#this has been gnawing at my brain for ages

[frosthetix]

when ke huy quan’s character meets michelle yeoh’s character in the mcu and they have their own little “I love you in every universe” moment what then

[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

[pascalsbby]

CARNAL / 5: All Is Fair In Love & War

Chapter 4 / Masterlist

Summary: 5.5K/ f!reader, dark!joel, bfd!joel, brat tamer!joel

“You were infiltrating his space, now. You stayed still, and she mumbled something. You pressed, “keep watching” on the screen and let the TV voices drown out your reality- the one in which Joel is awake, unknowing that you’re in his house and in his daughters bed.”

Warnings: 18+ mdni, SMUT, age gap, knife play, lil bit of blood play, breath play, choking, he takes what he wants, dominate & aggressive joel, pet names, praise kink, p in v sex, face fucking, dirty talk <3, he talks you through it, tells you what to do- the usual pure filth + a little more this time.

A/N: SHIT’S HAPPENING! I got a little carried away. Lemme know what you think, please? 🤍

“How do you love?”

“Like a fist. Like a knife.”

- Ada Limón

°:. *₊ ° . ° .• ♡ °:. *₊ ° *₊.• ♡ °:. *₊ ° . ° .• ♡ °:. *₊ ° *

You had surrendered the recollection of what it felt like to be touched, held, a long time ago. For the person touching you to feel you for themselves, too.

A delicate pass, the very essence of tenderness has materialized into his calloused fingertips. Small hairs from his beard kissing your skin, just as his lips brush up and down your neck. He’s breathing into you, the condensation is warm, making your own sweat drip. Lips whispering, gliding along the delicate curve of your neck, his movement like a goddamn poem.

His fingers dipping into your depth, wet from prodding in your mouth.

Pleasure and pain, almost annoyance at how good it feels. It tickles. It feels wrong, even. Joel dips down and licks your sweat pooling in a tucked-in spot between your collar bones.

It feels heavy with guilt. It feels safe. His thick arms are holding you against his body, he’s making promises in your ear.

It’s not real, though- it’s a dream. A dream you’ve been having for days, over and over. But it never really leaves when you wake, either.

It’s what Joel felt like- will feel like when you meet again. The familiar gnawing in your chest aches. Where does the feeling of him end, and I begin? Am I finally lost within? I’d stay here forever. Maybe that’s what I was meant for… to be lost in the chest of a man in my own brain.

9:45pm, sat on either side of Sarah’s bed in her still-pink room that she’d outgrown years ago.

“Dad says he’ll repaint it once I promise I’ll stay here until I graduate, during the summers at least,” she had said. “I guess that gives me more time to see you since you’ll be here now too.” You corrected her, “Until I can move out of my parent’s house again. Maybe I’ll just live here, it’s better than going back there.” Sarah frowned at the joke, knowing what you had shared about your family to her.

What were you doing? Joking about staying here. This was Joel’s house. He was asleep two doors down. Now wasn’t the best time to be making jokes, but it felt easier than trying to face what was truly happening.

Sarah had promised he was sleeping whenever you snuck through the back door, putting her finger to her lips to quiet you when you were suddenly falling over the molding on the way in the door. You’d never been one for graceful movements.

She held in her giggles all the way until her door was closed, though.

“Were you trying to wake the sleeping bear?”

“Maybe,” you giggled.

And that was the truth. You were terrified, but you wanted him to know you were here.

You were angry at him, but you wanted him. You wanted to see his room, not through a computer screen on a cam website- but in person. You wanted to be near him.

You were infiltrating his space, now.

°:. *₊ ° . ° .• ♡

It had been 6 days since Joel had shown his face. It had also been 6 days and few minutes less whenever he had left the bathroom you two shared. He decided not to share his plan with you, once again. You were a puppet in his game.

‘Break with him? For him?’ You had, momentarily on the bathroom floor. The sobs were clawing their way out unmercifully, but you also didn’t want to stop them. You had believed what he told you. He held you like a little girl, arms wrapped around you in safety. And you had listened and believed. Why? When has a man ever followed through in their promises to you?

He had left you in the bathroom, fending for yourself on how to clean up the mess he made. He had cleaned up the visible mess of your cum, his, sure, but not what he awoke inside of you.

You looked into the mirror and formed a half smile, looking at the faint shadow of where your mascara had been running.

Your neck was red where he’d wrapped his hand around you.

You took a few more deep breaths and then patted down your dress. There, on the inside of your thigh was his fingertips, branded into your body from force.

You wanted to tattoo him on your body, make him permanent. But you also wanted to scream and throw a fit against his chest. You felt like a child.

When you got tired of looking into your own eyes, you went to go face the truth.

Sarah had found you first, immediately boring into you. Her face was disappointed, frowning. You knew in that moment that she was gone, months of friendship thrown away.

She knew, she knew that there was something going on between you and Joel. She knew you fucked him in that bathroom. She knew he’d been paying you to ruin yourself for him.

You waited for a sharp pain, a crying voice, something.

She quickened her pace and ran to you after she could see that physically, you were fine. But she didn’t hit you. She wrapped you in her arms and the breath you had been unknowingly holding, released. She whispered to you, still holding you tight.

Suddenly the world was spinning, for probably the fifth time that night. But when was the last time you felt like you were standing on solid ground, anyways?

“Dad told me, I’m so sorry, I had no idea or I would have beat his ass myself, I swear to God.” She released from the hug and held you at arms length, looking you over.

You’ve never been a good liar, praying that your eyes wouldn’t give it away. ‘I’m fucking your dad.’

She looked like Joel in that moment, sounded like him. Concerned, brow set downward.

Joel was standing a few feet away, facing you while Sarah’s back was to him. He was smiling ever-so-lightly here and there as your family talked at him, his eyes lifted from his dad’s face to you. You imagined your eyes were wide, still red from tears, from being handled by him… fucked into the concrete wall.

Your eyes returned to Sarah as she started again.

“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone! How could you not tell me! I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I know this isn’t the time. I just thought you would have told me that he wasn’t treating you right, that he was supposed to be here on your big day. I’m sorry.” She said again, softer, realizing she was getting worked up about the ‘wrong’ part of the story, and you probably couldn’t handle that energy at the moment.

You dared look at Joel again, the indention between his brows was visible for a few moments, he nodded his head towards you, looking at you through his eyelashes after looking down at his feet. Play along. Stop choking. Stop starin’.

You returned to her gaze, as she waited for your response.

God damnit, answer her…. C’mon Birdie.

You could still feel his fingers in the back of your throat.

“Sarah, I’m so sorry. I just thought it would turn out differently. He seemed so sweet and interested in me and that usually doesn’t happen so I ju-“

She cut you off, shhhh’ing you.

“We don’t have to talk about it right now. This mystery man has spent too much of your time tonight.”

He had told your parents the same story, and they believed him. So much so they didn’t even care to ask you anything, all you got was a “sorry” nod from your mom. Your dad was too busy talking to other family members, probably telling them how hard he worked to get you here.

And yet again, here you were, the victim in a string of lies that weren’t even your own.

The story was simple: you had been seeing some guy for a few months and invited him here to meet your parents on your big night. He didn’t show- and when Sarah came in all excited talking about Chase, it made you upset. Joel followed you because he thought you were upset that he was there without notice, and he didn’t want to worry anyone else in the gallery by bringing your parents into it.

It was good. Why are you surprised? You knew he was a good liar. All your fucking encounters had been premeditated- even today. Maybe even this one, in where he sticks his fingers inside of you and fucks you to tears, then blames it on some other guy.

But it didn’t surprise you how quickly they fell under his spell. You did the same, and all it took was whispered filth in his deep, vibrating voice. All it took was his fist wetly wrapped around his throbbing cock.

Your emotions were never really taken into consideration, and this was another one of those moments- but this time you were grateful. No one asked questions about the mystery asshole again. Except for Sarah.

That’s how you ended up in his house, in her bedroom. You felt like you owed her the ‘truth’ of what happened between you and mystery boy.

You wish the real mystery boy wasn’t her dad. Why couldn’t he have been the neighbor, or some professor from school? You’d never really looked at older men in this manner, before Joel.

Shame was growing deeper amidst the entanglement of lies you felt like you’d eventually get stuck in.

And they were sticking to you, the lies. Thick, heavy. They played themselves over and over in your dreams, dancing in circles and spinning webs.

He whispered to you, “Mine. Mine. Mine, Birdie.” But just in your dreams. You had wings and he washed them gently, petting and taking care of you.

She had texted you at least a hundred times since that night, asking about this guy, wanting to know every detail. So you decided it was best to see her in person, tell her whatever story you could come up with on the spot and then hopefully hear nothing about it again.

