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dizzydancingdreamer · 3 years

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Persephone Symphony | Night One | Hades

Hey my lovelies, here is the next instalment! It’s pace is a little different-- a little more frantic-- but it fits the storyline so all is good! I wasn’t joking when I said it was a slooooow burn LOL! It’ll be worth it, I promise-- expect a bathtub scene soon. Anyways, enjoy my loves!!

Synopsis: In which he is the bad one— the dangerous one, the clunky one, the one who only knows how to break things— and she is the good one— the fragile one, the soft one, the one who knows how to put things back together— and he has to keep her alive long enough for anyone else— anyone who can do more than kill— to save her like she deserves to be saved— to save her from him. There are no pomegranates, no three headed dogs, and no requirement to stay— that is, if they don’t count an assassin on the loose out for her neck. In that case, three days in a safe house doesn’t feel like a long time— just long enough for Persephone and Hades to remember why opposites attract.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader (third person)

Warnings: nightmares, anxiety, cheesy chic flicks

Word count: 5.5k

Previous | Next

Master List

“You don’t even go here!”

He tries not to laugh— he really, really tries. He doesn’t want to laugh at a chick flick. Maybe Nat would have called him toxic for that. She was a badass— strong, intelligent, killer— probably the most like him out of everyone on the team— and even she used to laugh at movies like this on the nights she and Wanda would claim the common room for marathons. She definitely would have called him toxic. Maybe that’s why he lets a few chuckles out. Maybe it’s just because it is funny, though, and because the other deathly intelligent woman next to him is looking at him.

Maybe he just wants her to keep looking at him and if that means watching her movie then so be it.

The couch shifts. It’s only a tiny movement— if he wasn’t so focussed on her he wouldn’t have even noticed it. But he is and he does and he tells himself it’s because this is his job. It’s his job to watch her because he has to keep her safe. Yeah, it’s his job to keep her safe. It has nothing at all to do with the fact that when she had dropped that stupid fucking brush his heart had beat so fast he thought it was going to explode. Nothing to do with the fact that he’s never kicked a door down that quick in his entire life. Nothing to do with the fact that it feels like if he takes his attention off of her for even a second then she’s going to end up with a bullet in her skull—

No. She’s fucking not. End of story.

He swallows hard, the laughter evaporating like smoke in his lungs. He didn’t expect it to last that long anyway. It never does. His eyes flick over her, watching as she pulls her legs under her worn hoodie, her head resting on the arm of the couch. Her eyes are closed and when he holds his breath he can hear hers, soft and slowing alongside her heartbeat.

Some of the tension begins melting away in his shoulders. For four hours he laid there on the floor, jaw and fists clenched so tight he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pry them open again when the time came, listening to the rapid thump, thump, thump of her heart. Four fucking hours. That was worse than the brush— he can stop a guy with a gun but he knows nothing about heart attacks.

It was agony— he hasn’t felt that kind of helplessness before. Helpless knowing he couldn’t do a damn thing to stop her heart because he was definitely the reason it was pounding like a freight train trying to barrel out of her chest. He doesn’t want to scare her— in fact, he’s almost certain he would do anything if it meant she wouldn’t be afraid of him. Because that’s what it was— fear. He could practically smell it. The sharp tang of sweat and something else lingering in the air— something that made the hair on his arms stand on end, his attention laser focussed on the semi-sweet aroma. Normal people can’t smell fear but he can. Dogs can.

He swallows thickly, metal fingers balling so tight he can hear the slight creak of the vibranium curling against his thigh. His eyes dart back to her, praying the sound doesn’t make her flinch like everything else he does seems to do. Thankfully she remains still, her heart continuing to slow steadily. He pauses his breathing again to listen harder, clinging to the rhythm of the air coursing through her lungs.

In, out, pause. In, out, pause.

Like everything else she does, she makes a song of her breaths, finding a melody in the simplest of human routine. This time, though, it’s less mesmerizing. It still drags him into her orbit— he can still feel himself getting lost in this new incarnation of her inescapable softness— but there’s this voice nagging at the back of his mind, nervously tapping at his skull, demanding to be heard. That’s normal, right? She’s supposed to be breathing that slowly? Where is the line drawn between too fast and too slow? As much as he wants to get lost in her music he can’t help but feed into the voice. Fuck. He narrows his eyes, opting to watch the minute rise and fall of her chest instead.

