father had given him before he died the boy with rather strange features in the opinion of the men at the orphanage ask Colli to come back when the boy is very wet and soapy with lots of cute freckles on his body he runs out to get his duckling but fails he is taken clinging back to the bath then they throw a bucket of cold water on Hunter and Colli and then Hunter shakes Colli's hand saying that they they'll get it back and that they'll never be apart and they'll be strong and protect each other

Hi, my dear @importantnightwerewolf!

Thank you for the request!

Plot Twist: While Hunter from this Universe is a human, Colli is still a starboy. Hunter's parents found him and immediately adopted him. Everyone in Gravesfield (except for Hunter, Caleb and Evelyn) is beyond confused why Caleb and Evelyn's second son doesn't age. They're also confused about the starboy's celestial features.

Drabble: Tales From The Multiverse - We'll Always Protect Each Other

"You look pretty odd. But, at the same time, very beautiful. And I like the fact that you're an eternal little boy." A very tall man at the orphanage had a predatory expression on his face as he put his eyes on the naked body of a certain small starboy with otherworldly fluffy lavender hair and a heart of gold.

Colli was understandably uncomfortable and terrified as he noticed the look in the brute man's eyes. "I swear to God, if you lie even one finger on him, I'm going to slaughter you!" Hunter, Colli's big brother, was already plotting murder. The blonde boy wrapped protectively his arms around his sweet little brother.

Even though Colli's small body was filled to the brim with powerful magic, the kindhearted eternal little boy was a pacifist through and through. He didn't like conflicts and violence. Colli teared up as he cuddled closer to his big brother. "Don't worry, Sunshine. I'll always protect you." Hunter whispered softly.

Then, the tall man began to wash Colli. He was the opposite of gentle with him. "You're hurting me!" Colli couldn't hold back his tears as the man scrubbed the blue skin on his whole left leg. The immortal celestial boy had an expression of sheer agony on his adorable multi-colored face.

"He said you're hurting him! Take your hands off him this instant!" Hunter's magenta eyes were full of hatred for the man. The sixteen years old boy was very angry! Colli, who couldn't take it anymore, floated up as high as he could in this small room. He levitated Hunter up to him.

"Kid, what exactly are you?!" Colli didn't answer as he levitated some towels up, so that he and Hunter could cover themselves with something. "Well, if you're disobedient, I'm going to confiscate your rubber ducky." With this words, the man took the ducky and left the room.

Colli was about to float after him, but Hunter gently held him back. The blonde boy pulled his greatest treasure into a hug. "We're going to get it back, I promise! And we'll always stay together!" "Yes, big brother. We'll protect each other." Colli whispered as he cuddled even closer to Hunter.

The End

[hadaad]

 WHAT THEY SMELL LIKE :   He is very chill when it comes to scents etc most days. He will always smell like a hint of soap and shampoo (tangerine!!) and a faint whiff of cologne if you're standing close enough. If anyone ever borrows a jacket or sweater, they will definitely be able to smell said cologne. Usually Sauvage by Dior but occasionally Eternity by Ralph Lauren as well. Dior tends to be his go to smell when it comes to nights out, dates, etc. Overall, Zaf is very into just overall cleanliness and he believes smell is a part of that. Despite this, however, if its mid afternoon and The Grid has been slow ... there will definitely be a lingering air of some take away food or other hovering around him.

HOW THEY SLEEP ( position, schedule, etc. ): If anyone in his line of work ever said they sleep easily, they would be lying. Zaf has learned to sleep when and where he can. His mind never stops running, it replays events of the day over and over again and while he is sure that reliving your mistakes one hundred times in your head works for some (hello, adam.).. it doesn't for him. So his approach to the end of the day is simple : he puts something stupid and inconsequential on and lets himself zone out. He is a fan of animes and old timey kung fu style movies and loves falling asleep to them. Unless he is too exhausted to manage it, he alway strips down before getting into bed though passing out fully clothed after only making it as far as the couch has been known to happen. One must is that the closet door has to be closed, telly is on (if its not, he cant sleep) and the lamp on the opposite side's nightstand is dimly lit. And his pillow has to be cold. If his pillow isn't cold, he isn't sleeping. He sleeps on his back, sort of like he's dead. Once he was babysitting Wes for Adam and Wes found him sleeping like that and it was a huge traumatic thing and no one has yet to recover.