“Maybe… maybe I scared him away? I don’t do well with things needing me, or being close to me. Maybe it’s externalized resentment towards the world for having been born as the ‘older sister’ in a broken home, or for having to be the parent of my parents, the house, myself. I don’t like dogs jumping on me and licking me, I don’t like the grabby hands of children, I hate when my mother asks me a question that she could easily figure out herself,” you finish, out of breath from quickly trying to get your thoughts out before they left. Or maybe before you realized who you were telling your secrets to.

And that was the truth. You knew you’d been a shit friend to Sarah. You couldn’t see it getting any better from here, but you also somehow knew what would be worse: losing him even though he wasn’t even yours. He felt lodged in your chest like he was an integral part of your body and its ability to work.

“I think that makes sense,” she nods. “You were in survival mode, you didn’t have enough energy for extra anything- including relationships or extra overstimulation. That’s how dad is, too. I’ve begged him for years to acknowledge the pain, but then put it down for a while. Or let someone hold it with him, at least. He grew up similarly to you, I think.” She pondered on. “I think he would do well with someone caring for him. You too.”

“Uh…” you stuttered, “yeah. He seems like he’s had a rough go at it. From what you’ve told me at least. I remember him being sad that summer he worked on the shed, too, but I guess I just assumed it was cause you weren’t there n’ he missed you. I don’t remember a lot of it though, to be honest.”

“‘Don’t know,” she trails, “he’s always been like that. Even before the divorce. He’s been a hell of a lot happier this six months though. He says he doesn’t know why, just ‘feels lighter.’ I assume he’s seein’ someone, just won’t tell me who. Probably Ms. Tammi down the street… he always eyes her when she’s workin’ in the garden. She’s too young for him though, she’s like 35,” She scoffs.

Damn.

35 is a helluva lot better than 24. But this isn’t the time or place to have that conversation.

Sarah continues on, quickly changing the subject and falling into other conversations as you listen intently, happy to not be at the receiving end of questions at the moment.

You can’t help but wonder what Ms. Tammi looks like. It fades quickly, though.

That’s how the majority of the night went, and you were happily exhausted by it all. The nodding, “yes!”’s and “I agree. I agree”’s, the giggling, the comfort in the face of it all.

Around 3am you both settled down and she gave you a blanket that smelled like their home. It was soft, warm. Sarah put New Girl on and she was out in 5 and a half minutes. You always fell asleep last at sleepovers, unsurprisingly. You didn’t sleep well as it is.

Her room was comfy. Boxes were still littered around from what she brought home for the summer. Her pink walls radiated the soft glow and heat of the lamps. Her TV was dancing across the walls, casting shadows. Her windows were open, welcoming in the cooler, muggy night. Cicadas were still singing their lullabies.

Her walls were adorned with proof that she had been taken care of, loved. Pictures of Joel throughout their life, littered under string lights.

She’d always been a photographer, ever since Joel put her first camera in her hand when she was 5. Sarah had lit up talking about it a few hours earlier. She took the family pictures on their vacations- meaning, she attempted to squeeze her and Joel into the frame, considering how much shorter her arms were than his. He let her, not too worried that half of his face was cut out.

“Always knew you were gonna be somethin’ special, kid.” He had told her.

There were the ones of just him, too. Black and white speckled film. He was turned to the side in one, his profile taking up the whole shot, looking forward. He was younger then, more clean shaven and… just smaller. He looked lighter in a different regard. Happier, maybe.

He looked beautiful, but not the way he does now. The years are present in the fine lines of his face- they are there to tell his story. One you didn’t even know yet but wanted to drown in.

The testament to how much Sarah loved Joel was right here. The proof of how much he loves her, staring back. She had a safe childhood, you think.

And you’re jealous because you can see it; the difference in the two of you. No, you don’t want to be like Joel’s daughter in that way… you just… hate having to admit to yourself that the time for that has passed. Your dad never showed up in that way, and he never would.

He wasn’t the one who covers your cuts and carries you to your bed when you fell asleep watching one of his cowboy shows on Saturday night. He was the type of dad that screamed your weaknesses back at you, stabbing through you- except this time through your back and into your chest; not even looking you in the eyes while hurting the little girl within you, again. And again. And again-

Back to Joel, please. You begged your mind. Your hands were shaking, too. The soft hum of Sarah sleeping next to you brought you back. You hate that it makes your heart swell that much more, the fact he took such good care of her. Such good care that she doesn’t have any inkling of what’s going on between her two favorite people.

She’s sleeping peacefully in a place that’s never been a war zone, and yet here you were. Who would be the first causality?

You drift off eventually, uncomfortable at first because you don’t want to move her bed too much, waking her. Eventually you sleep, and you sleep peacefully despite the elephant on your chest. Despite the war on the horizon.

Perhaps this was the best sleep you’d had in years, even. You felt safe in her safety, in Joel’s.

You dreamt about him again, this time he was bleeding.

And then a crashing in the kitchen followed by a muffled “fuck” caused you to gasp out of your nightmare, and Sarah stirred to your entire body stiffening.

You stayed still, and she mumbled something. You pressed, “keep watching” on the screen and let the TV voices drown out your reality- the one in which Joel is awake, unknowing that you’re in his house and in his daughters bed.

But God, you have to pee. He scared the shit out of you. You raised off the bed slowly, making sure not to wake her. It had been five or so minutes since the sound, and nothing else had happened. He’s probably getting ready for work, you convinced yourself.

On a Saturday?

You check your phone to see if he had texted you. 5:46am. A new habit you’d formed in the past week since your last encounter. Nothing. Still.

So you tiptoed to the door and cracked it, letting the light from the TV guide you. Her bathroom was three doors down, she had told you earlier in the night. There was a nightlight on, too. You could see it pouring out from under the door.

No other lights in the house, or at least upstairs, seemed to be on. Joel had either left for work or went back to bed, whatever he was doing seemed done.

You cursed at yourself for not bringing your phone with you to use as a light, but it was one long hallway… you could do it. Deep breaths.

You made it halfway when you heard something downstairs and practically peed yourself right then, hurrying your footsteps to the nearest door. You opened it and backed in, looking at the stairs and down the hallway for any sign that he might have seen you.

Nothing. And then a breath that wasn’t yours.

“Oh, now you’re breakin’ and enterin’ into my house? Couldn’t stay away, huh? Coulda just called, Birdie.”

There’s no fucking way.

“Came to see Sarah and didn’t even say hi to your daddy? Mmm, what a shame.” You imagined he was shaking his head, but you couldn’t see too much from the fucking wrong night light in the corner of the wrong fucking room.

“Thought you were gonna be a good girl ‘n lay low for a while?”

You turned around, slowly, and there he was. He was in boxers, laying in the bed you’d seen him fuck himself into. It smelled like him in here, too. The sheets were slept in, the same color as the ones he would shoot his spend into, grunting and calling you pretty names.

He was grinning, not even startled by the fact you were somehow standing in his room at 6am.

Lay low? That plan was never shared with you.

Heat washed over you, embarrassment maybe. You wanted to be needed by him, wanted to be grabbed, licked, kissed, handled. You’ve been waiting for him, but he hasn’t reached out. You wanted him to hold you like he held you in that bathroom, except this time you wanted him to push your face into his sheets while he did.

“Answer me,” he growled. He couldn’t have been up for long, his voice still heavy with sleep. It was lower in tone, deeper.

“I’m trying to be a good girl Joel, I-I was just looking for the ba-“

“No. A good girl wouldn’t fuck her best friends dad, n’ call him daddy while doin’ it. She wouldn’t come over and sleep in her bed, just to sneak into her dad’s room, doin’ and lookin’ for god knows what.”

He was enjoying this. He was just as much to blame- no, he was THE person to fucking blame for this.

“That’s fucking unfair, Joel. I came over here to try and put a patch over loose ends that you left whenever you left me in the floor of that bathroom,” you huffed, teary-eyed and still stunned, still sleepy. “I didn’t- I don’t, wanna hurt her.”

He stopped grinning then, sitting up. He didn’t lift his feet off the ground, but you were scared he might.

You felt like that same, scared little girl who was being punished and yelled at for letting a tear slip. But he was fucked just as much as you if this went public, and it emboldened you. You knew he didn’t want to hurt her either.

“You know what’s unfair?” You pointed at him, continuing in his silence.

“You. That I finally made a friend who is so good- so good- and you stalk me? You find me and you use me for some perverted pleasure that your wife didn’t give you, n now I have to pick up the pieces and lie to my best friend?”

He was face-to-face with you, staring down at you, waiting for you to dare open your mouth again. And then, his hand was around your neck and he was forcing you to look into his eyes.

“You don’t know ‘nothin’ ‘bout my ex-wife, don’t ever bring her up again. ‘Specially when you’re standing in my house, in my god damn bedroom. Got it?”

“No.” You gasped out.

His grip tightened.

“No?” He spat in disbelief.

“‘Musta forgot who you answer to. Didn’t know your pussy would forget so fast who she belongs to. Don’t make me put you back in your place, sweetheart.”