Rise, fall, stop. Rise, fall, stop.

For a moment it works— he can see her breathing so she’s obviously fine— but then she stills and it feels like someone is driving a knife through his lungs. It’s normal— it has to be normal. She’s just asleep. Sure enough she takes another breath, chest rising once more before falling. The same thing happens, she stills, and he waits. Rise, fall, stop. With every cease of movement he feels more and more like sliding closer to her— as if he would be able to change her breathing pattern from sheer will and closeness.

Snap out of it, Bucky— she’s fine!

He’s being irrational— he’s being nitpicky. Since when is he an attention to details kind of guy? It’s his job. There it is again— the reminder. The excuse. He has to keep her safe and making sure she’s breathing normally is definitely part of that. Rise, fall, stop. His fingers— his real fingers— twitch against his other thigh and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to stop his gut from twisting. He has to do something— anything— to get closer to her. Just to make sure. Glancing around the room, his eyes catch on something along the back of the couch— perfect.

He yanks the quilt down as silently as possible, shaking it until it unfolds before scooting closer to her. As Bucky enters her space, cushions heaving under his weight, all he can smell is cherry pie. It almost floors him, the heady sugar and slight tang clinging to the air around her. His lips are dry but he doesn’t poke his tongue out, afraid of syrupy nostalgia he can feel starting to meld against his skin, sinking into the pit of his stomach. It’s futile— he knows it is— avoiding the sweetness won’t make it go away.

He swallows the lump in his throat and it tastes like July in Brooklyn in 1925. It tastes like running through the docks with Steve when the first shipment of fruit reached the shore, hands— both flesh, both warm, both untouched by anything but careless youth— curled around the money his mother had given him. Buy the ones in the back, she would tell him. They’re the sweetest. Finally he can’t take it— how tight his mouth feels— and he runs his tongue along his lips. His mother’s cherry pie used to win awards— now he knows why.

He drops the blanket a little unceremoniously. He isn’t intending for it to fall in a lump into her lap, all bunched up and awkward, but it slips from his fingers before he can catch it. Damn pie. He quickly fixes it, acting with more delicacy, trying to keep from touching her as he drapes the material over her legs. Despite his efforts he brushes her skin a few times, his now calloused and cold fingers meeting her buttery soft thigh, and his chest jolts, heartbeat spiking enough to rid his lungs of any trace of oxygen. He tears his hands away, breathless, face hot, and sinks his head into his free grip. He’s losing it.

“I didn’t mind it.”

At first he thinks he’s imagining it— her sweet, soft voice— the faintest lullaby breaking through the crashing of blood in his eardrums— but then he feels the couch move again and his head is lifting of its own accord, eyes desperate to see that she’s okay. He follows her movements, tiny hands grasping at the quilt, pulling it over the rest of her body. She presses her face against it, eyes remaining shut but clearly alive, and his shoulders drop. See, she’s fine you idiot.

She’s fine but he didn’t hear a word she said. “What.”

He bites back the groan— Really? ‘What’? So you remember her cherry pie but none of the manners she taught you?

If she notices the gruffness in his tone she doesn’t point it out, only yawns and stretches, bringing her body into an even smaller ball. God, he could just reach out and pick her up with one han—

“Doll.” She mumbles, sleep etched across her features, making her already soft words even more gentle. Even more hypnotic. “I didn’t mind it.”

He wasn’t breathless before. Now he knows that. He was something— stunned, shocked, a moron— but not breathless. His lungs didn’t feel like they were filled with helium before— so light that he’s afraid he’s going to float away. He didn’t slam a hand against his chest last time, fingers like jelly as they claw at his heart, searching for something to anchor himself against the madness of his racing mind. She didn’t mind it. It didn’t feel like this— like there’s no air in his throat but that it’s okay because if there’s air in her throat then everything is fine.

Everything will be fine.

She liked it.

He sinks back against the cushion, eyes wide and glued to the girl next to him, barely registering the soft snores that begin fluttering around him. She liked it. Her, the softest, warmest girl that he can remember even being this close to. The softest, warmest girl who smells like his mother’s famous pie. The softest, warmest girl who, in her sleep, pushes her foot closer towards him, resting it against his leg and snoring a touch louder. He’s breathless now— speechless.

