#writing this from beyond the grave btw because it killed me

[yeyinde]

i'm wanna print this out and press it into the folds of my heart like flowers in a book.

the premise, the dynamic, the mythology is scratching my brain so perfectly that i don't even know what to say except loud screeching that doesn't translate well into written word. i just love this. so so so much.

and i especially love your Readers/MC because they feel like they live beyond just the realm of the fic they're in or the pairing their with. it's a Ghoap x Reader fic, def, but i can easily imagine Persephone existing outside of that and i think that's why i love your works so much (and also including, of course, the poetry masked as fanfic, the blistering interactions between the MCs and the MMCs, and godtier plot/writing). they just feel real.

this was crafted to absolute perfection. an instant hit of dopamine with each word 🖤

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. Violence. Alcohol. Praise kink. Reader talks to plants. Blowjob. 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 the way that 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

[rabbitindisguise]

THE EXPRESSION ON MY FACE WHEN I READ THIS, I'M-

[chinomiko]

hi! i know it must be kinga boring for you recive questions about castiel bc ppl are obsessed ober him for years but like the other person who asked you a few days ago, i follow you (and ply mcl) for like 10 years and ever since day one my fav boy has been tiel. till this day at the age of 22 he's my favorite and my comfort boy so i joke that he's not a fictional character anymore for me and that i know him personally at this point lol

with that being said, i bet you can imagine that over the years i've been elaborating his personality beyond what the game gives us but he's your boy, you created him therefore you know him and your word is canon, so i'd like to ask a few stuff!! nothing too big, dont worry but here we go.

tiel is an amazing songwriter and since he's very emotional not very good at express it (he does it a lot better now that he's an adult 🥹) i bet his lyricism is very deep and poetic so i have this headcanon that he at first wouldn't like taylor swift because obviously lol but then he payed attention to her lyrics and ends up basically being a swiftie since he likes her writing a lot. what you think about that?

and what kind of music crowstorm sings? like there are any bands that you listen and think "hey this would be in a crowstorm album!" (i have a playlist with this name btw lol). im probably wrong on this one but since this is my fav band i like to think that catfish and the bottlemen are the irl crowstorm, musically speaking

and the last one: another thing that gives me so much comfort is the lystiel friendship. not having present parents, being so closed off i know that lysander is such an important presence on tiel's life because he was basically the only close person he had (specially after the debrah fiasco); if lys didnt had taken the farm and went to college and bla bla bla do you think he would still be part of the band with castiel? im not sure if im mixing the canon with a fanfic i read a while ago (lol) but the band was more of a fun thing to lys, right? he liked writing most (i always imagined him getting into a literature degree or something like this). i also like to think that he helps tiel with lyrics at times, even if he's out of the band (in my head the canon is that they are best friends and pretty close till this day, i pretend lys never left our lives just like armin)

anyways sorry for this big ask 😭 i dont even know if you will read it all but if you do, thank you! and dont feel like you have to answer, i know its too much its just that mcl is my hyperfixation till this day like for real, i have a fanfic that i write still and i even plan on making it into a book sometime. except from the main characters (who is my oc) all the characters will be based on the game's ones :)

ilysm take care and stay hydrated!!

Hellow !

Aww thank you so much and for all your love for Castiel ^^

What a long ask, I'll try to answer in order.

Castiel being a swiftie. No sorry, I don't think he would be. If candy likes her, I'm pretty sure he would try to listen. Also he is an open minded person for sure, so I'm sure he would be curious to listen and study what all the hype is about, it could also help as some sort of far away inspiration, but I don't see him being a fan.

What kind of songs Crowstorm sings This is hard to answer because my musical knowledge is pretty limited and I'm sure I would miss on lot of potential groups or singers that would fit well. And it would require too much research time to have a real detailed and clear answer, but I still did check a bit and here is a little list of songs/groups that I think would have a fitting vibe for Crowstorm

City of the dead - Hollywood Undead The worst in me - bad omens Paranoid - I prevail Trauma Just pretend - Bad omens Ice Nine Kills - A grave mistake Catfish and the bottlemen sounds nice but I think its a bit too soft for what I imagine for Crowstorm.

What is his voice like I think something similar to this (not necessarily the song itself, just the voice. )

bonus, I think this song is so so fitting for Castiel's breakup song, I love it. Dial Tone - Catch your breath

Castiel and Lys friendship. It was'nt mentionned much in UL/LL because I didnt wish to bring too much drama by mentioning Lys when he was not there for the players, but of course Lys and Cast always kept in touch. It is very clearly mentionned in Lys' AL that they keep in touch, that Lys helps Castiel write songs and Cast also like to come to his farm to have a break and spend time together. You should play it if you havent, you'll have a good chunk of Cast and Lys friendship :) However yeah I can confirm that Lys would not like to do it serisouly and professionally, but he'll be all the way around to support and help Cast.

[erumai-maadu]

(Slowly going back to my naruto era again…. Yay ) it’s so frustrating that Team Gai didn’t get to mourn completely. Like only Lee did and I get it that’s his rival and tenten that was her friend who also dealt with Lee and Gai ‘s shenanigans and Gai felt out of character when he told Lee like I get it but he never grieve after losing one of his students….

(muhahahaha come back to the pits with us mel. we have cookies!)

So much about Neji’s death was handled so badly, which explains the commonality of Neji Lives AUs. because EVERYONE knew that was bullshit.

So earlier I was watching an OSP Trope Talk (that series is a goldmine for writers btw everyone should go check it out) on fridging, and there were a few things that Red said which stuck out to me a lot.

Side note here: Neji wasn’t fridged, necessarily, but since fridging is a bad character death, Red was discussing a lot of character death tropes and how to write a good character death.

The main takeaway from the video is that a good character death feels like a conclusion to their arc somehow. Like even if it cuts off their life and their arc/future to some degree, things have wrapped up enough in their arc that the death feels correct or acceptable in some way. That clearly doesn’t happen here.

I think the reality is that Kishimoto designed Team Gai to be side characters, and killed Neji for emotional impact to Naruto and Hinata, as well as to set an example for how brutal the war was going to be. Nobody else died. It wasn’t a satisfying conclusion to his arc in any way, especially given that his whole narrative was about breaking free from the idea of the branch protecting the main family with their lives.