His nose meets yours, the hug of your face, faster than his lips. He nudges, wanting more. Sucking, teeth hitting teeth in a want to be as close to each other as possible. He goes for the bottom lip, always, tucking the side of his nose under yours. Gently. Then he returns to your lips and bites down, searching for blood. He get its, and he chuckles.

You gasped into his mouth.

“You need me to ruin you, huh?” He whispered into your hair as he pulled your head to the side, making it easier to suck on your neck. He was nipping at your jaw, licking lines like he had in your dreams. His hands were engulfing you and all you could do was stand there and take it, sucking the pain away from your own lips. Rough palms feeling at you.

You let out a plea for more.

“That’s why you came lookin’ for me? Sweet girl,” he purred, “couldn’t stay away? Want me to take care of you, stretch that tight hole around daddy’s cock, hmm?”

That hit a nerve, deep. You wanted to surrender yourself and hide in his arms. From the world, Sarah, yourself. You wanted to believe what he had whispered to you in the bathroom, you wanted to break against him and rest your bones.

But first, you wanted him to sink his teeth into you. To ruin you. And then maybe he would stick around this time and pick up the pieces.

He was solid, sturdy, safe. You reached up and put your hand on top of his, letting him know this is what you want, giving him the ‘okay’.

He didn’t even need to ask you, you walked closer to his bed and laid yourself over it, ass up, giving yourself to him. He sighed in lust, watching you sink into his sheets, spreading your smell onto them. You turned your head and laid your cheek against the soft, looking up at him.

You spread your legs and struggled out of your shorts, he stepped towards you and ripped them off. You were taking too long. The room was silent, save for both of your breathing.

“This what you needed?” The bed squeaked under you as he pulled you towards the end of and ordered you on your knees. He lined himself up with your core and spit after kissing your cunt with his tip.

The spit hit your pussy, tickling its way down as it dripped. He took his fingers to it, pushing it around and then into your hole. He used it to wet the head of his cock, too.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he coos at you, grabbing for the nape of your neck, pulling your hair and hence your head back towards him. It hurt so good, and your neck was at an angle that made it harder for your chest to rise and fall.

He slid into you at the same instance, and the breath you were halfway through caught in your throat, your whole body reacting to his length. Your eyes were watering from the intrusion, from the pain and simultaneous pleasure. He put his palm against your mouth, muting whatever scream had just come out.

And he fucks you while you grunt out sounds each time he hits that spot inside of you. Your eyes roll back, then focus again. His hand blocking not only your mouth but your nose. Your stomach is tighter, trying to fit his size. He’s breathing heavy above you, sweat dripping and falling onto your back, not realizing that he’s cutting off your air supply.

He’s doing what he said he would all of those times, fulfilling the promises he had made. It’s different now than in the bathroom. He was angry then, but he wasn’t in the comfort of his own home. He could do whatever he pleased, now. Sarah under the cover of the whispering TV in her room.

He throws his hips to yours, each one tearing moans from your throat. “There you go.” And suddenly you were seeing faint white lights in the corner of your vision. But you don’t care, you were just tired, blissed out. You felt comfortable under the weight of him, fucking into you. You relaxed and took what he was giving you. Over and over an-

His voice was muffled. He repeated himself.

“Hey, breathe for me, pretty thing.” And you do, forgetting it for a moment. He reached his wrist in front of you, taking your neck between his thumb and pointer finger. “Lemme feel you breathe baby. Gotta listen t’ me.” You sucked in what you could, and he ‘uh huh’ed you, feeling your neck contract and take in the air. “That’s right, just like that. Can’t have you passin’ out on me baby girl. Not there yet.”

He went slower for a moment, aware that he almost suffocated you. But he didn’t stop, and you were glad. He pulled out and decided he’d choke you with his cock, instead. You whimpered at the loss of him from inside of you, but you knew what he wanted and you wanted to give it to him.

You slipped from the bed to the ground, finding it harder to move and get on your knees than you thought. He’d fucked you silly, shaking, raw.

“Can I feel it? Let me feel it.” Ordering, more than allowing, the tip of his cock passed your lips and went straight for the back of your throat. You coughed him out, just for him to return again, dripping your saliva.

“Shhh, shhh, shhhh,” he whispered, grabbing fistfuls of hair on both sides of your head as he fucked his hips into your mouth, relentlessly. You felt something warm, wet drip from you and hit the ground next to your splayed legs beneath you.

“Cumming with my cock in your mouth? Knew you were a’ bad girl.” He was breathless, shocked at how you were letting him play with you, limp, almost. Fucked out. On the verge of passing out.

You didn’t know how many times your stomach had tightened and then released. How many times you came for him. You stopped counting after two, unable to do much of anything. Not wanting to be anything, then the person under his touch. Full of him.

And then you were wearing him again, bent over the edge of his bed, hips hurting from hitting the edge of the mattress.

“Joel,” you managed, “pl- please.”

“Now you’re talkin’? Couldn’t get any words out before. Poor baby. What do you need from me?”

“Hurts, Joel.”

He liked that.

“Want me to stop, then?”

“No,” your voice was hoarse.

“Then what do you need? Can’t give it to ya if you ain’t able to say it.”

“Inside. Cu- oh fuck- cum inside me. Please. Please, please.”

He liked the sound of you begging for him to fill you up.

“N’ whose cunt is this, baby? Who do you want to cum inside you?” And those filthy words pulled another orgasm from your hips.

“Your-“ you mumbled.

“Louder. Use those pretty words you know from goin’ ta school.”

“Yours Joel. This pussy is yours, s’all yours.”

“What a good girl.”

He halted as deep as he could inside of you with a groan, growl-like, and he filled you with his warmth.

He stayed inside, afterwards. Not wanting any of his spend to go to waste outside of your womb.

You didn’t say anything, fighting the urge to just fall asleep where you were, in the comfort of his bed. But you didn’t cry, either. And that was a first. He completely defiled you, yet you weren’t breaking under his touch. You felt like, even if it was fleeting, he broke you and then put you back together right. The correct way.

He pulled out and grunted, and suddenly you felt a soft cloth wiping at your core. He placed soft kisses up and down your shoulders and back as he cleaned you up, your goosebumps the only reaction you gave as you closed your eyes.

A few minutes passed.

“Do you trust me?” He whispered, running his hands up and down your bare skin.

“Mhmm,” you let out.

“Look at me, Birdie. Need to hear it.”

You rolled over, more awake from the serious tone in his voice.

“Yes, Joel, I trust you.” But he didn’t looked like he believed you.

“Want you to do somethin’ for me.”

“Whatever you want.” Your patience was wearing thin, you just wanted to curl up and sleep, surrounded by him, surrounded by the smell of him, the safety.

You felt heavy.

He lifted himself off of the bed but you didn’t follow where he went, you caught yourself falling asleep again, so you slightly shook your head in an effort not to.

He returned and a hissing sound sprung through the air. Then immediately, something hard, cold, wet maybe? Slid across your skin. His weight was weighing down the bed as he sat back down next to you.

He moved your hair out of your face, rested your cheek against his palm and spoke clearly.

“Want my initials here, baby.” He was holding a switchblade against the inside of your thigh. “Remind you who you belong to while we figure s’all out.”

You were awake now.

He kept the blade there, but his eyes found yours, searching for an answer, praying you wouldn’t get up and run from him.

Instead, you took his wrist and moved it even closer to your core, on the inside of your thigh.

“How ‘bout… here?”

“S’perfect.”

He got off the bed then, sinking to his knees as he settled you comfortably on your back.

The birds were chirping through the window, the orange sun slipping past the blinds and onto his bed, streaking over his face. You welcomed the pain, if it felt anything like his pleasure. You trusted him. And you know you shouldn’t, but who is going to stop you?

He kissed up your legs, starting by leaving wet marks on the back of your knees. He made it to your nude mound and kissed it, too. Gently, soft.

“You sure?” He asked, for once, giving you an out if you wanted it.

“M’ sure, Joel.” He sighed at the sound of his name leaving your lips, sleepily. He reached your thigh and settled the blade comfortably in his hands.

He kissed you one more time in the spot he had chosen, and then he carved his initials into your body, slowly. Painfully. You hissed.

“Want me t’ stop?” He asked.

“No. It feels good.”

It felt like your own version of love, one both of you shared together, secretly.

The warmth spreed as his tongue followed the blood down your thigh, catching it before it fell to his sheets.