But he has to say something.

“Oh.”

Yeah, he’s a moron alright.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After the movie finishes Bucky just clicks on the next one. She’s The Man. It’s funnier than the last. Maybe that’s just because the clock now reads four thirty, though, and his legs have started going numb and her cherry pie scent is still lingering in his nose. It’s like a sedative, being this close to the sleeping girl. His bones feel heavier, his eyelids beginning to droop. Every time he blinks the darkness lasts a little longer. He uses the ticks of the ancient clock to keep track.

Tick, tick, tick.

She stopped snoring about an hour ago. He kind of wishes she hadn’t. It was like a reminder— a little ‘it’s okay, I’m breathing’ to keep his nerves from sky rocketing. Now all he can hear is the little puffs of air as they leave her lips. Sometimes they blend into the noise of the TV and he goes still, a chill tingling at the top of his spine as he waits. In, out, pause. Always that damn pause. He debates turning the movie off a few times but stops himself, not wanting to risk her waking up to him staring at her in the dark. He may be out of touch with the times but creepy is timeless and in any time— be it the thirties or now— he would prefer to stay as far away from that category as possible.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

He can feel where her toes still press against his thigh. They’re higher now, closer to his hip, and he can’t bring himself to move away from her. He should. He knows he should. This isn’t part of the job. The way his stomach flip flops like he’s a teenager again when she kneads against him is not in his contract. Neither is the way he wishes it wasn’t just her foot. He clenches his jaw, head sinking back into the back of the couch. Screw Wilson for having a couch that feels like a fucking cloud. He can feel his muscles relaxing, the numbness in his fingers a tell tale sign of the impending sleep. Just a few more seconds.

Tick, tick, tick— god he wants to crawl next to her and fall asleep— tick, tick.

He springs to his feet, eyes open as wide as they can go, shaking his head to clear the thought. Nope— that game is done. That’s the last thing either of them need; for her to wake up, broken leg or wrist or worse, trapped under him because there’s no way that he wouldn’t hurt her if they were sleeping together. He’s too big and she’s too good. Too good for someone like him, too good to be subject to the danger of his tossing and turning.

His restlessness was never dangerous before. Annoying? Yes. Distracting? Definitely. But dangerous? Never. Thinking about it now, though, he can see it— all the little ways she would get hurt being with him but especially the ones that involve them sharing a bed together. Or a couch. He’s destructive and it only makes sense that his sleep habits would be destructive too. His fingers thread through his hair, tugging at the roots. The sting against his scalp is almost enough to cover the one in his throat.

Now that he’s on his feet he stays on them, shifting his weight between his heels, trying desperately to clear the numbness. He never sits that long. Even back at the compound he never spends more than an hour in the same spot. He wasn’t built for the peace of day to day life. All the sitting and sleeping and lounging. That’s part of being a monster— in his case half man, half mechanical beast. He’s gotten used to being turned off when he’s not needed. Always moving and pushing and fighting until— Benign. Blackness. Nothing. The cold.

Maybe that’s why he can’t relax these days— the warmth. When he used to sleep— when he used to get turned off, he should day— it was freezing. Of course now he knows why— they kept him in a cooler like a piece of meat, always thawing and freezing him. It shouldn’t be a memory that he clings to— he shouldn’t be sleeping with his windows open at night, nothing but a sheet pulled over his hips. He shouldn’t cringe when Stark turns the heat up or when the gym showers are steamy from the person before him. He may be an idiot— a monster— but he’s not stupid. It’s not normal.

He misses being normal.

The supersoldier serum ensures that possibility is gone, though. Maybe one day he’ll get over the shower thing. Maybe he’ll even appreciate the temperature being turned up. It doesn’t really matter either way. Neither of those things will erase his heightened senses. Like how he can still feel where she was pressed against him, the spot on his thigh prickling with the memory of her touch. He knows he'll be able to feel her for the next few hours, engraved into his skin, taunting him. Not being afraid of the fucking hot water won’t rewire his nerve endings. Or his fucking brain which keeps filling with thoughts of the sleeping girl.

Shivering, he pushes himself to the other side of the living room, drawing back the curtain for a quick moment, eyes wandering the empty darkness before letting it drop again. He sinks into the recliner next to the couch, ignoring the way his bones ache in protest. The spot on his thigh is like a magnet, the lingering signature she unknowingly left on him begging to be reunited with her. He scratches at it— he’s not about to subject her to his cold shower, windows open life. She has enough of her own problems.