I think the arc of the Hyuuga clan was handled badly just in general but that’s a different (and related) conversation.

People can talk about “well it was Neji’s choice not because he had to” all they want. it just doesn’t feel satisfying. it’s a spit in the face to everything that Neji’s arc had worked up for till then.

Another thing is that a good character death has the characters around them grieve and be deeply affected by it.

Lee didn’t really grieve. He got to be sad, got to go “nooooo nejiiiiiii” and then never really mentioned it again. Naruto got a scene with Neji (that was longer than anything he got with HIS OWN TEAM RAHHH GRRR) and then was at the funeral.

The war was raging around them so one can argue they didn’t have the time to grieve. And honestly that could’ve been a very interesting thing. Forcing all of them to delay their grief because there’s a war going on, we’ll have to deal with this later, having them fight to stay focused on the task at hand, and the consequences of putting off that emotion.

Seeing something, anything that Lee and Tenten and Gai do to keep Neji in their minds. Even just them visiting his grave. Gai lost his father in a war and to lose a student, someone he probably saw as like a child to him, in a war would have been incredibly traumatic and hard for him.

Insane that in the manga there is literally no panel of Lee and Tenten at Neji’s funeral. We see team 10. but not Gai or Lee or Tenten. In the anime they’re there, so small condolences I guess.

Neji, like Shikamaru, is what I like to call a “main side character”. They are the side characters with a lot of screen/panel time and have these big and important narrative arcs that take up time and have an impact on the main character.

Lee, and Tenten especially are minor side characters who don’t get much. And Gai to some extent.

Lee gets his match against Gaara and his time during the chunin exams, and then beyond that I don’t believe we see much of him in a major narrative way. Even in the retrieval arc he’s mostly just there to show how strong Kimimaro is, rib Gaara a little about injuring him, and then sit there and ooh and aah while he summons enough sand to change the landscape.

Gai gets a bit of panel time as elite kickass jounin and Kakashi’s good friend, but still gets relegated to the side for Obito once he pops up. Madara vs Gai changed the culture the same way Lee dropping his weights did, and I think having Naruto bullshit no jutsu him back to life was…. A Choice. I got thoughts about that one too. I like that they did permanently disable him as a consequence, so his choice does have some narrative weight that others don’t. Gai gets a level of respect and dignity as a character but doesn’t really get an arc.

Tenten is the side character of all side characters. Doesn’t have a canonical last name, we know nothing about her, gets a fairly forgettable jutsu that you only really think about if you’re obsessed with her (diagnosis), and gets less screentime than Tsunade’s pet pig or Naruto’s sad boy hours swing. Her main traits come from anime filler arcs that only exist because some mfs on SP’s team LOVE team gai with all their hearts, and i adore them for this. But again, as a very minor character, she doesn’t get an arc or a focus or anything. and that’s fine, such is the nature of side characters, and such is my burden for getting obsessed with them so hard.

the point of all of this is that Tenten and Lee, and Gai to some extent, aren’t narratively important enough to bother getting panel time for grief. I think that’s why they didn’t get any sort of scene mourning Neji. I and the rest of the team gai fandom care more about Team Gai than Kishimoto ever did and that’s a little sad.

In the end it’s just bad writing, plain and simple. If Kishi needed Neji to die, there was a lot of narrative setup that he skipped in the process, and a lot of narrative afterward that would’ve helped justify the choice and make it actually satisfying.

Neji Lives AU for the win, as always.

[stillinaincrad]

The NineSpot: Anime I Really Liked with Sequels I Really Didn’t

Am not calling any of these the worst sequels of all time or likewise calling any of the originals the best ever by any stretch of anyone’s imagination, but these are sequels to anime series I fell in love with and didn’t really care at all for what came next. (am not considering OVAs or movies based on entire shows, btw, because they both almost always suck compared to entire seasons anime)

1. Is It Wrong to Try to Pick Up Girls in a Dungeon? (Dungeon ni Deai wo Motomeru no wa Machigatteiru Darou ka)

The original DanMachi series was proof-positive that predictable and cliché can still yield a really great tale when the directing and production is top notch. Everything that should have made it lackluster couldn’t outweigh the feels and I always end up smiling earlobe to earlobe. The characters are beyond well crafted, and it is still crystalline-clear that this project was someone’s pride and joy. I adore the original series. The Sword Oratorio spinoff was -meh- to me, it leaned too much on the original for hooks as it tried to fill in Ais’ backstory and ended up being more about Lefiya anyways (plus they blatantly stole the marquee anthem from Last of the Mohicans, which turns me off a thousand times every time it plays now). Oratorio provided some levity, but did nothing at all to advance the story. Then we got DanMachi 2, which started out with mediocre writing but a killer arc and the backbone surfaced for some amazing story depth to amass, but all we got in the end was the horribly lame Ishtar arc where a depressed fox girl doesn’t want to be a prostitute and Bell feels bad about it. I’ve felt exactly nothing for these characters since the original.

2. Overlord

Take a peruse through my blog and you will see that I have never campaigned for a second season of anything more than I did Overlord. I LOVE the first season, it is an absolute favorite of mine, and being that it is yet another Madhouse anime I honestly never expected more but always clamored for it because Overlord was absolutely deserving. When we finally got S2, it threw me for a loop because the original cast barely appears in the first four episodes, but then I found my feet and eventually got myself into the new episodes. Ironically, that is about all that this second season had to offer to me. The lizardmen arc is fantastic, definitely watch it, but when that ends? Here’s about all you need to know: Sebas has a softer side, Climb is a little bitch. There you go, onto season 3 (which is fantastic, btw). 