-

Taglist: @strang3lov3 @leeeesahhh @blackvelveteen1339 @huffle-punk @xxmr-potato-headxx @ssssc0m @paleidiot @sarap-77 @marchai @morallyinept @i-love-rafe @silkiers @gracevnn @scarletsloveletter @smol-beb @loriensasylum

[ceilidho]

OBSESSED with how you wrote soap as a big feral man in country road I WOULD EAT HIM UP I WOULD GNAW ON HIM just that little glimpse has me dead

(If you ever thought of doing spin offs with the other boys I would truly do anything for that. no pressure of course I am content with this absolutely delicious fic 💛💛)

love you forever thank you for your big beautiful brain 🫡

in my head, he and Ghost are reformed outlaws who were done right by Price and decided to stick around. Sometimes Ghost feels extremely uncomfortable wearing a badge and Soap refuses to wear his at all, but they’d do just about anything for Price.

I don’t have a huge amount of lore for Soap in my head, but I imagine he was born in Scotland around the mid 1860s and was orphaned at a young age. Wound up in London somehow by his early teens, where he worked as a chimney sweep and was probably a bit of a pickpocket (he’s been in survival mode since he was born). I think eventually he may have been run out of England altogether and somehow forced to take the long voyage to America.

Even years later, he’s still half feral. He has a comfortable life now and a job and people that care about him, but he hasn’t quite shaken his nasty habit of pinching anything easy enough for him to steal.

[ghouljams]

nooo please psychoanalyze that sudsy boy, i legit dreamed about him last night, he’s so on the brain i wanna hear about him

The Catholic guilt is so real with Soap in my mind. Like he hasn't been to church or confessional in ages and it WEIGHS on him. He calls his mum and the first thing she asks is if he's been to church recently. He is also a huge slut. The man has been trained to seek external validation. He's a sinner, he has to be forgiven, God is watching him, he's guilty, guilty, guilty. He's a murderer even if it's for the greater good, and he can pretend that Price is his priest, but at the end of the day Price only believes in the ends justifying the means and Soap has to live with that.

So you can imagine how this must influence the sort of people he gravitates towards.

Just for sex I'm sure he looks for easy marks, he looks for people that will do what he tells them, people that are already dirtied by hands that aren't his own so he doesn't have to feel bad leading them to sin. He knows he should care more, that he should be saving himself or doing right by the people he sleeps with, but he can't. He just wants to feel wanted for a little while. He has this deep gnawing pit in his stomach that he isn't worthy of the love he receives because of the things he's done, that there are too many sins to be forgiven and at this point he's already damned so why bother saving himself? He'll live in sin and be punished for it because that's what he deserves.

So when he meets someone that seems uninterested in him, uninterested in the sin he embodies? That's a saint. That's someone worthy of love and it just burns to think he can't have that. He knows he can't, knows he's not worth it, but at the same time... why won't they fall for his act? Why do they look at him and see through the carefree Casanova just to grimace at the core of him? They're special to him, they're smart enough not to like him, not to want him. They're smart enough not to fall for his tricks, to actively resist falling into his temptation. It just makes him want them more.

Because he can see himself in them. He knows how it feels. Look, look! He's torn his chest open so you can see the barbs around his heart as well. He's just as undeserving of love as you think you are! You're different sides of the same coin. You see through his act the same way he sees through yours, and it hurts. It hurts to know that someone who could understand him so well doesn't want him. It hurts to see that he's worthy of love, that the same hurts he has(you have) haven't made him dislike you or think less of you. It hurts because he can see what there is to love about himself reflected back at him and he can't do anything about it because you won't let him close.

So of course he goes for the ones that are hissing and spitting at him. He gravitates towards the lonely souls, and the hardened hearts. If he can't absolve himself of his sins, maybe they can. If he can't find the faith to care about sin anymore maybe their disgust towards him will do the trick. Maybe if he can tie himself to someone he sees as good, he can be good by proxy.

He does also like the fighting back, the chase, he's given into his animal instincts too much, too often, he's not the same man he was when he joined the SAS. He isn't even sure if he considers himself a man at all. He likes someone sure of themselves, a rock, a steadfast hand. He likes knowing if he stumbles in the dark there's someone there to catch him, even if they're a little broken too.

[doctorprofessorsong]

carving deep blue ripples by dothraki_shieldmaiden @dothwrites (Explicit, 85k)

I am a sucker for Stanford Era Dean and a creature Cas fic, so this one feels tailormade to my interests.

Dean finds himself hunting alone after his Dad sends him away with the Impala. It was bad enough when Sammy walked out the door, but now his own Dad has sent him away. But Dean’s a hunter, so that's what he's gonna do. A chance encounter with Cas, another hunter, evolves into a partnership and, perhaps, if Dean can just let go, something more. But Cas has a secret that threatens to tear them apart.

This one has great mythology, top tier monsters and so much delicious pining. Dothraki_shieldmaiden manages to incorporate so much delicious canon into this adjacent fic that you will be gnawing at the walls. Seriously buckle up. It's a great ride.

Heavyweight by valleydean (emmbrancsxx0) @valleydean (Explicit, 206k)

Look, Mallory has the unique ability to write versions of Dean and Cas that crawl into your brain and set up residence, but these particular ones are just *chef's kiss* perfection. Deeply unwell over each other, off-putting and sometimes objectively terrible and yet I love them to my bones.

Set in the 1920s against the backdrop of the golden age of boxing, Dean is a light heavyweight champion looking to make his name in the heavyweights. But the reappearance of his secret ex, Cas, threatens everything. Cas left town under the cloud of a scandal. Left DEAN. And now he's back to try and restore his name.

The pining. The push and pull. There were times where I thought a happy ending was impossible but she did it. She really really did. There’s horny sparring. There are suits and fancy prohibition Era parties. There are VIBES. Seriously this one is just so freaking good.

When I Knew You by FriendofCarlotta and xfancyfranart @friendofcarlotta , @xfancyfranart (Explicit, 54k)

Time travel love stories are tricky and sometimes they hit for me (as you can probably guess from my name) while sometimes the don't. This one was an absolute homerun. Dean and Cas are both so deeply lonely and there is this sense of desperate intensity that is woven through the story that will male you feral.

Dean's working to try to put together the cracked pieces of his life after the one two punch of losing his dad and his business. But he's off to a rocky start when he learns that the prior owner of his new house died suddenly.

Even stranger, a shimmering light appears in his living room and suddenly he finds himself face to face with the guy, somehow having traveled to the past. In stolen moments, they discover that maybe happiness isn't as elusive as it felt. But the time is ticking. Can Dean save Cas from his fate, and if so, what will happen to them?

Dean Winchester and the Stolen Tupperware by MalMuses @malmuses (Explicit, 35k)

It's been a hot minute since this one came out and you may have already heard about it as a result, but this fic is just a fluffy, pure delight.

Cas is a single, nerdy professor whose idea of a wild Saturday night is watching dashing Dean Winchester, a real life Indiana Jones type adventurer archeologist, on YouTube. Dean is looking for some stability and just hoping to find a place to establish a career that doesn't involve constantly traveling. Sparks and awkward cuteness fly when they meet.

This one is perfect for a low angst love story. Also, Dean and Cas will make you deeply fond (and Meg in this fic can step on me).

Night at the Impala Theater by Speary @spearywritesstuff (Explicit, 52k)

It's difficult to explain what is so great about this fic without revealing more than I want to about the plot because there are some delightful and twisty bits. Suffice to say, it's a fun ride not just because of Dean and Cas, but the really fun side characters (Especially Rowena, my beloved, who is amazing and witchy).

The story revolves around Dean, a lonely guy running the family business - a historic movie theater he inherited from his Dad. But his life is changed when he finds a mysterious film series on his doorstep. The film noir flick follows a smoldering PI named Castiel. For some reason Dean can't get enough of the movies. And yet, all attempts to track down any information about the series is frustratingly bare. Where will his obsession lead? Not telling. Go read it. :)

torture is your name on my lips by theseancequeen @theseancequeen (Explicit, 4.6k)

This fun little one-shot smutty yet emotional fic explores a world where Demon Dean summons Cas after years of separation and they hook up while both lying about the depth of their feelings. It's a magnificent blend of angst, softness and need that ends on a deeply satisfying and surprisingly hopeful note.

Scorched Earth by AmberXBoone @amberxboone (Explicit, 155k)

Distraught over confirmation that his father intentionally started the fire that killed Mary Winchester (and nearly Dean and Sam), and then used his position as a police officer in a corrupt system to cover it up, Dean decides to give John a taste of justice by burning him in his home. He's a murderer and he fully expects to pay. But a chance meeting with burnt out DA Castiel Novak changes both of their loves forever and suddenly they have something to fight for. Can they take down the corrupt system or will Dean be locked away?

The plot of this fic alone is a ride. But what really brings this one home is the impeccable use of canon characters. I love these versions of them all so much. And it's truly a delight to see everyone join together to fight the corruption and save Dean (whether he deserves it or not cause he definitely doesn't think he deserves to be saved). The fic is also broken up into short chapters which makes it super readable if you are the type who picks things up for one scene and then puts it back down (could never be me I binged it like i was on fire myself but I admire it).

The premise is dark, but it's the light moments that make this fic really shine.