It’s not long before his eyes are beginning to shut again, the ticking of the clock like a dare, lulling him back into that semi-sweet cherry haze. Just try to stay awake, it taunts, clicking mercilessly as he fights his drooping eyelids. It would go against his entire nature, falling asleep in this armchair. It’s too soft and too warm and he has way too many clothes on but still— something’s different. He doesn’t have to look around to know what it is. His thigh is still buzzing. He doesn’t have to look but he does anyway. In hindsight it’s a good thing that he does—

“No—” his head snaps up, eyes cracking open, heart stopping— “No stop— don’t hurt—”

—because if he hadn’t then he wouldn’t be in front of her in time to catch her body as she bolts upright, springing from the couch with a choked scream, knees crashing into the coffee table and sending her flying straight towards where the glass vase shatters on the carpet.

He’s out of his seat in seconds, heart lodged in his throat as he shoves the coffee table with his boot, diving for her with all the speed he can muster. He winces when he hears the glass crunch further into ground but he can’t bring himself to care— not as his arms curl around around the tiny girl, pulling her into his chest as he twists his body and lands back first against the patch of carpet that is— thankfully— shard free. The thud of the impact echoes through his body, stabilizing only when it reaches the vibranium. He has no idea what the Shuri did to the arm to make it shock absorbent but for once he’s grateful for the hunk metal because at least it’s keeping the impact from jaring her even more. Finally the fuckin’ thing comes in handy.

His head slumps against the carpet for a moment, eyes closing, his chest heaving and veins singing— both from the adrenaline coursing a path through his body and from the way she settles on top of him, thighs pressing against him, hands splayed across his chest. He could get lost in this feeling— hell he can feel himself slipping away right now. Never before has he wanted someone’s hands to touch him so much. Hell, he doesn’t even want his own hands to touch him half the time. But hers? Gods, he wishes they would just dig into his hair already, tug on his shoulders, trace along his jaw and nose and lips. He’ll take anything— any little scrap of her skin on his.

That being said, it takes him longer than he’s willing to admit to push past the all consuming feeling of her pressing against him enough to realize that those very hands— the ones he wants so badly— are clawing at his shoulders. His eyes snap open, hands tightening on her back as she thrashes against him, voice high pitched and terrified.

“No, no, no, no! Don’t— hurt me. He’s gonna’— help me!”

Her hands— now balled into tiny fists— fly out, just barely missing his jaw as he ducks out of the way. They land against his chest instead, weakly pounding against him, and just like that he’s back, pushing off the ground and gently scooping her hands into his. It makes her thrash harder, her eyes squeezed shut, her harsh movements somehow languid and being swallowed by the hoodie. She’s panting, still mumbling, and he narrows his eyes, just barely making out the movement beneath her eyelids— is she still asleep?

“Please no.” It’s not so much of a yell now as it is a strangled whimper— one that hits him so hard he has to slap a hand to the ground to keep from falling over again.

“Hey, c’mon—” he lets her wrists go, hand instead curling around her shoulder, shaking her as delicately as he can given the fact that he’s trying to break her from the nightmare— “you gotta’ wake up, doll.”

Bucky can hear the way he stutters his words. He hasn’t stuttered since the second grade but here he is, fumbling over his sentences, trying to think of something coherent and useful. He’s a soldier for fucks sake— he’s faced worse things than a nightmare— but right now he feels eight years old again and helpless. He’s stuck, shaking her with weak arms, deaf to anything but her name on his tongue, and he’s scared. With every tortured cry that rips from her pink lips he becomes more torn between the kid he once was— the one who thought Brooklyn was so huge and that he was so small— and the man he is now— the one who knows that Brooklyn is nothing but a place and who still feels smaller than ever.

“Mama, no—” this time it’s neither a yell nor a whimper; it’s a full blown sob— one that sinks against his chest where her forehead hits him, a dagger straight to his already broken heart— “don’t go, don’t leave—”

The end of her sob explodes into a scream so loud he flinches, his hold on her tightening for a split second until he feels his fingers digging into her pilant flesh through the hoodie. He eases his grip, chest so tight he feels like he’s going to pass out. Somehow, even through the noise, he can still hear that fucking clock. It sounds like it’s laughing at him now. Tick, tick, tick, you can’t even keep a little girl safe, tick. He wants to curl up— he wants to rip his ears off. It’s too much. His shirt sticks to him, soaked with the hot, wet tears of the trembling girl in his arms and he snaps— he can’t take it anymore.