WHAT MUSIC THEY ENJOY :  He likes things like Tool, All Time Low, Black Sabbath.. very eclectic. He's been known to play a few disney songs when he's in control of the radio just to drive Adam bonkers and fully sticks to the belief that if you can convince him to let loose and get started...their section chief does a fantastic rendition of Celine Dion's My heart Will Go On. Zaf is very open to any and all music. He sees it as a story or memory set down by the writer/composer ... but play country in his car and he will kick you out while its still moving.

HOW MUCH THEY SPEND EVERY MORNING GETTING READY :  getting ready? not too long. Showers are quick, clothes are thrown on... but if he has time, he will linger over breakfast. It takes him twenty minutes to eat a piece of toast because he wants to enjoy it and he believes breakfast is the start of every day and pretty much sets the tone.

FAVORITE THING TO COLLECT : the fancy dice for tabletop games.

LEFT OR RIGHT HANDED :  right. 

FAVOURITE SPORT(S) : football

FAVOURITE TOURISTY THING TO DO WHEN TRAVELLING :  local parties, gossip with people at the bars and/or restaurants, explore the stores etc, ghost tours !!

FAVOURITE KIND OF WEATHER : Blue sky and sunshine but with a slight breeze. Generally still cool.

WEIRD / OBSCURE FEAR THEY HAVE :  Ants. he thinks its freaky how they can lift things so much heavier than themselves while working together. sometimes he dreams he falls asleep somewhere and they carry him off. it's terrifying.

THE CARNIVAL / ARCADE GAME THEY ALWAYS WIN WITHOUT FAIL :   the gun vs the targets one.

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Contact Comfort

Spencer Reid x (gender neutral) Reader

Word Count: ~2000

Warnings: None, really? Emotional hurt/comfort and sorta like a touch starved deal doing on, but it’s pretty thoroughly fluffy and sugary-sweet. 

A/N: For the “bed sharing” square on my @cmbingo​ card! 

Title is from the referenced psych study, because I’m a dork. 

“One sec,” you call, wincing at how thick and nasal your voice sounds.

You wipe your cheeks hastily as you sit up. It’ll be obvious anyway, though; wouldn’t take a profiler to notice your tear tracks and blotchy face. 

It’s Spencer. Of course it is — because he’s the last person you want to see you like this, when you’re all snotty and puffy and gross. 

His eyes go wide and solemn when he sees your face, genuinely distressed. There’s that empathy again, the too-big heart that everyone seems to overlook in favor of his big brain. You love him for it. 

Well, you love him for a lot of things. 

“Hi,” he says quietly. “I was going to just ask if you were okay, but… I guess I don’t actually need to ask now.” 

You let out a watery little chuckle. “Guess not.” 

“You want some company?” He looks hopeful, almost, and then seems to catch himself, dropping his gaze with a shrug. “I understand if you just want your space, though.” 

If it was anyone else, you absolutely would not want company right now. But it’s Spencer, so. You pretty much always want him around. 

“I was just about to turn on some shitty TV because it felt too quiet in here, honestly. Company would be really nice.” 

He gives you a quick twitch of a half-smile as he steps past you, and after you close the door, there’s a pause where you both stand there and look at each other, Spencer suddenly shy as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, in a thin unhappy voice. 

“Not really. Just… one of those days. One of those cases.” 

“Can I do anything to help?”  

You hesitate, because it seems like such an immature thing to say out loud, but you’re too tired to be anything other than honest.

“I could use a hug.”  