Check out my other fic recs at @riversrecs

[blinkinbrothershark]

Things In Newsies Live I Think About A Lot #2

During 'Carrying The Banner' you can see the newsies jumping around, playing with eachother etc, etc. One of my favourite examples was that if you look in the background, you can see a line of newsies all chasing after eachother before they all move towards the front of the stage to dance.

(I know this isn't the greatest picture of it, but it'll have to do.)

I'm not sure why this has stuck with me as long as it has, but something about this specific part is just so memorable to me.

I don't really know why, but this scene in particular has always sort of been a pretty big reminder at how young the newsies truly were. Like, this is a fairly fast paced scene with plently of movement and energy, and who do you normally associate with high levels of energy? Children.

And in life the majority of these newsies would have been 10-13 years of age. Kid Blink (strike leader and inspiration for Jack Kelly in the musical) was only ~16 years old, and he would have been a lot older than many other newsboys and newgirls in his time.

This might be a strange take on the scene, but it has been gnawing on the inside of my brain for ages, so now you all get to hear about it too.

[egginfroggin]

Imagine...

Emmet is transported to Hisui.

He became five or six years old.

When he comes back, Ingo learns that he will now become a father.

Extremely late answer, sorry, Anon.

I feel that Arceus would get punched by a very irate Subway Boss in that scenario, I love it.

This has spawned many words in the master document, as my brain has decided to positively gnaw on this idea, and alas, nothing is finished yet, so have a bit of worldbuilding and some drawings in the meantime.

Worldbuilding and close-ups under the cut, and please click on the images for better quality.

And again, thank you so much for the ask, Anon, this was really fun! ^^

Pencil sketches:

first doodle of the Little Guy

height comparisons to further emphasize the "Little" part of the Little Guy

a) Akari and Rei making the mistake of turning their backs on Emmet for 0.5 seconds as he notices something off-camera b) the twins continuing to talk, oblivious to Emmet's act of absconding c) the twins turning around to talk to their teeny charge d) swift baseball bat of Realization at the Emmet-shaped absence in their immediate vicinity

Pen sketches (part of a page of sketches that were otherwise unrelated, hence the numbering):

3. a very happy lil man, despite the oversized hat 4. he skrungle scribble 5. who's he looking at? who knows

Digital art:

Emmet craves violence. Akari and Rei are used to this (featuring: probably the best expressions I've ever drawn)

he's a bit older now, but still smaller than his evolved starter; Typhlosion can tell his soul is older, but he is physically small, so she abuses his lack of height to shower him in affection

an internal mess of conflicting instincts, thoughts, and emotional maturity, but Arceus's plan is set in motion, and there's nothing Emmet can do about it

Worldbuilding:

Emmet got shrunk on his way to Hisui, due to the Rift's distorted power affecting him on the way out; he lands on Prelude Beach, drowning in his Depot Agent uniform now that he is teeny tiny

Arceus, panicking a little bit, communicates more directly with Emmet, urging him along on his mission

Emmet's memories are messed up, and his conduct is an odd combination of a child and an adult. By which I mean he can be disconcertingly clever and mature, but also the poutiest little guy with a habit of crying

Young age plus being overwhelmed plus stress equals one mute boi; this does not change his penchant for causing Problems

Jubilife is a lot more lenient with him because of how young he is, but Laventon, Cyllene, and Kamado suspect that he isn't supposed to be like this due to how he was found

Emmet is in an awkward position as far as finding living conditions go, being too odd for most parents to want to take in but also much too young to live on his own

Akari and Rei are assigned babysitters. Let the stressing and development of gray hairs commence

Emmet is Perfectly Behaved and causes no Problems at all, of course, why would he? Why would he?

(He bolts for the gates the moment Akari opens the door in the morning) (Ress caught him)

After sending Emmet home, Arceus shortly feels a distinct feeling of being in danger

After finding out that his brother has been shrunk and not fixed, Ingo fixes metaphorical (and perhaps literal) crosshairs on the back of Arceus's head

Arceus may be in danger

Close-ups of the digital art:

(Program used for the digital sketches: Krita; time taken: about 90 minutes)

Thank you for reading all of this! I hope you have a wonderful, blessed day. :>

[soulofapatrick]

Letters to a Lover - Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: You find a pile of letters addressed to you on Joel’s desk, your curiosity gets the better of you and you take a peek to find them 

Words: 1.5k

Warning: None, maybe a little angst

Notes: Had this one in drafts for a while

Y/N’s POV

Tommy’s set me to search Joel’s place, he’s been gone too long and we’re starting to get worried. His house is quiet, the only sound is my heart pounding in my chest like a caged bird. The late afternoon sun casts a warm, golden hue over the settlement of Jackson. My steps are quiet, reverent, as if I’m treading on sacred ground. I’ve been close to Joel for a long time now, and although we’ve shared stories, laughter and moments of quiet understanding there’s always been an unspoken something lingering between us. 

My gaze sweeps across the familiar setting, uneasy that Joel and Ellie aren’t here to welcome me into their home. The house hasn’t changed one bit: Ellie’s clothes strewn about the place; books and drawings and art supplies across all tables and Joel’s spare hunting rifles leant against the wall but they’re not there. Tommy’s concern hangs in the air like a heavy fog, and as I step further into the house, a mixture of emotions swirl through me. 

My eyes finally settle on Joel’s table, it’s rustic and he built it groom scratch himself , but, that’s not what catches my attention. No, it’s the stack of what seem to be letters sticking out from one of the shelves, my name written in Joel’s messy scrawl. I’m standing by his desk in three quick strides, curiosity gnawing at my gut. I hesitate once they’re in my hands, fingers brushing over the indentations of my name. I have to know what he’s wanting me to know but then again… it’s Joel. Sweet, humble and reserved Joel. The paper feels delicate, as if it holds secrets that could change everything. My heart races as I contemplate whether to open them, whether to dive into the depths of Joel’s unspoken thoughts. 

I place the letters back on the table except the top one and with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, I unfold it. The words appear before my eyes, elegant scrawl etched into the paper. As I read, my breath catches in my throat, and my heartbeat seems to synchronise with the rhythm of the words before me. They’re confessions. Confessions of his love towards me and how he feels like he can never tells me how he feels as I will never reciprocate. They’re confessions so genuine and pure, pouring forth from a heart that’s been hurt too many times to trust again. The ink on the page seems to vibrate with his emotions, and as I read more and more, my heart swells more and more. I finally know Joel reciprocates those feelings I’ve had towards him for years. 

I’m falling into Joel’s old armchair, the strong scent of him surrounding me and his words seeping into my bones. The sun’s glow outside begins to mellow as time stretches and contracts, and I find myself lost in a world of emotions that I never imagined could exist between us. These letters are a journey, a map of his thoughts and feeling, and I can’t help but be moved by his sincerity and honesty. 

As I reach the last letter, the air around me seems to shimmer with a newfound understanding. The truth that’s always been there, hovering just below the surface, is now laid bare before me. A quiet resolve settles within me, a sense of clarity that I’ve since long had. Closing my eyes for a moment, I take a deep breath, letting his words settle within me. His final words in his last letter imprinted into my brain. 

I love you with every fibre in my being. I have never loved anyone in the way I have loved you and it scares me half to death. You’re more than half my age and it feels so wrong but being around you feels oh so right. I’m not one for words but I could write letter after letter on how I feel for you. I know you will never see these but I want you to be mine, forever and ever. 

The sun’s golden light has almost completely fades when the door creaks open, revealing Joel’s form in the doorway. He steps inside, honey eyes locking onto me with a mixture of surprise and something deeper reflected in them. After almost four years I know what that look is: love.

My heart beats a little faster, but I hold his gaze, a smile smile tugging at the corner of my lips at the sight of him. No matter how dirty and messy he is, he still looks hot as ever. His boots are caked in mud, jeans a little covered too, his plaid shirt is unbuttoned three down to reveal tanned and freckled skin beneath. His face is flushed, tan skin tinged red, his salt and pepper hair is tousled as if he’s been running his hands through it and his eyes… they sparkle a golden colour in the last of the light. 

“Joel,” My voice comes out in a chokes whisper that has a crease forming between his brows until his eyes settle on the letters scattered across his desk and the one currently sat in my hand. He’s turning to leave when I say his name again, pulling myself up from his armchair, “Joel, look at me.” 

Joel’s shoulders raise defensively and he takes half a step away from me before he’s letting out what sounds like all the air in his lungs, shoulders and head slumping in defeat. As soon as that weatherworn face is in my vision again I’m lurching forwards, letter falling from my grip, to hold him. He stiffens before melting into the hug, beard tickling my neck and breath hot against my collarbone, a soft and very embarrassed groan leaving his lips and it’s like that small sound breaks my resolve. Before I can help myself, I’m tangling a hand in his already messy hair and yanking, almost painfully, until his chapped lips are crashing against mine with some desperation. 