He shakes her one more time, harder, ignoring the way his muscles scream in protest, like they’re demanding he treat her as gently as possible. “Y/n wake up!”

He doesn’t yell but it’s the loudest he’s spoken since he walked through the door and it feels like he’s swallowing the pieces of the vase he broke. He had to do it. He had to make those sounds stop. He doesn’t like it but he had to. He’s just thankful it works, her eyes snapping open, the scream catching in her throat and dying away. It’s so sudden that his ears ring— not missing her wails but empty without her noise. The silence isn’t worse but it may as well be. There’s no winning for them.

She stops dead, movements ceasing, and too many seconds tick by in which all he can hear is his own panting, laboured and frantic. For too long she sits there, her eyes wide, meeting his gaze but also not. It takes everything in him to keep her at arms length— to not crush her tiny body against him if only to be able to feel her breaths against his skin. To make sure. He can see it— rise, fall, stop. Rise, fall, stop— but it’s not enough. It wasn’t enough before but now it’s really not enough, especially when she’s on his lap looking more dead than alive. Looking as dead as he feels knowing he can’t fight whatever’s going on in her head for her.

Finally, after what feels like another century of agony— one almost as bad as his first century of cryotanks— she blinks.

“Bucky?” Her voice is watery, his name coming out a little distorted— a little raw— but beneath it all he can hear the unyielding softness.

She shifts on his lap, fingers wound so tight in his shirt that he’s not sure if she’s fully aware of what happened yet. They shake wildly, thrumming a drunken beat against his chest. Had it been anyone else— had it been Wilson or Stark or anyone— he would have ripped them off of him. He would have seethed, teeth bared and nostrils flared, seconds away from barking, until they backed off. But it’s not anyone else; it’s her and so instead he sucks in enough air to make his lungs inflate and push his chest closer to her touch.

“Shit, doll, You’re ali— awake. You’re awake.” He breathes, face flushing, neck so hot he can feel every burning inch of his shirt— especially where her hands push the fabric against him.

He resists stuffing his fist in his mouth, hoping how stupid he sounds doesn’t register with her. Of course she’s awake— she's talking to him. She’s talking to him and she’s alive and she— despite the sweat beading along her forehead— still smells like tang and sugar. The SoCal girl still smells like summer in Brooklyn and that’s enough for him to force his hands off her shoulders, reluctantly but with relief cooling his nervous system.

The movement makes her tenses, head sloping down, eyes filling with realization before her neck snaps back up. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

There’s an edge in her voice, her eyes glossing over, hands loosening before dropping completely. Bucky blinks and the next thing he knows she’s pushing off his lap, dragging herself backwards, hands clawing at the carpet now instead of his chest. The cold air rushes over him, detailing every inch of him that had been pinned against her, and suddenly he doesn’t like it so much anymore. Get a grip.

He swallows, speaking around his aching tongue and stinging palms. “Think you had a nightmare or something. You were—” he pushes his hand up and through his hair, not realising until it’s too late that it’s the wrong one. He yanks it back, teeth clenching when some strands rip out with his metal fingers— “you were talking in your sleep and then you stood up. There was a vase—” why is this so hard to say? Just fucking spit it out— “and you were about to fall and I just— it was all so fast it was the only thing I could think to do.”

He doesn’t meet her eyes for the entirety of his spiel— he can’t— but he can feel her stare burning into the top of his head. That scent— that semi-sweet musk— fills the space between them and he digs his fingers into his thighs. He knows that, were it not for the same damn serum making it possible to smell her right now, he would have bruises on his legs. The thought doesn’t mean anything to him— it doesn’t make him let up. She’s afraid. Again. All because he couldn’t let her go soon enough. God damnit Bucky.

He listens as she shuffles— as she sniffles— and he’s never hated himself more. Because that’s what it is— he hates himself. He hates himself for shaking her so roughly in his haste. He hates himself for agreeing to take this job thinking he could handle it. For not demanding Wilson take the job. For enjoying bacon on grilled cheese and for wondering what Pasedena is like and for how fucking badly he wants to truly rememeber what his mother’s pie tastes like.