Spencer’s expression goes all soft and sweet, and your cheeks feel hot under the drying salt water as he steps closer. He wraps his arms around you, and you bury your face in his chest and try to inhale. Your exhale is a ragged little shudder, and you fist both hands in the back of Spencer’s cardigan as you cling to him, feeling raw and sensitive and so very young. 

He lets out a quiet, shaky sigh of his own, squeezing you tighter. 

How long has it been since anybody hugged you like this? It’s like the contact — the warmth of him — the pressure of his arms around your shoulders — the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek — is lifting some massive weight you never realized you were carrying. All you want in the entire world is to hold him tight, take the comfort while you can, but you know you should pull away. 

He hesitates for a second before releasing you, like maybe he doesn’t want to let go either. 

Then he’s stepping back, hands in his pockets, slightly pink-cheeked as he bounces on the balls of his feet and gives you one of his frog-faced not-quite-smiles. 

“You said something about shitty television?” he asks. “Or maybe we could watch some television that’s not actually shitty?” 

“That sounds perfect.”

Turns out Planet Earth is on, which is the rare overlap in your and Spencer’s tastes, and it’s not until you’re eagerly toeing off your shoes that you realize the bed is the only seating option. 

Spencer sits cross-legged, with his elbows on his knees and his chin propped on his fists, and he stays as close to the edge of the bed as physically possible. You lean back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, feeling the need to hunch over, like you could physically protect your heart. 

Then again, it’s much too late for that. You knew your heart was in trouble the moment you met Spencer. 

Today, especially, you already feel vulnerable, like all your carefully-constructed walls cracked open the second you let yourself cry, and now you’re just ripped-open and bare. You need a good night’s sleep and a long, hot shower before you’ll be able to go about your life as a professional, fully-functional, grown-up human again. Right now you’re just kind of a mess.  

“I know there’s the germ thing,” you blurt out, without looking at Spencer. “But —” 

His laugh sounds crackly and nervous, but relieved, like maybe he’d been holding his breath. “Come here.” 

You give him a grateful smile as you scoot closer to each other, and apparently you’d been so worried about your own swollen eyes earlier that you hadn’t noticed the fatigue evident in every drawn, wan line of his face. 

Not that he isn’t still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

You duck tentatively under Spencer’s arm, and it’s not like you’re cuddling, exactly, because there’s still an inch or so of space between your hips and legs… but the bony plane of his chest, between collarbone and heart, makes a surprisingly perfect pillow. You pull the sleeves of your sweater over your hands, tucking them under your chin, curling up.

The moment feels delicate, like a soap bubble that you could burst if you simply breathe too loudly, and you hold yourself stiffly, at first, not wanting to move any closer for fear of pushing a boundary. It feels like you’re glowing at the points where your bodies are touching; the warm weight of his arm feels like bright spring sunshine across your upper back. His palm on the round of your shoulder is thawing away the last chilly bits of your self-consciousness. 

When the commercial break starts, Spencer says, “Do you ever think about how little physical contact the average single adult experiences on a regular basis?” His voice is quiet and almost sheepish. 

You smile. “Yeah, I’ve considered it.” 

“Especially when we live away from our families,” Spencer says wistfully. 

You can feel the vibration of his words in his chest. You shift, making yourself more comfortable, feeling dazed and dumb with his proximity.

“The monkeys. I feel like — you know?” 

“Harlow. I know exactly what you mean.”

Trust him to get that from your ridiculously vague mumbling.  

“Except they’re babies,” you add. 

“The emotional benefits of physical touch don’t decrease just because we get older,” he says softly. “It’s just that the fear of judgement makes it difficult to be honest.”

There’s silence for a minute as the show starts again, and David Attenborough says something about sloths. Spencer’s thumb strokes your shoulder gently, back and forth, soothing. It’s hypnotic, and the tension drains from your muscles, leaving you more relaxed than you’ve felt in a long time. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. 

You swallow hard. “For what?” 

“Being honest.” 

There’s no reason for your eyes to be stinging like this, but they are. “I should be thanking you.”

“Nothing to thank me for. This is… really nice.” 

“Yeah. It really is.” 