3. Full Metal Panic

FMP is one of my favorite old-school anime ever, because it balances great humor, great characters, and - despite a shload of filler in the second half - a great all-around story. It is SUCH a gem. Second Raid was a tad bumpy due to a new studio, but still fantastic, and Fumoffu was the comedic break that an already goofball of an anime conjured up and it totally fit as long as no one took it too seriously. Then, some 15yrs later out of nowhere we get Invisible Victory, which Xebec used to completely rewrite everything, and not in a good way. From go, Kyouka - an important supporting character from the outset - is killed and totally glossed over like it wasn’t significant asf, and I got pissed. Then all the already-established characters took on totally new personalities of grave seriousness, which was never the brand. When you take previously established characters who have always been hopeful, energetic, and buoyant to a fault, always looking forward and up - and suddenly make all of them overtly dramatic, hardened, and inordinately austere across the board, it totally cheapens the original and to an extent that superflous doesen't even begin to describe. Massive franchise fail, Xebec - dishonor on you, dishonor on your cow. Easily the sequel I have hated the most. As in, ever. 

4. Sword Art Online

Look, I am the last person you need to tell how much bad this series has divulged into. I was so all-in on the concept, the characters, the drama, and the love of the original series. Do you think it’s ironic that I’ve been doing this almost 5yrs now and haven’t changed my URL? I’ve always said that if the first Matrix movie were left alone and that was it - Neo giving that threat and then flying off into the credits and we have to make up the reality that may or may not have transpired after that -  that it would be in the top 10 movies ever made. That’s how I see the first arc of SAO. It was THAT good, I have somehow watched it more than anything ever made. I originally considered the whole second half of the first season to be filler and am always turned off at the molestation that it celebrates, but said it was ‘for the story’. Then the Sterben shiz happened and I said ‘yes, it’s the EXACT SAME STORY  but it’s going somewhere’, and then it did, to somewhere absolutely worse. I made it about halfway through Alicization and I up and quit altogether. SAO is such a shit franchise - the only thing that has gotten worse than the animation is the writing, the characters that used to be great are so incredibly shallow and annoying now, and I have made more fun of something I used to love than anyone. I am the first to admit I am a huge heel for most of what I have said in support of it in the past. But omg those first 14 episodes. I can’t label the initial tale of SAO as anything but amazing. And if those 14 episodes were the only episodes we ever got, I would easily call it one of the best anime ever made.

5. Date a Live

I almost have to laugh that I am about to mention Date a Live after that. DAL was never going to be confused with a good anime, but it was fun. It was silly and rampant and insane, but you still fell in love with the characters because they were totally and completely worth falling in love with. Then DAL2 happened, and I hate this season a little too much. It was released too soon, it was done too poorly, it was just every kind of measurable cringe. The only thing worse than the writing was the lackadaisical and pedestrian voice acting, and that’s saying a lot considering how intern-worthy the animation of the second season was. DAL3 redeems itself plenty, the characters become likeable again, and there is an actual story and it isn’t awful and harkens back to seeds planted that were never developed, and at least part of the budget was dedicated to better artwork. But wow - DAL2 is just pure hot garbage.

6. A Certain Magical Index (Toaru Majutsu no Index)

The first two seasons of both Raildex series have casts I'd pretty much take on an entire den of Wendol with a soup spoon to protect. They're just that good, so I was beyond excited when a third Index season was announced. I've never read the source material, so maybe some were ready for it more than I was, but Index III started off TOTALLY different - the blood and brutality is turned up past 10, everybody up and turned into an a-hole about everything, and it all felt very foreign to me compared to everything before it. But, I stayed in because I was still invested in the characters and wanted to see where it all went. It eventually reminded me a lot of the good 'ol days of anime where it wasn't always happy, where sometimes even the good guys made you feel bad, and where there was a fairly complex storyline that you really had to pay attention to if you wanted to keep up. The difference is, a lot of those shows were good. Index III just... was. I got nothing out of choking my way through the entire season, and really didn't care about anything but finishing it long before I ever did. I still feel a bit betrayed that this was the anime that fans waited 8 years for. 

7. Eureka 7 Ao

No need for any exposé. Screencap says it all. How you follow up one of the most epic mecha anime ever with this fail of a series is beyond me. Great music, absolutely abysmal writing. 

8. Infinite Stratos

Was Infinite Stratos good? Original, yes. Fun, yes, Characters that made you care about them, yes. But good? BWAHAHAHA NO, it absolutely was not good. IS is one of a handful of titles I chuckle about saying I enjoyed, because it's quite bad. Which is how you know IS2 is total dregs, because it's so very bad that it makes the first season look kinda decent. There was a story worth developing in place in the second season, they just chose to go full potato on the harem and fanservice elements instead, and decided that the writing didn't really matter. The ensuing episodes are for the most part just too much stupid to watch. 

9. Blood Blockade Battlefront (Kekkai Sensen)

A bit of an odd duck, Kekkai Sensen introduced us to a world of enigmatic and strange bedfellows traversing a totally bonkers landscape of a world that somehow all manages to come together as a collective yaaas in the end. There is a unity that develops between them which task by wacky task binds these otherwise incongruent personalities together towards a common goal, and interpersonal gold eventually develops between them. The strengths of the individual are blended like watercolor to reinforce the weaknesses of the individual within the resulting eccentric genus. A cliché but nonetheless robust red string of fate ties all the loose ends together and a fantastic actuality of cognizance materializes between the ragtag cast and the forces that amass against them, and the first season ends with a feel-good that no one could have ever seen coming. It really is a great ride. Then the second season happens, and the glue that holds it all together feathers and ‘stuff just happens’. I was disappointed that all that great writing and plot that intertwines in the first season is totally absent in the second, and in the end it becomes just tales. I wanted so much more and got barfly stories regaled secondhand. 

[noccalula-writes]

What are your favorite games and franchises? Top 5?

OH BOY have I got feelings on this subject. 

Please keep in mind - I’m a storyteller and a writer. I fucking /love/ a good story. I DM a DnD game and my biggest weakness is that I don’t often include enough combat because I am so much more interested in telling a story. So for me, there’s got to be an emotional investment for a game to really land. I also hyperfixate like a motherfucker so I often refuse to pick up new things purely because there’s not enough space in my head for them at the time, so I’m slow getting to things as they come out. 