He hates himself for— despite every rational part of him screaming at him not to— closing the space between him and the crying girl and pulling her back into his arms. Call him a dog— call it the instincts of a useless, dangerous mutt— but to him her soft cries sound more like his name than anything he’s ever heard. They sound like an order. Come, dog. If there’s one thing Bucky Barnes is good at it’s following orders. For better or for worse.

This time, instead of pushing him away, she throws her arms around him. “I’m sorry.”

Her quivering voice catches him off guard but not as much as her apology does. What? She sinks her face into his neck, shoulders shaking against his, hoodie covered hands scraping against his back. Nevermind— he’s not about to fuck this up. He can feel the stretch of her spine as she struggles to keep her arms around his torso, her knees wobbling slightly as they hold her up, and he instantly slouches, curling forward. In turn she crawls forward even further, legs bumping messily into his. There’s no way this is happening.

He tests the water, running his fingers up her back, pressing so lightly that he can barely feel the ridges of her bones. “Don’t be.”

They stay like that in silence for more tick, tick, ticks than he can count, neither of them speaking. Eventually her shoulders stop shaking and her little sobs turn into little hiccups before finally dissipating into little huffs of air, warm and sweet and still against his neck. At one point he moves, rolling off his shins and kicking his legs out in front of him. It forces her to move too and at first he thinks she’s going to pull away but all she does is turn, scrunching her own legs up to her chest and settling between his knees, her side resting against his front. It isn’t until the first dregs of dawn cut through the miniscule crack in the green curtain that she speaks, voice stiff and fingers pulling at the collar of her hoodie.

“What, erm, what did I say?” She pauses before sheepishly adding— “In my sleep, I mean.”

Cue the sweet scent of her fear again. He peers down at her, watching as she tugs her lip between her teeth, biting down until he can smell more copper than fruit. The hair on the back of his neck raises, stomach sinking. Blood. Keeping his hand steady where it rests on her ankle is hard. It isn’t what he wants to do but he doesn’t want to scare her— well, scare her more.

“I couldn’t tell you,” he lies, voice tighter than he would like, shrugging his shoulders instead of reaching over and running his thumb over her lip. “It was too quiet.”

Her shoulders drop and— when she releases her lip, slightly tinted crimson but overall okay— so do his. She nods but doesn’t say anything and he taps her ankle once. He hopes that to her it reads something like you’re too wonderful to be hurting yourself. Even if it doesn't, that's fine. Even if all she does is feel it and know that he’s there, watching her back, then it doesn’t really matter. That’s good enough for him.

Still, there’s that feeling in his chest again— that nagging, nitpicky feeling. It makes the words dance on his tongue, stomp against his teeth. Just ask, they goad. We know you want to ask. His eyes flick to the clock. Six-thirty in the morning. He uses it— his glaring lack of sleep— as an excuse to open his mouth.

“Do you wanna’ talk about it?” it’s a risk— pressing the matter of her nightmare when it’s clearly a touchy subject— but he has to ask.

He has to make sure she’s okay.

It’s his job.

She shakes her head, closing her eyes. He watches as her throat bobs, fingers slipping into the neck of her hoodie. “Not right now.”

He nods— he can live with that answer. He knows what it’s like to not want to talk about things. To not want to talk about nightmares. He gets wanting to bury it. It’s what he does best. Showers, jogging, fighting. Ignoring his problems is his most fluent language— and he knows three. The only problem is that now his mouth is open and it’s refusing to close— to stop talking— and he says the only thing his worried, tired brain can think of.

“Do you think you wanna’ go back to sleep or—”

“No—” she chokes out, voice rushed and cracking and cutting off the rest of his stupid thought. The regret bubbles like tar in his chest— he’s such an idiot— “please no I can’t.”

She’s sitting up now, ankle falling from his grasp as she wraps her arms around her knees. Her eyes are squeezed shut and her jaw is just barely craning back and forth, her lips moving but nothing coming out. This time he wastes no tick, tick, ticks scooting closer to her, metal hand on her back, brushing up and down, flesh hand finding the warm spot on her leg and reclaiming it. She hiccups again and he holds her a fraction tighter, wondering just how common her nightmares are.