The kiss, at first, is a tumultuous clash of emotions. It’s a mixture of longing and fear, passion and hesitation, all bundled together into a single moment of vulnerability. Our lips find each other with an urgency that belies the unspoken words between us. The taste of salt from tears mingles with the warmth of our mouths as we hold onto each other, desperate for some form of reassurance. Joel’s rough beard grazing my skin as our mouth move together, and his hand tentatively find their way around my waist. The initial stiffness in his body gradually gives way to a shared embrace, as if we’re both afraid to let go, as if this kiss is a lifeline that tethers us to a newfound reality. 

When our lips finally part, Joel’s forehead rests against mine, and his breath is ragged, matching the rapid beat of our hearts. He whispers, his voice trembling with vulnerability, “I was scared to tell you… I thought… I’m too old for you to want me back.” 

I brush my thumb gently over his cheek, wiping away a stray tear, and smile softly, “You could never be anything less than amazing to me. Of course I want you back Joel, I thought the flirting…” 

A soft giggle escapes my lips as Joel's incredulous question hangs in the air. "You've been flirting?" he asks, his eyes widening with a mix of surprise and amusement. 

I nod, a playful smile dancing on my lips. "Yes, Joel. Those little teases, the stolen glances, the way my heart raced when you were around... it was all because I couldn't help but be drawn to you.

Joel chuckles, a warm, genuine sound that fills the room and eases the last of the tension between us. "Well, in that case," he says, his voice filled with newfound confidence, "I guess I'll have to up my flirting game.” 

And with that, he leans in, capturing my lips in another kiss. This time, it's softer, sweeter, and filled with the promise of something beautiful to come. Our laughter and love intermingle in that moment, and it feels like the beginning of a wonderful journey together. As we break the kiss, our smiles say more than words ever could. In each other's arms, we've found understanding and acceptance, and it's a treasure worth cherishing. The future may hold uncertainties, but right now, in this shared embrace, we know that whatever comes our way, we'll face it together.

                           ┈ ✁✃✁✃✁✃✁✃✁ ┈

The Last of Us Masterlist

TAGS: New Tag List Form

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[turtleblogatlast]

Okay so I only got into RotTMNT this July but I have so completely fallen into the pond with the rest of y'all, it's actually insane how much space these stupid turtles take up in my brain.

Anywhoodles.

You seem knowledgeable so I gotta ask something that's been gnawing on my brainstem for a while: where did so many of these fandom headcannons come from? Like, they're so wide spread and referenced that I catch myself assuming that they're ACTUALLY cannon sometimes. You'll fimd them in every fic, every piece of art, every fan comic.

The major one is the Disaster Twins. How'd they get that name, who started it?

Do we know where the "Leo is the team medic" headcannon came from? Because if I remember correctly, it's not mentioned anywhere in the show that Leo even has an interest in first-aid, or WHAT exactly he has in his little pouches.

And I don't dislike this or anything, I just wonder how on earth something so specific came out of apparently left-field? 🤔

Hello hello! Ahah I’m actually not all that knowledgeable about fandom stuff honestly! So I’m not sure where these particular headcanons started from but I believe Disaster Twins is mainly brought about because Donnie and Leo are the same age and pretty chaotic lol.

Personally I abide more by all the siblings being disasters, but I think because people like Donnie and Leo as a duo so much, they just gave them a fitting name ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

For medic Leo, I think the main thing there is because I believe when asked what was in his pouches, someone who worked on the show said they probably had medkits. For a show that was cut down in its prime, this fandom was pretty desperate for any extra info given haha. That plus previous incarnations of Leo being shown in a similar healing fashion probably helped the headcanon thrive, with the addition of it just being fun to bounce off of.

There’s probably more on both of these, but I’m not too sure myself! If anyone has anything to add or correct feel free to add on!👍

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for convincing a friend to run for an officer position in a club just so someone else didn’t win?

So, this happened a few months ago but it’s been gnawing at my brain and I want to know if I did the right thing. I asked some online friends for advice beforehand and there’s a chance they’ll see this- if you do, please don’t expose my blog, thanks.

Context: I (16F) am a member of my school’s Science Olympiad team, and held an officer position the past school year (my sophomore year/10th grade) and ran again for next year (my junior year/11th grade). I am using everyone’s ages at the time this happened to the best of my knowledge and memory. This takes place in a United States high school, and our Olympiad team is tied to a junior high school Olympiad team from the junior high on our campus, which we do all of our meetings with.

A group of my friends (17F, 16F, 16F, 15F) went out for the 4 out of the remaining 5 high school officer positions, and odds looked pretty good we’d win all of our races, thus having 5 out of 6 high school officer positions total. Usually it wouldn’t really matter who won anything, it would just be nice if we were all officers together. The only issue is that there are two other people on our team who are friends with each other (17F and 15F), but have a history of bullying and toxic behavior including towards people on the team. They ran for literally every single position, as you are allowed to run for multiple, and we were concerned they would use them to abuse power.

As I said before, it seemed likely we would win the positions we wanted, but this would leave secretary open, as the only two people running for secretary were one of my friends who I already mentioned, who was more likely to win president, and one of the girls I had mentioned we didn’t want winning anything in case of an abuse of power, so there wasn’t even a chance of a “third party” winning. The only reason we knew for sure who was running for what before the election started is my officer position (which was officially still held until the results of the election were released) enabled me to look at the sign up form, which I created.

My best friend told me she and another friend had worked out a plot to keep secretary out of this girl’s hands. She wanted me to ask a younger friend of mine (13NB, uses he/they for clarification) who was one of the eighth graders on the junior high school team to run, since he is going to be a freshman on the high school team this upcoming school year, and anyone with a year’s experience at any level who will be at least a freshman is allowed to run for a high school officer position.

I said I didn’t want to ask them, and I had multiple reasons why.

First, I already convinced him to do the high school team in the first place when he wanted to stick to the junior high one for another year (9th graders can be in either the junior high or high school competing divisions in Science Olympiad even though most schools in my area classify 9th grade as high school). Nobody asked me to do that, they’re just a smart kid and I thought it would be a waste of potential for them not to. Because of this I wanted him to choose to go for on officer position or not for himself at least. Second, I feel bad using a kid as a pawn in a drama he’s not involved in, even though it’s for a good reason. Everyone else involved in this was already in high school at the time. Third, they don’t even know about the stuff the girl we wanted him to run against has done, because she is nice to them specifically and they are friends. If he figured out we were plotting for him to beat her I think that would damage his trust in me and my friendship with him.

Here’s where I think I might have been an asshole. I gave in and asked them anyway, because my friends all seemed convinced this was the best course of action and I didn’t want them getting mad at me, and I still strongly felt this girl getting elected would be bad for the team I’ve worked so hard to support and for the other team members’ (mostly people I am friends with and care about) mental and emotional well being.

My friend did run, they took my suggestion to run for secretary and signed up to run for that specific position. The girl we didn’t want winning somehow beat them by two votes, so I guess it didn’t matter anyway.

In case this influences anyone’s opinion, I will tell you that we were probably right that this girl should not have been an officer. I was hoping she would mature in an officer position, but she didn’t. She’s still been saying nasty shit behind people’s backs (so has the other girl we didn’t want to win, though she didn’t win anything as we correctly predicted our wins in the other five positions). She’s been half-assing all her officer responsibilities and complaining about them constantly even though she signed up for this, and I have already been forced to do some things that were supposed to be her job.

I know it doesn’t matter now anyway, but I still kind of feel bad for using a (at the time, he’s 14 now) 13 year old as a pawn in a plot especially one that’s a good friend that I care about. Was I the asshole for doing that?

What are these acronyms?

[raphaelesbian]

Hi!! I love the PTS series and I just have some thoughts on the Shredder/Splinter/Raph dynamic that I wanted to discuss cuz I don't have many people to talk to about this topic :'D.

I find it interesting the idea the Shredder could see himself in Raphael due to his anger. What I find just as interesting is the idea that Raphael's anger is actually similar to Splinter and he sees himself in him (I am unable to cite anything right now but it's a theory/analysis out there. Kinda like in Lone Rat and Cubs when he whamos that Kraang bot). What i find REALLY cool is how these two ideas could coexist wherein Shredder thinks that he is looking at a reflection of himself in Raphael, but later finds out that what he sees is not himself but his brother, Splinter.

When they were young, do you think that Saki found comfort in his brother's anger? Do you think seeing his brother get angry too justified his own rage? Or did he butt heads with Splinter, and that anger stoked a burning fury between two?

When he looks at Raphael and finally recognize Splinter in him, will he feel rage towards the brother that 'betrayed' him? Or would he find comfort in the reminder of his childhood with his dear brother? They grew up together after all. He must've loved some part of him. He might miss some part of Splinter, no matter how little.