So, I’m first and foremost a survival horror bitch. I cut my teeth on Parasite Eve before I played any others - my mother scrimped and saved and fought her way through Wal-mart back in like 1998 to get me the original Playstation gaming console and Tekken 2 (which was my first PS game, I played it in an arcade near her barber shop as a child - Tomb Raider 2 was my second). The old Playstation discs at that time came with demos for different games, including Metal Gear Solid, which I replayed until I could have done it in my sleep because poverty meant I wasn’t likely to get another game anytime soon. I mention this because the Parasite Eve trailer used to give me nightmares but I was super, super hooked. 

I am a huge Silent Hill fan. Huge. That is a tragedy I could write a whole ‘nother post about, because as excited as I am to finally get my hands on Death Stranding (again, poverty, so it’ll be another minute before we can get a PS4), we’ll never get another SH game again unless some major reconciliation happens with Kojima and Konami, which is unlikely (and also hard to hope for - I’m happy Kojima now has the creative freedom to go as balls to the wall as he wants). 

I am an equally huge Resident Evil fan. I’ve always maintained that my first fandom was The X Files, but my wife pointed out a few nights ago that my RE love started around the same time in the late 90′s, so now it’s a chicken and egg kind of thing. Point being, it’s either The or One Of my longest lasting fandoms/interests. RE and Silent Hill get compared to one another a lot - RE7 did nothing to help that - but they really are apples and oranges to me. Fruit, sure, but two totally different tones and experiences. 

I’ve been a huge Tomb Raider fan for forever - my first high school boyfriend was loaded and bought me Angel of Darkness to come play at his house and while it was def critically panned, I do recall enjoying it - so that’s been fun to get those games remade with updated graphics. I’ve only played the one but the others are def on The List. 

So now that I’ve talked for an hour, my Top 5 fave games ever - 

#1 - Resident Evil 3 I am beyond jazzed for this remake, and a lot of people in the 90′s complained about RE3′s lack of clear cut boss battles, but I don’t know what they’re talking about. The entire fucking game is a boss battle - Jill vs. Raccoon City, and of course, Nemesis, who used to give my mother nightmares and caused me to sleep with a leaf-stabber by my bed for years. Jill is far and away my favorite protagonist in RE; she’s got a resilience of the spirit that somehow isn’t conflated with naivety, which is uncommon in ‘nice’ female protags. She’s savvy but she’s still kind, and she’s committed as fuck to survival - not to mention, as zealotous a Chris and Jill shipper as I am, she and Carlos had hella chemistry and I’m excited to see where that goes (JD Pardo would have made a fuck of a Carlos Oliviera, btw). It was An Experience and it’s forever at my #1. 

#2 - The Last of Us 

There is no comparison for emotional weight in video games, as far as I’m concerned. SPOILERS if you don’t already know the ending (this game came out in what, 2014?) but to me one of the biggest thing in the game’s favor is that the protagonist made the wrong choice. He had an option to potentially eradicate the cordyceps fungus and maybe save the world, turn the tides back for humanity, and with the weight of the world in the balance, he chose to save Ellie instead. It was, on a global scale, the wrong choice - but it was the human choice. It was the thing that a dad who never properly grieved his dead daughter would do for the surrogate daughter he inherited by accident. As for Ellie, there is no other character quite like her in games, and she’s fucking quality LGBT representation, especially considering how little we see queer children in media. I still cry every time, we play this game twice a year like clockwork and every single time, I still cry. 

#3 - Silent Hill 3 

All of SH’s games will have a special place in my heart - and if you wanna talk shit about Downpour, I’ll meet you in the Denny’s parking lot at 11, you better square the fuck up because I will defend Murphy with fists - but 3 is the best, hands down. I felt like it did the best job of streamlining the series’ ... uhm... somewhat complicated lore into something more understandable. SPOILERS: The villains are horrific - the Missionaries strike fear into my heart every time I play, and Claudia eating a miscarried god fetus to become god herself? Fucked up on a level you rarely see. I suppose if you didn’t catch it in the last sentence - your protag Heather vomits up a fetal god late in the game. Yes, you read that right. The best thing about this game though? Heather. I could climb up my feminist soapbox and talk about Heather as a subversion to video game tropes all fucking day - she’s a nonsexualized teenage girl whose father is killed for her character development. She’s self-sufficient, tough but still vulnerable, and hard as nails in a fight. As I might have mentioned a time or six, she also voluntarily aborts a god because Fuck Your Plans, She’s Got Her Own. 

#4 - Final Fantasy X 

Listen. I don’t know how much of this is because of actually enjoying playing the game and how much of it is emotional attachment. As most of you who follow me know, my mother died when I was sixteen. When I was about fourteen, I dated a rich kid who used to bring his PS2 to our very not-rich house and play games for us to watch - the sort of neophyte version of Watching Guys Play Videogames, if you will, which is another rant for another time. He got a Gamecube specifically so I could play RE Zero and Hunter The Reckoning. He was a neckbeard but he was also desperate to keep me from ditching so he did the smart thing and plied my very poor ass with money and food. The #1 game in the watching roster, though, was FFX - and if you know anything about the game, you know how heavily spirituality features into the story. My mother, very caught up in a very Eastern Philosphy Meets Quantum Physics internal seeking about the nature of things, was hooked from the word Go. She used to sit and watch Trey play for hours - we all did, but having her join us and love it that much? Wonderful. Half my memories of this game are both of us crying - crying when Yuna dances to send the souls, crying when Yuna reveals she’s on a suicide mission, crying when she and Tidus fall in love anyway, crying when she sends her Aeons to die in the final fight, crying over ‘the fayts are waking up’, crying when the big reveal about Auron comes up, crying crying crying. My wife bought it in 2011 and I watched her play through it again and while it suffers from the same issue as all FF games - too much filler and weird battle scenarios - it was cathartic. I miss my mom. 