“Hey, s’alright, don’t worry. I’m not going to make you sleep or anything. That was, ah—” damnit Barnes don’t start rambling now just fix it— “yeah no, we’ll figure something else out.”

It seems to work, she settles quicker than all the times before, but it doesn’t keep his mind from continuing to think about her. From worrying about her. Do the nightmares happen often or only sometimes?

Her body relaxes, arm sagging against his once more as she nods. “Thanks.”

Who holds her when she wakes up screaming?

He winces. “You don’t have to thank me.”

Does anyone hold her or does she just wake up alone, terrified and—

“I want to. Thank you, Bucky.”

He feels like he’s going to explode— like he’s going to say something else that he’ll regret. He has to change the subject—

“You hungry, doll?”

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

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swaps55 · 3 years

Text

Mnemonic

This is an AU version of a standalone scene from Cantata that I rewrote with kissing. Because there was a lot of UST and I am weak.

Ao3

14 June 2180, Hades Gamma, Farinata System, SSV Myeongnyang

For a biotic, the armor never really comes off. What they carry under their skin is like a live wire, a current always in need of grounding.

Standing face-to-face with half a dozen L2 biotics holding the chairman of the Parliament Subcommittee for Transhuman Studies hostage on the MSV Ontario makes it a lot easier for Kaidan to see how much he takes for granted having a safe place to do it. And knowing how.

Reparations for the L2 side effects are a pipe dream. But a pipe dream Colin Daggett and his people needed to cling to, whatever the cost. And it had almost cost them everything.

Shepard doesn’t say much as they arrange for the survivors to be transferred to the Madrid’s brig and the engineering crew arrives to secure the Ontario for the trip to Arcturus. He says even less on the way through the airlock back to the ‘Yang, and the rest of the squad take their lead from him.

When they’re back on board the ship he disappears, sucking the air out of the room with him. They kit down without him.

“You’re an L2, aren’t you?” Pendergrass asks as she shoves her arms through the sleeves of her uniform, armor plating in a heap at her feet.

Beaudoin jabs her with an elbow.

“Yeah,” Kaidan murmurs, fingers tracing the amp port on the back of his neck when he removes the protection plate. He flexes his fingers, gravity well jumping into his touch. As he reaches for his chest plate to store it in his gear locker, an electric shock passes through him.

When 23:00 rolls around, Kaidan shows up in the mess as usual, figuring he’ll keep it simple tonight and just make some pasta. Shepard is there waiting, as usual, picking at a spot on the table while Kaidan pulls out a pot and finds a container of pasta. The entire time the water boils Shepard doesn’t say a word, stubbornly lost in thought.

Kaidan tells himself he’s not going to do more than olive oil and garlic – it’s been too long of a day for effort – but by the time he gets it to the table there’s parmesan cheese, parsley, and even a little red pepper in the mix.

“You going to tell me what’s up, or do I get to guess?” Kaidan asks when he sits down across from him and hands off a fork. He spent too much energy on going above and beyond with the red pepper to bother with a second bowl. They’ll just have to share.

Shepard looks up, almost in surprise. “Just thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking ever since you got Chairman Burns through the airlock. Maybe you should think out loud.”

The gravity well churns as Shepard stirs eddies in it, in tune with the twirl of his fork in the pasta bowl. “Everything that happened on that ship hinged on what Daggett did with his pistol.”

His toying intensifies, until blue energy shimmers around his knuckles. This one’s been chewing at him. A snap of electricity skips between his finger and the fork, and he drops it with an annoyed mutter. He looks up.

“You pulled the gun out of his hands,” he says.

And Shepard had put a bullet between his eyes. The fight had gone out of the rest pretty quickly.

“He wasn’t going to put it down,” Kaidan says. “We all knew it.”

“No. He wasn’t. And if you hadn’t been there, that standoff turns into a clusterfuck where everyone dies.”

A soft smile tugs at Kaidan’s lips. “Guess it’s a good thing I was there.”

Shepard picks up the fork again, staring at it with an unfocused gaze before he stabs it back in the bowl and twirls more pasta.

“I couldn’t have done what you did. I can’t refine a field like that. I was prepared to shoot everyone in that room. But you pulled the gun right out of his hands.”