Idk if I'm sounding coherent though haha cuz I get nervous sending asks so I'm kinda just pushing through this and hoping it doesn't sound weird.

Great fic BTW it has been occupying my brain for a few weeks 👍👍

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ aaaaaaa thank you so much!!! no you're super coherent dw, thank you for the ask!!!

I 10000% agree!! I honestly can't recall if the concept has come up in any of my fics yet (maybe briefly, during Shredder and Splinter's fight in PTS?), but I am a STRONG believer that Raph and Splinter are super similar. Lone Rat and Cubs is a fantastic example, but even as far back as Turtle Temper that connection is made.

Not just that Splinter was a guy who struggled with his anger, and that he sees Raph as having the same problem, but also just how DANGEROUS Splinter sees his anger as having been. I've seen people hate on Splinter for Turtle Temper, and I kinda get it because yeah, his advice, though not bad, wasn't given in the best way. But I think the context of "Splinter sees his younger self in his son, and is terrified that he'll make the same mistakes" is important.

Plus, AGH the PHRASING. He LET Saki anger him, he MADE his words into weapons. The way he blames himself for his brother's actions.... gnawing on the drywall.

When they were young, do you think that Saki found comfort in his brother's anger? Do you think seeing his brother get angry too justified his own rage? Or did he butt heads with Splinter, and that anger stoked a burning fury between two?

Aaaaaaaaaaaa that is an EXCELLENT question!! Their relationship is really fun, specifically because we do get SO little about it other than after everything has fallen apart. So we get a lot of room to play with it!

Personally, I lean towards the first. I headcanon Yoshi as (slightly) older (I imagine that a big part of Yuuta choosing to spare Saki and take him in was because he had a similarly-aged child at home), and I also like to see them as being pretty close. Probably competitive, I'm sure they butted heads from time to time, but I prefer the interpretation that learning the truth about Saki's heritage caused a sudden shift in their relationship, rather than them being at odds the whole time. So yeah, I can totally see Saki taking some form of comfort in Yoshi losing his temper (as long as it's aimed at other people c: )

ALSO, perhaps this is a bit of the trigun brainrot in me fhdsaghakdg but. I kind of like the idea of like, not just Yoshi being angry, but Yoshi being the angry one. As in, Saki DIDN'T have much of a temper growing up. Like, the small bits we do see of their past, Yoshi is cocky and making jokes while Saki is cool and serious. And that's AFTER their family has degraded almost to its breaking point. So I can imagine Saki as being the calmer, more level-headed one as a child. Definitely still with a temper, for sure, but Yoshi was the hot-head in my mind. Then, he learns the truth, his life starts falling apart (/he starts ruining his own life. Saki, come ON, man), and who does he start emulating, whether he recognizes it or not? His brother. Just sayinggggg.... 👉 👈

Sorry this is getting SO long fhdsaghkdg. You've activated my trap card (u asked about the doomed siblings)

When he looks at Raphael and finally recognize Splinter in him, will he feel rage towards the brother that 'betrayed' him? Or would he find comfort in the reminder of his childhood with his dear brother? They grew up together after all. He must've loved some part of him. He might miss some part of Splinter, no matter how little.

I absolutely believe that they loved each other, and that they miss each other. Like I'm actually a little bit deranged over just how hard struggle with the fact they are BROTHERS. The INTENSITY of their hatred for each other as a mask... the only way they can cover up the grief is with anger and loathing... (Sorry to plug my own fics but if you haven't read blood of the covenant or brother (noun) yet, this whole concept was a lot of the inspiration lmao)

And!! OH my god, you're such a genius. Shredder obsessing so hard over identifying with Raph, only for it to click that Raph isn't him, Raph is YOSHI.... Shaking you. You're so fucking right. Like, Shredder doesn't realize it at all but so much of what drew him to Raph, what made him DESPERATE to get Raph to stay with him, is his similarity to Yoshi. he wanted his brother back, he wanted to prove to himself that it wasn't his fault, WHY DO THEY ALL KEEP LEAVING HIM—

omfgggggggg. yeah definitely tucking that concept away, don't mind me over here....

ANYWAYS!!!! Forgive the word vomit lmao but thank you SO MUCH for the ask I just spent 35 minutes typing this up instead of working FHKAGHKSADGLK. I am ALWAYS hyped to discuss these things.

Also I'm so happy you liked PTS gfhkadsglk thank you!! <3 <3

[licncourt]

I just went back and read your original Louis head canons, so I have to ask: do you have any new ones? They're all so good, I could listen to you talk about him for ages !

Nasty baby boy!! Thank you for asking, I need to gnaw on him like a chew toy rn because of my IWTV reread. It's giving me even more Louis brain worms than usual. Little guy....

He is not an animal person in general, but he has a very special and very strong affinity for birds. He has bird feeders at all the windows in his favorite spots, and an assortment of little bird friends (he's had lots of different kinds) in a big aviary who are very spoiled and very well trained. He's also a big fan of the birdtok scroll hole and fighting about birdkeeping on reddit until someone is crying

Louis knows his original family name from France, but never uses or speaks about it. If anyone were to ask, he'd say he doesn't care for it because he wants """his""" achievements to speak for themselves, but in reality it kind of bothers him that his ancestry is "common" and nouveau riche

Lestat's dumbest nickname for him is Minky (because Louis' hair reminds him of those fancy mahogany mink coats, all dark, shiny and fluffywavy). He perhaps maybe possibly finds all the stupid pet names a little bit sweet

Phone game junkie. If brass buttons were that interesting to him, imagine candy crush or the businessman enrichment he would get from animal crossing. Lestat has to limit his screen time so he doesn't rot his brain

He watches Protestant televangelists and bitches at the screen like a dad watching football. Just in general he likes to look at things that make him angry and then complain about it (big fan of Facebook and the news for the same reason)

Really into modern self-help and wellness culture. He konmaris his house every two months and is a top user of the headspace app. It's really annoying for everyone else but it does seem to be working

He uses his vampire prodigy skills to do a lot of sketching outside, especially when the weather is nice. He's always been a nature enjoyer but now he can capture it easily and keep it close. He likes to take pictures too. And show them to other people whether they care or not. The oak tree in his favorite park is like a grandchild to him

Because of his poor feeding habits very early on after being turned, his fangs are just slightly smaller and duller than the average vampire. It makes his kills messier/harder to keep tidy because there's a bit of sawing and ripping involved in the feeding process instead of a clean bite

Contrary to popular belief, he does enjoy physical affection from very close people, like his siblings when he was human and Lestat now. He needs more space than his stage five clinger husband (they would be surgically attached if Lestat had his way), but he likes having someone to lean against while he reads or a lap to sit in during a movie or cuddles after a long day. It just took an acclimation period and some trust building/bonding to get there

His hatred of granulated sugar was partly financially motivated (business competition) but also because he had a massive sweet tooth as a human but it didn't fit his image. Almond mom who sneaks twinkies in the bathroom

On a somewhat related note, his disordered eating wasn't a totally new thing as a vampire. His image of himself was always very reliant on his ability to be "godly" and In Control which led to a lot of extreme monk food habits and secret binging on fat, sugar, and alcohol. It's also why he spiraled so quickly into being an actual alcoholic so quickly after Paul's death

Against all odds, he is a fancy bath guy. Hot water was obviously not super easy to get and regulate for most of his life so it wasn't really a feasible option, but now he's extremely into the idea of being up to his neck in hot water that smells like lavender. He's kind of embarrassed about it though so he takes them when he's alone like it's some kind of petty crime. Lestat knows and leaves him little bath product gifts (and eventually gets to be in included in the baths sometimes)

[t1erradelfuego]

good evening. it is 22:18 pm. my flight leaves in 14 hours. i spoke 2 the moon today and she said that i can't start packing until i get rid of the worms in my brains and the narratives in my heart in the form of ao3 formatted fic ideas that rotate in my mind at the speed of light.

broken window serenade [matthew tkachuk/leon draisaitl] alternate universe - yellowstone fusion, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, internalized homophobia, cowboys & ranch hands Everyone knows the Tkachuks around here. They own the biggest ranch south of Montana, hundreds of hectares of grazing land nestled on the border in between Missouri and Nebraska. Leon's been a part of the ranch since before he could even ride a horse. He knows this place better than the back of his hand, knows his way around the business and the politics that come with being Keith Tkachuk's right-hand man and the leader of the ranch hands. So it's not a problem at all when Keith falls ill and the ranch is left to Brady and him in the meantime. Not a problem at all, when Matthew shows up for the first time in eleven years, like Leon hadn't spent the same amount of time convincing himself that Matthew was a figment of his imagination. That he didn't leave him in the middle of the night, didn't ruin everything and everyone else for Leon after that.