#5 - Resident Evil 6 

Eat my entire ass. You already knew this was coming. I will defend this game to my grave for the fact that we have complex, interesting narratives surrounding female characters who have actual personalities. Was it perfect? No. Did it take RE out of horror territory and move it more into action? Woefully, yes. Is this series deeply problematic for where it chooses to set down your mostly-white protags and have them kill their way through? Big time. Don’t gloss those facts. But it’s got emotional punch in spades and a few weird character breaks that ended up being kind of brilliant - Chris has been so resiliently relentless in his fight against bioterrorism that a major PTSD break was inevitable. Leon would of course risk life and limb to help Helena, even though she implicated herself in something terrible. The icing on the cake to me was a grown up Sherry Birkin, wide eyed and believing like hell in the fight she thought she was on the right side of and getting knocked down only to get back up. Ada’s entire side campaign was brilliant. I hate some of the control choices they made in this game - the running from the Haos scenes near the end of Chris and Piers’ campaign makes me want to eat my own fist - but so it goes with most RE games (until RE4, moving your protag was like driving a tank). Jake and Sherry are My Unsinkable Ship. There are at least six scenes across this game that never get easier to watch - when the bomb hits the city and the cut scene of the mass infections begin, I still get sick to my stomach - and that, to me, is the mark that this game struck a hell of a chord in terms of storytelling. 

This was long. 

[afterjosephine-blog1]

victoria pedretti, she/her, cis female ✧*:･ﾟdid you see josephine “jo” walker the twenty-seven (104) year old ghost walking around halloweentown? they’re known as the romantic, makes sense since they tend be quite sentimental & mystical. they work as a florist & (failed) poet and spend a lot of time at halloweentown cemetery listening to what are you doing new year’s eve? by ella fitzgerald. they’ve always reminded me of new flowers on a decaying gravestone, a fallen chandelier in the middle of a mansion. wonder how they’re taking all the disruption in the town. ( may, 19, she/her, est )

triggers: death (she is a ghost), (mass?) murder, suicide

disclaimer: i’m bad at math and figuring out years and ages required a lot more math than i was ready for, so i’m hoping i get my timeline right ! pray for me !

born in 1915 (march 5, 1915 to be more exact - gotta get that chart), josephine’s family (the ‘nickname’ didn’t come in until later) came from generations of money earned and establishment garnered. also i have no clue what i just wrote i’m writing this first bullet last asdfhjl

when she was six, she had her first encounter with the dead or dying. she’d come across a baby bird who’d been pushed out of his nest too early and, unable to find the nest itself, decided she would pick it up and cradle it in her hands until it evidently passed on. it looked at peace. 

this is unnecessary information, but it’s good to note.

anyway, if you have the money, why not spend it? when josephine was seven, the walkers moved into a victorian mansion. the patriarch was fully under the belief that he would be the next nathaniel hawthorne –– he wasn’t worried about the family going broke while he forced them to let him focus on his writing, what considering all of the money they had at the time had been simple inheritance from generations of walkers.

(kind of important to note that the victorian era was actually... pretty recent? it ended in 1901 and this is all going down in 1922 so!)

within the mansion, they also has some much needed help –– it came with two butlers, two nannies, two maids, and two groundskeepers. they seldom had any use for the nannies.

there was definitely something off, though, and that ‘off’-ness just kept increasing over time. her mother claimed to hear things. she and her siblings claimed to see things. her father began retreating into himself... 

which is why they couldn’t move! he still had work to be done! a great novel doesn’t write itself in one year, silly! they couldn’t leave! he still needed advice!

i don’t want this intro to get super long so we’ll skip ahead about a year. suffice it to say that everyone was still on their bullshit. 

in 1925, when josephine and her twin brother were 10, her older sister was 12, and her older brother was 14, her dad full-on “heeeere’s JOHNNY”d them, then killed himself.

josephine and her twin brother (who’ll just be referred to as ‘her brother’ from this point forward) were the lone survivors of the walker family. as 10y/os, they both still fit in plenty of places that their father could never.

that being said, one of the maids had also made it unscathed. an agreement was made: they helped clean up the mess – she just couldn’t handle messes! – she would act as their guardian. josephine knew they were probably doing something wrong by cleaning it all up – cleaning up a whole-ass crime scene that included their family members – before any authorities arrived, but was she in too much shock to argue? maybe so.

after that, there were zero buyers. it was already expensive, but now there’d been a mass murder? who. 

considering the maid never left the grounds, this did put her out of work. they still had the walker inheritance to fall back on, something that had been unlocked to josephine and her brother five years later, but that was it.

we’re gonna skip ahead a little bit because this is getting long. all that’s happened of note between now and the next bullet: the maid literally never left the grounds. jo began getting called jo. she tried to go to college using some of the inheritance then dropped out. she trained to become a florist.

throughout the next many years of her life, jo began trying her hand at poetry. she ultimately failed at it, but... some people just really don’t know how to market themselves. even past attempting to truly become one, she continued writing in the hope that she might finally –– after over ten years –– make peace with the massacre.

by the time she was 25, she’d gotten married. by the time she was 25, she’d pushed everything to the back-burner. by the time she was 25, she hadn’t seen or thought of the maid in years. by the time she was 25, she was discussing starting a life with her new husband.

by the tail end of her life at 25, her brother had died.

because this is a wanted connection on the main, i’m going to leave the cause unclear.

just when she thought she’d gotten over everything, as emeril would say, ‘bam!’

her husband and friends tried to be of help, but it got to the ‘beyond’ point when she started seeing her brother

another note: on the wanted connection blurb, i made it utp whether he was ~haunting~ her or if she was just hallucinating, so we also gonna make that unclear!

two years, a divorce, and multiple burned bridges later –– jo thought she finally knew what had to be done to get it to stop. she had ‘rationalized’ it as best as she could. in a lot of lore, ghosts couldn’t move on to the next plane of existence until they’d made peace with something or other. maybe there was something integral about her?

so she greeted the maid who hadn’t aged a day in the past 27 years, then proceeded to hang herself.

 this would be kind of bittersweet tragic if it’d actually worked.

 instead, this bitch was suddenly just looking at her own body like “FUCK. I REALLY DID THAT FOR NOTHING.” and gained this sick scar that wrung around her neck like the noose had.

the maid was like “i mean ur never gonna have to worry about aging now tho so??”

as it turned out, they were just in the middle of plenty of families who’d gone mad and died in that house... as she had only figured out after she killed herself.

boy, was she mad!