He’s quiet again. 

Spencer smells like vanilla and old books — although the latter might just be your imagination, something to do with the power of mental association — Spencer could probably explain the science behind that. Your brain has them inextricably linked, though. You’ve caught hints of that smell before, but never up close like this. 

The softness of the worn knit of his cardigan makes you want to rub your cheek against it like a cat. His arm, skinny as it may be, feels like protection — like you’re safe here. 

After the brutal violence of the case and the emotional turbulence of the day, this quiet, golden moment is even more breathtakingly peaceful by contrast. It doesn’t feel real. 

It’s too good to last. This isn’t yours. It’s not going to last, no matter how right it feels, and your chest already aches with the idea of letting him go.    

You try to appreciate it while you can, to remember every sensation, but your body is leaden, exhausted down to the bone, completely drained of whatever adrenaline-stubbornness-caffeine combination was keeping you running until now. Spencer’s thumb rubs invisible circles on your shoulder, and he breathes evenly, and you feel safe. 

You’re asleep before the next commercial break. 

A distant car alarm wakes you, sometime later. In the handful of seconds before it’s turned off, you come to without opening your eyes, trying to remember where you are and who you’re with. The smell of vanilla makes you relax instinctively, before you can process why. 

Spencer has all but melted against you in his sleep, soft and boneless. He’s got both arms around you now, holding you close, his breath tickling your forehead. Then he stirs, and you can feel the moment he realizes where he is, because his muscles go tense as he freezes. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs hoarsely. He’s barely audible over the infomercial voices coming from the TV. “I didn’t mean to — sorry. I’ll go.” 

And before you can think better of it, you whisper, “Don’t.” 

He’s still frozen, and silent for a second that feels like an eternity. “You mean —”

“I don’t want you to leave. Stay.” 

Honesty seems to be your default setting tonight, and anyway, you can tell without looking at a clock that it’s long past midnight, well into the early-morning hours where boundaries and reservations and reality don’t seem to follow their usual laws. You can’t lie to him (or to yourself) right now. 

Spencer’s voice cracks as he says, “Okay. I’ll just — let me get the light.”

You don’t open your eyes as he slips away. This all seems like a dream, and the sharp bright lamp light might make it dissolve around you. You might wake up. 

The TV goes quiet, and when you tug at the hotel comforter, sliding between cool sheets fully clothed, the barely-there rasp of moving fabric sounds loud in its absence. 

Spencer turns off the lamp, and you open your eyes. You can just see his shape as he navigates the dark room, negative space on a charcoal backdrop, but as your vision adjusts, you can see a faint suggestion of his features in the blue-black. 

You feel it, though, when his weight makes the springs of the old mattress dip. You’d expected him to lie on his back again, but instead his face is just inches from yours when his cheek comes to rest on the pillow. You feel the way he’s breathing, quick and shallow and nervous. You feel your heart kick in your ribs, thudding so loud he must be able to hear it. 

He reaches out slowly, hooking an arm around your ribs, and pauses with just the very tips of his spidery fingers touching your back, between your shoulder blades: five soft points of contact that you feel so intensely they might as well be electrode pads connecting you to a defibrillator. 

This is crossing a line, and you both know it. 

It’s not a sexual touch, it’s not that sort of thrill going through you, but something about this feels profoundly intimate. That intimacy is almost more shocking than lust might’ve been, and it’s much more dangerous. It’s the sort of closeness you don’t walk away from unscathed.  

Spencer’s fingers flutter, butterfly-wing delicate, like one or the other of you might be trembling. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” he whispers. 

“Yes.”  

Maybe you’re both trembling. 

His palm comes to rest on your back, easing you closer, and you shift, settle, readjust. He pulls back and tilts his head just long enough to brush his lips over your temple, soft and sweet, before tucking you neatly under his chin, where you fit like you were meant to be there, with your nose nudging at the gap between his collar and the delicate skin of his throat.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispers, sounding just as awed as you feel. 

“Sweet dreams, Spencer.” 

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