more notes: my toxic white middle age conservative trait is that i love yellowstone. look the show is Not The Best but WHATEVER i fucking love cowboy hats so much and i think for the benefit of my health i need to imagine leon draisaitl on a horse. anyways leon is a poor little canadian-german orphan (do NOT ask me how he got to missouri) who has been a part of the ranch since he was young, growing up with matthew as their friendship turned from deeply codependent childhood besties into fucking around together. and then matthew leaves one morning after he comes out to his dad and disappears for the next 11 years which ruins leon. and now keith's in the hospital with a stroke and matthew's back and leon just wants to run him over with a horse! something about the sincerity of childhood relationships and also the first bond you make in a new and strange place and the idea of being each other's comfort. and having that all taken away from you without a choice. and having it walk back into your life dressed in a business casual suit. there is also the version of this that exists. from matthew's perspective but like. always more narratively interesting to dig into the one who got left behind.

so good at being trouble [jack hughes/nico hischier] rule 63, alternate universe - celebrity, jack hughes is not a hockey player, getting together, secret relationship, mixed media, outsider POV, Pop Base @popbase Jack Hughes spotted with Nico Hischier, captain of the New Jersey Devils (NHL), at dinner in Los Angeles.

more notes: i'm not even a swiftie but the travis kelce and taylor swift of it all REALLY got to me. and then trevor's whole thing with the tiktok influencer and getting publicized via alex's ig is sooooo. and the wag christmas pics. i'm in shambles island over here. i'm gnawing on a bone that is pop star/professional athlete of it all. i want jack to show up slyly in the pictures and nobody knows if she's there because of luke or because of nico. i thought this would be full pov fic but it is so much more tastier as a mixed media/snippets in between type of fic because i want nothing more than to lean into the media machine that haunts their relationship. also luke having a meltdown that his captain and his sister are dating.

love is no island [trevor zegras/jamie drysdale], alternate universe - not a hockey player, love island fusion, getting together, no shirts no shoes but trevor still gets service, It was a joke, but it wasn't really a joke, because Trevor had been single for too long when he saw a post advertising Love Island applications appear on his phone. He's never been out of luck before, doesn't really know what to do without something to occupy his time and his hands. Even his social media algorithm knows this. It had been the best idea of his life. Then again, everything sounds like the best idea of his life after six shots and a fruity cocktail on an empty stomach.

more notes: ok i binged love island s6 throughout thanksgiving break and i've been thinking about the similarity of being put in a high-stakes fast paced environment and the semblance of intimacy that it creates in hockey and in love island. i'm thinking very deeply of trevor who can't sort his private vs public feelings and is also scared that this means nothing to jamie, whose friends signed him up on a lark and doesn't actually want to be here. nothing much to do but to fall in love and it feels a little too inevitable and maybe too easy. they sweep the voting and win the grand prize and fly back and go. oh. now what.

like the best that you've had [trevor zegras/jamie drysdale] rule 63, women in the NHL, 2023-2024 NHL season, getting together, "So like," Mason starts, having slowly skated his way over to Jamie as they're doing cool down laps. Practice ended an hour ago, but Trevor wanted extra reps at defending and to torture Mason for whatever reason, and it turned into keep and chase that ended with Trevor straddling Jamie, trying to face wash him on the ice. "You and Trevor a thing, huh?" They weren't particularly subtle if Mason's figured it out in his first practice with the team. Jamie blushes. "Oh. Good luck." Mason nods sagely, patting Jamie on the back before skating away quickly.

more notes: girl trevor is a female coyote who's ready to EAT. deeply inspired by top dog by magdalena bay. i've been thinking about the dynamics of women in the nhl (see: bingo board) for a long time and trevor would make the best girl in the game, so deeply sure about herself, loudly wants and hasn't ever felt shy a day in her life. i keep thinking about how jamie would go insane. specifically i wanna pick away at the dynamic that is being deeply in love with someone that everyone keeps telling you not to fall in love with. not that there's anything wrong with girl trevor but she looks like she chews on boys' heart for fun and spits them out clean as a whistle after. and she does! the first three months of living together, jamie runs into way too many guys that look heartbroken while getting kicked out like!

call this place my home [matthew tkachuk/leon draisaitl/connor mcdavid] rule 63, accidental pregnancy, developing relationship, polyamorous relationship, alternate universe, 2022-2023 NHL season Leon and Connor have been tied on the leaderboard for the past week, like they can't figure out who should win the Art Ross trophy this season, passing the puck back and forth in between them on the way to the net. They did the same to Matthew during Toronto, because they always liked sharing everything. Now she's staring at a positive pregnancy test. Go figure.

more notes: saving the best for last because THIS IS SO FUCK NASTY AND INDULGENT, i am not above this apparently. look i keep thinking about matthew getting pregnant and deciding to keep it and not knowing who's the father is and haha well the three of them have been. sort of a thing anyways. for the past year so maybe they should just? not figure out? and she's going to miss the rest of the season anyways so she might as well stay in edmonton. the baby's got to have canadian citizenship. surely. also german citizenship. the baby will play for team usa though. i think there are a lot of fun questions to explore like how do you acknowledge you are in a deeply committed polyamorous relationship and also how does having a kid change that. also how does having a kid change YOU and your own definition of love. how do you learn to put faith and hope into the wide changing world and trust that you will be okay no matter what happens. the pregnancy is actually a metaphor, you see,

[bcolfanfic]

i’m extremely late on that slight age regression bucky x buck… but god damn that’s so cute. i bet at some point the boys all start to catch on and notice the signs before bucky slips so they file out and busy themselves for as long as they can to give the bucks some time and maybe gale makes some age appropriate toys and they play. and it’s the most peaceful john has been. 🥹

gahhhh i'm gonna gnaw my hair i love this so much. (for context new followers- this in show canon! the one little thing i wrote about it so far which is linked in my pinned happens in the stalags)

sweet bucky. his brain is so scrambled in the stalags and being able to reach back to that little boy he was before anything bad ever happened to him is just. so comforting. esp when he has gale to sit with him and scratch his head and listen to him yap when he's in that headspace. i love the concept of gale carving him some little animals out of wood. bucky is so touched. even more so when he's not in that headspace but sees where he left the little animals and remembers his gale made those for him/accepts him fully.

[suguwu]

Bee ur lil god!knives stuff is making my brain go brr but esp those tags abt vash??? Like I’m imagining catching vash’s eye long before knives turns his to your little village…

How the legends say the Stampede walks among humans, selfishly and cruelly—against the wishes of his brother, benevolent and careful be the lord of the hunt, for the merciless Vash brings only death and destruction. How you never put much faith in legends, and let the stranger into your little home in the woods because you have always let strangers in, and because he needed help you could provide. How you allowed him to stay as long as he needs, put him to work caring for the home while you’re off collecting plants or at your apothecary in town, and grow steadily attached to his presence in your home—and your bed, soon enough.

How he leaves you in the night, and how you wake up blessed.

Your village adheres strictly to doctrine. They would not call you blessed. A blessing from the Stampede is not a blessing by any means, however much the wind brushes you like a lover’s caress, no matter how healing your very touch has become.

They have lost you. You are a child of the village, and he has stolen you away. Whatever remains cannot be sacred.

When the high priestess, therefore, pays your quaint little home a visit, they rejoice. She tells them of her dreams. The mighty lord of the hunt still considers them worthy enough to provide an offering despite their failings with you.

But when they bring every villager who meets the requirements—your age, your hair, your eyes—all are rejected. The elders rumble, hushed and frantic. The quiet threat of the Stampede is carried in on the wind, but they have their faith. You must be the one. The lord of the hunt, magnanimous be he, has not abandoned you as your village has. You must be truly adored.

Acolytes storm your cottage in the woods. They burn it to the ground, stained as it is with the Stampede’s presence. The trees shake, the wind howls; your struggling body is dragged from the blaze, helpless.

Your mother weeps when she is allowed a final visitation before they take you away, and you cannot tell if the tears are relief or mourning. Your father stares as if he witnesses a walking ghost. You have been bathed and perfumed, draped in silk and gold, a circlet of precious jewels upon your forehead. They have never seen you look so holy.

The acolytes bring you to the Great Temple far away from your home. It is vast and grand and well kept; you’ve never been before, though your pious grandmother made the trek once late in her life for prayer.

The door to your chamber remains locked and guarded at all times but you manage, in the final hour, to crack your window.

Through it the wind, weak and restless here in the temple, brings you a wildflower. Stubbornly you tuck it into your flimsy girdle with the other flowers you’ve been adorned with.

(The lord of the hunt’s invisible hand finds it first when he arrives. You cannot see him any more than the acolytes, but you feel the pressure; your mind is flooded with an oppressive enmity.

He plucks it from your waist and lets it fall to the ground, withered. For once the wind does not answer)

plu i am SHAKING oh my god what a TREAT to wake up to!!! and yes i couldn't help myself with the vash tags and those tags have served me so well by bringing me this absolute deliciousness!! those last few lines...i'm gnawing off my own arm.