all of this partial humor out of the way, for the next decades upon decades, she was at a loss. the maid said that, yes, she was physically capable of leaving, but why would she when it felt so magnetic anyway?

with this in mind... jo left. it took an extremely long time to understand how to turn visible, and then even longer to understand how to turn invisible again. apparently she didn’t need doors – like, that was new.

anyway. once she had gained an understanding of what she could and could not do (rest in peace, salt), she began just... doing everything she’d been doing while she was alive... over and over again...

every morning, she made bouquets that she wasn’t paid for. every afternoon, she visited the cemetery to lay them on the most derelict graves. every night, she went back to the mansion.

did she need to find a purpose in her ‘life’ in order to move on? was there something she needed to make peace with? or was she doomed to ‘live’ forever, doing the same things, feeling trapped by the same place?

and that, my friends, is where we leave off.

personality, we’re just going to use various tests/ideas: i knew she was a pisces, kae said she sounded like a scorpio moon – so pisces sun, scorpio moon, capricorn rising (i have a birth chart now) ; total and complete enneagram type 4 ; i honestly don’t use mbti that much anymore but probs infp ; i’m undecided between hufflepuff and gryffindor... then again, i never read the books i just know she isn’t a slytherin and ppl always forget about ravenclaw ; i think melancholic? possibly phlegmatic? j definitely not choleric or sanguine

my mind! it’s so powerful!

connection ideas:

twin brother wc is on the main !

her ex-husband... but make him some immortal or undead being that, therefore, would still be alive.

other writers she’s met through the years, be they in ‘recent’ years ( any time after 1942 adhsjfl ) or in what she’d consider to be ‘her’ years.

idk just. friends. some pretty loose stuff!

any type of connection can be w/ any gender btw!

i’m. not great at wcs, but i’ll keep them coming!

i’m also so open to brainstorming or checking yours out!

like this or hmu to plot !

*my discord is also @ john donne’s whore#5590 if you prefer discord! psa that it literally won’t let me use the mobile version tho which makes plotting there! harder!

[dent-de-leon]

I heard Season 7 wasn't so great. I'm sure you think otherwise, but what were some highlights that you think made it worthwhile, if you did?

Alright,, get ready for this, cause I think Season 7 was pretty good, so let’s get to it:

I think lots of people who were disappointed with season 7 conflated the importance of certain things and events--especially Adam--and their hatred for the season is more so a result of it not adhering to expectations they arbitrarily decided on. 

For instance, before season 7 even dropped, we still had people claiming Shiro and Adam were fiances previously, somehow still fiances, or were meant to be. People honestly thought they’d get back together after a messy breakup and years of distance. So many fans thought a wedding was inevitable. All of this in spite of the show runners repeatedly confirming that they were never engaged, the relationship was permanently over, and Adam was really just part of Shiro’s backstory. And you can bet lots of them treated Shiro like he wasn’t “real rep” after Adam was gone, which wasn’t fair honestly. 

So anyway, some of the things season 7 did for us:

fINALLY REVEALED THE LONG AWAITED PREKERBEROS BACKSTORY BETWEEN SHIRO AND KEITH,, we’ve waited years for this guys!! It was so heartwarming and beautiful to see how their pasts intertwined to shape the present, how Keith is still by Shiro’s side all these years later,, even paralleling his devotion to Shiro with Shiro’s literal ex-boyfriend,, 

REVEALED SHIRO WAS CANONICALLY MLM,, LIKE,, THIS WAS THE REPRESENTATION THE SHOW RUNNERS HAD BEEN FIGHTING FOR ALL THIS TIME. AND IT WAS EXPLICIT, ONSCREEN REP FROM A LEAD CHARACTER. THAT’S FUCKING AWESOME,, and I’ll literally never be okay with people still crying “queerbaiting” after everything the staff went through to do this for us,, 

Keith literally willing Shiro back to life with the power of love made me like cry I can’t get over how soft and sweet they are,, 

Exploring the inner-workings and politics of the Galaxy Garrison 

WE FINALLY GOT SOME MORE QUINTESSENCE SENSITIVE KEITH AND DRUID CONTENT!!! Again, this is the payoff we’ve been waiting for since season 1!! Do you know how long I’ve wanted a Druid with more of an established character and background beyond just Faceless Enemy?? We got so much interesting info here. And the episode played out with all these neat little horror tropes--Keith hiding and tensing up when the Druid walks over his spot and that one step creaks, that maniacal laugh and mask splitting open, some of Macidus’ creepy mannerisms, ect. Parts of that episode gave me chills, I loved it!! And again, these are some of the answers and world building tidbits we’ve been waiting ages for,, 

Shiro’s new hand is cool and I love the design. I don’t care that lots of people think otherwise lmao. It’s so fun to me,, I love how big and floaty it is,, and I love that scene where Allura uses the tiara crystal to salvage Shiro’s connection with it. She was so ready for that, no hesitation, and I wish that maybe there was more of a followup to that--Allura thinking of how she got the tiara from her mother in a flashback, Shiro thanking her afterwards, something. 

SHIRO CONNECTING WITH ATLAS WAS BEAUTIFUL,, that moment where everything just sort of clicks into place. And everyone looks to him for guidance. It’s really magical. And I honestly think Shiro being able to create his own mech through his bond with Atlas is kind of a callback to that scene where Allura tells him he was meant to create, not destroy. 

In the same vein, I also think it was actually really great that Keith was the one to cut down Sendak. You can read my whole thought process on it here, but long story short, Shiro was tortured both mentally and physically by Sendak for so long. And all the time, he kept trying to push Shiro, trying to force him to be the monster the Galra always intended to make him. Killing Sendak just isn’t Shiro to me, but it’s the kind of thing Sendak would love. At least then, he’d get in a last word about how they’re supposedly the same or some other bullshit that would just torture Shiro more. And honestly, I think Shiro has been forced to do enough violence at the hands of the Galra. Keith killing Sendak is him shouldering the weight of taking a life so Shiro doesn’t have to. It’s a reprieve. It’s Keith cutting down Shiro’s demons and then being there to hold Shiro in his arms afterwards. Psychologically, I think this is so much more healing for Shiro than the alternative. That shot where Keith takes Sendak down? That’s not a Big Hero moment, it’s dark and viscerally personal. It’s not Keith stealing the spotlight from Shiro or anything, it’s Keith doing something gutting and ugly so Shiro doesn’t have to, it’s freeing Shiro from Sendak’s influence for good--and ensuring Shiro won’t have to make the killing blow frees him in a way, ends the cycle of Shiro potentially being haunted by the continued cycle of violence Sendak tried to trap him into. 

And again, I’m saying all that with the context that Shiro always pushed himself to do everything on his own, to shoulder the weight of the world--hello Atlas--because he spent so long with others looking at him with the misconception that he needed to be shielded and protected, that he couldn’t do things alone or couldn’t push past a certain point, reducing him to the symptoms of his illness--hi Adam. This season doesn’t coddle Shiro or remove him from the action. He’s not “retired,” he’s Captain, Commander. He lets himself lean on Keith for support, be held safe in his arms. But then shoves a medic away and runs to his battle station in the very next episode. Part of his character arc is learning that there can be a balance between others thinking they know what’s best for him and doing everything on his own. He learns, through his bond with Keith, that he can lean on someone and look to them for support--without being coddled or looked down on. “We saved each other”--Keith has always believed in him, has never once doubted his abilities, so trusts him enough to let be vulnerable with Keith, to let him help out when he needs it. 

WE FINALLY GOT A BIGGER HUNK STORY ARC--ALSO THE AMAZING SCENE BETWEEN HUNK AND KEITH THAT BUILDS ON THEIR EARLIER DEVELOPMENT TOGETHER,,

We see the wonderful payoff for Lance and Allura’s feelings for one another--the cute little exchanges,, Lance’s sister noticing What’s up,, the blushing and soft looks...it was so good...a lot of people hated that cause they hate the ship, but like, it was a buildup of natural progression for these characters. 

Everything in regards to Hunk, Lance, and Pidge’s families building on their respective backstories and character development

KEITH TAKING KROLIA TO VISIT HIS FATHER’S GRAVE WAS SUCH A NICE TOUCH IT HURT BUT IT FELT LIKE GOOD CLOSURE,, 

ALTEAN REI,, THE WHOLE NOTION OF HAGGAR ABANDONING THE DRUIDS AND CREATING AN ALTEAN ARMY,, THAT’S SUPER INTERESTING IM READY TO GET MORE INTO THAT,,

ATLAS IS A REALLY AWESOME MECH AND IM GLAD SHIRO HAS IT,,

So,, in conclusion--I don’t think the season’s perfect, there are some things I think could’ve been improved, but I also think it honestly did a lot of good things and built on established canon. Season 6 is what I see as the writing’s highest point for reference, btw. 

[toyfrog]

Does Liz have a dual personality?

Like in Lord Baltimore?

That’s the only explanation I can derive as to why she’s being written so *plot driven*

You never see the character in her head like in S1-2.

In S3, she’s plot driven for the entire season.

In S4 I didn’t watch but according to followers who did, she still had moments of whiplash. Was it the writing?

Of course. Horrible, painful, sloppy execution all because of a stupid spin off nobody wanted. So how do you clean up the mess?

Well…. there’s that altered memory thingy Krilov did to both Liz/Ressler at different times… the question is when was Liz memory altered? Before S3? Before Ted was shot? Recall Ressler with the gun ready to shoot Hitchin? It took Liz’ calm voice to get him to see the Truth.

So ahem, in these “scripts” there’s a lot of references to faulty memory, amnesia, altered states, and rare blood types, mothers killing to protect their children, mothers blaming Daddy for hurting the children.

“He was a bad man…”

Who did Liz shoot when she was a little girl? She was a child, there never should’ve been a gun for her to grab. So whose gun did she shoot?

Then go to S1 where Red told Liz she’d have to shoot Tom. She couldn’t do it (a colossal failure on the writers part) she let Tom live and he wreaked havoc on her life. Now Longevity Initiative- all about protecting the brain, jellyfish to help with lost memory- which is being done now btw. Liz is under With Luther Braxton… she remembered, but changed the roles of the people on what happened. In Kaplan’s episode, Katerina brings a traumatized Liz back to the motel… smoke everywhere now has the burns. A 🔥

Horses burned up in a barn. Two cars set on fire in finale.

With me so far?

Okay. Usually When a child suffers such a traumatic event, they develop a dual personality to handle the bad stuff, moreso deal with the aftermath. Red had Liz memory altered to protect her from remembering what she’d seen in the house.

The bad man.

The house in the finale resembles the one from Kaplan’s memories of Katerina. Coincidence? Could be. Liz held her gun at Connolly and fired, everything came back. “Run!l” So did she shoot Connolly because of what she remembered or what Krilov put in her head? Liz hasn’t been the same since Quon Zhang. “You’re bad luck is about to begin.”

She’s had a plan ever since she went to see Tom six weeks after her plea deal for shooting Connolly. Red got her charges reduced. But Liz treated him horribly. Why? It would be fair to say Zombie Liz the one that wants to marry Tom, defy all logic and reason is the alternate personality. If she shoots Tom, then her real persona is triggered back. Writhing in a fetal position then turned vigilante.

Liz hasn’t held her child. Not since disastrous S4, in S3, she was plot… except she did warn Tom not to die because she needs him to save his strength so she can kill him. Odd behavior from a protagonist. Then she warns Tom in S5- if he leaves she will kill him. Death do us part.

Tom is toxic, but Liz having an altered personality would explain wanting to go to meera’s grave, why In Vanessa Cruz, “wash rinse repeat.” Why Liz is no longer in scenes with Ressler for stories sake. Did Tom take her to Krilov?

He’d had to because not even Liz recalls it… or did the bad Liz emerge,the one that pays a Girl to impersonate her so Red’s spy can’t follow her to the boat? Or how she felt no remorse for Cooper perjuring himself?

Liz had no reaction to Key moments where she should. If her child is harmed, that’s enough to bring her out of it.

Go back to how she reacted when Ressler was taken…

Then nothing.

Fits of emotion, and a shocking twist. She shoots Tom like Connolly because everything comes to a head-

“Do you have a special needs child?”

Red was asked this in S4. He never responds. But it would explain Liz telling him “I’m not your Lizzie, to be controlled to be told what to do!”

Like a child.

Has Red called her Lizzie since S3?

Lizzie isn’t there, Red is distant, Ressler is distant, the task force is distant Liz has no story no reaction just plot. Should it be revealed she has a dual personality, they can get out of this mess.

Because….

It opens new story. When did she change over? How did it occur? Did Tom know? Reverting to a darker personality to deal with the pain, punishing Red by marrying Tom, all makes sense.

And if Agnes is hurt, she snaps, and recalls it all.

Not saying this would happen but to wash away the past two years- this is the best scenario, and then you reveal in Liz tertiary memory, she did not shoot Red… she shot someone else. Kaplan did not know Reddington is her real dad- she assumes this suitcase will punish Red-

But it’s going to punish Liz instead revealing a darker edge to her personality than before. The grifter Lizzie, one who makes cards and coins disappear.

*if* this is the reason for Liz’ aloofness towards everyone but Tom it not only meshes with story action, it is about to repeat itself.

Then with “Lizzie/Masha” back, it’s revealed Liz has spies on Tom for two years, she married him to hurt him. She cannot be seen like before a self inflicted victim. If it’s beyond her control and this is why Red guards her, it all makes sense. Two personalities. One is dark and gravitates toward the criminal mind… the other believes in the goodness of others, and feels close to those who have integrity.

You do Liz with two personalities, Tom is married to the altered one. Red awaits the real Lizzie- his child.

Then there’s Ressler and Liz strong emotions for him alone. They’ve kept that consistent, except for the ribbing this season… dark personality likes the danger.

“I want to bring her in when she’s still “her”

Red pleading with Donald for to have mercy on Liz to give her the benefit of the doubt, once Gregory DeVry hit, that Liz disappeared till her pregnancy reveal. In the Vehm, she had a voice, now she doesn’t.

Time for Lizzie to return, shoot Tom like Connolly because of what she knows and why. The mind is about to snap, so who did she kill? A sister? A lover of her mom’s... and then ask, what’s real memory, what’s altered? And what is about to change? —

[violet-coffee]

Game of Thrones 7.01 Rant [Minor SPOILERS]

The first scene was great and all but I kind of saw the twist coming when Walder Frey was being mega sexist. Not only that but if they left off last season with him still alive, the twist would’ve been way better. Looks like D&D played the first Assassin’s Creed before writing their scripts. Either way I’m praying that Arya will have her character development again but I might be asking for too much.

Previously on The Walking Dea– Game of Thrones…

Ed letting Bran [and Meera] into The Wall because he mentioned the Fist of the First Men is so off base. They should’ve at least had Bran recite a title or the Night Watch’s vows or something. You think Uncle Coldhands would’ve taught Bran that before fucking off. Either way now Bran should be King of the North since he would come before Jon and Sansa but plot points like that are too hard for D&D to keep up with.

This whole Jon ruling plot can go fuck off too. You think all these First Men northern houses would tolerate all these progressive views? Especially from a [king] bastard who deserted the Watch and a young girl from the smallest northern house? Ironically while the writers feign Progressive Jon, he’s still publicly sexist to Sansa who surprisingly is the only one to speak out. Know your place woman! Plus the writers cutting out Alys Karstark’s big interactions with Jon was a let down.

Monarch Cercei still sits wrong with me. Even Sansa’s line about Cersei murdering everyone to get to power is false. She didn’t murder any of the 5 declarants for king. D&D are trying SO hard to make Cersei a murdering badass while spending seasons trying to build her up as the insane regent who loves her children. Now she calls Tommen a traitor beyond the grave?

How does Cersei know about Tyrion being Dany’s hand right away? I don’t know if I missed something from previous scenes but no time period was defined or even vaguely mentioned between last season and this episode. Qyburn shouldn’t be able to get whispers from the harbor that fast right?

If Euron could win over Cersei so easily then what was with all the urgency of building Dany a fleet after the Kingsmoot? BTW Euron is a pussy here compared to his book-self whining about his family stealing from him and all. At least he looks more intimidating compared to last season. Jamie trying to contradict Euron doesn’t hide sloppy writing though D&D. They tried this last season with Sansa and Littlefinger too. LOLtwogoodhands…I see where this is going though. Let me guess Euron will eventually seduce Cercei or visa versa and Jaime will finally leave her side?

Yay more fart jokes and montages…Is Sam going to be the next Arya training in Braavos? Oh and is that guy supposed to be Archmaester Marwyn? I had to pause and look this up to find out he wasn’t in name. What another disappointment…

Sansa is being awfully rude to Littlefinger. I hate show-Sansa but at the same time I hope she becomes queen of something in the end.

Really now they’re devolving to pop singer cameos? Camping frat boy party!! Arya you fucking idiot why would you say that to guys in red capes? Luckily they took it as a joke.

But seriously you can tell who are main characters by the fact that they’re wearing black/dark colors. I can tell the costume designer from earlier seasons left/isn’t as involved. I know it’s winter now but shit…

The Hound actually staring into flames? This is seriously becoming a cartoon. I wouldn’t be surprised if show-Hound is Azor Ahai at this point and Melissandre whips her tits at him every other episode. Oh well, Sandor was the highlight of this episode for me.

Finally Gilly’s fucking baby grew. And really? No one thought to check DRAGONSTONE for DRAGONglass? Jorah Jumpscare Mormont is back baby!

Dany I know you’re at your ancestral land and all but pick Stannis’ flag up so someone else doesn’t have to you rude bitch. Fuck D&D for killing off Stannis; I cannot stress that enough. What a cliché way to end the episode. Also how did Dany claim Dragonstone without protest? If the Lannisters never took it like in the books then shouldn’t some of Stannis’ men still be there?

All in all this 1 episode was better than the whole previous season but the writers having characters constantly bring up pre-season 4 events doesn’t fix the bad writing for 5 and 6. So thanks D&D for making this episode so when I rewatch the series in the future I can skip season 6 entirely. I miss Theon though.