Only because Shepard had given him the chance. Whether Shepard had done it with purpose or actually hesitated is a question he hasn’t been in a hurry to examine too closely.

“We work together, remember? In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve gotten pretty good at it.”

Shepard huffs. “Yeah. We have.”

“But you’re just gonna get bent out of shape about not being able to do everything yourself, anyway.”

“Have you met me?” Shepard says with a helpless shrug.

“Yeah, I’ve had the pleasure,” Kaidan says with a chuckle. He pushes his chair back. “Come on, then.”

Shepard casts him a suspicious look. “Come where?”

“To the gym.”

“Alenko—”

“Come on.” He nods towards the elevator and starts walking, smirking a little when Shepard’s chair scrapes against the floor and his feet hit the deckplates.

“You’re just dying to give me a taste of my own medicine, aren’t you,” Shepard grouches when they board the lift.

“Oh, definitely.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Apparently not when it comes to taking people’s pistols out of their hands.”

Shepard chuckles, though he tries to choke off a smile by looking down at his feet. When they get to the gym Kaidan digs a canteen out of his locker and sets it down on one of the sparring mats.

“I’m guessing that your training didn’t include a lot of control drills,” he says.

Shepard shakes his head. “Tulak wasn’t big on control. Overwhelming tidal force tends to be the krogan approach.”

“You don’t say.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Alenko.”

Kaidan grins and points to the canteen. “Start simple. Just lift it off the ground.”

Shepard rolls his eyes, but taps into the gravity well, corona enveloping him in a shroud of snapping blue tendrils. The hairs on Kaidan’s arms stand on end.

It’s so rare he gets to just watch Shepard work. All unrestrained power, from the loose, angry snarl of his corona to the sweeping mnemonics, make him seem larger than life. When he swipes the canteen off the floor he does it with his entire arm. The canteen leaps into the air, nearly hitting the ceiling before Shepard wrangles it. He only holds it still for half a second before sending it skidding to the other side of the gym.

“Hm,” Kaidan says.

Shepard gives him a withering look before marching off to fetch the wayward canteen. “It’s small. I don’t do well with small.”

“Not sure the size trips you up as much as you think it does,” Kaidan muses. “That mnemonic of yours applies some pretty impressive force automatically, so you’re already playing catch up if you’re trying to control the speed or direction.”

“See, I can’t tell if you’re complimenting me or giving me shit.”

“Both.”

“Har.”

Shepard resets the canteen and comes back to Kaidan to try it again, standing close but not so close their fields intersect. Kaidan watches through three variations that all end almost the same way, too much force being applied to the canteen, making it nearly impossible for Shepard to control where it goes, or where it doesn’t.

Doesn’t matter that he’s not accomplishing what it intends. The way the gravity well cants under his touch, the way his corona lights him ablaze like a flickering star, the way it caresses every nerve in Kaidan’s body like a swash of silk is mesmerizing. Kaidan swallows before trying to speak.

“Good news is, if we ever need someone to punt a suspicious canteen into space, I know who to call.”

Shepard rolls his eyes. “And if you’re not around to yank pistols out of terrorist hands?”

“Well, first, I will be around. But second, as for the pistol, yanking it towards you isn’t so different from kicking it away from you.” He cracks a grin. “In your case you just need to be prepared to duck.”

“Have I mentioned that separating the pistol from the person holding it wouldn’t end well for anyone?” Shepard says. “If you were to go hold that canteen in your palm and ask me to do what I just did, you wouldn’t like me very much.”

I doubt that.

“One problem at a time,” Kaidan says. “Let’s work on controlling the canteen by itself, then we’ll add clutter.”

“And how do you suggest we do that?”

“You need a new mnemonic. You’re fighting yourself by adding force and trying to take it away at the same time.”

“I’m sensing a metaphor.”

Kaidan smirks. “Think that says more about you than it does me.” Before Shepard can protest he raises an arm. “Watch me. You don’t have to use my mnemonic, but I want you to see something different so you can visualize it.”

Shepard folds his arms across his chest, but does what Kaidan asks. A nervous thrill runs through him at the undivided attention.

Kaidan waves a wrist, a hard-learned, hard-fought mnemonic that now feels as natural as breathing. Dark energy rushes through him, responsive and willing, as his fingers flex and settle a field over the canteen. Very little mass-shifting needed to pick up a light-weight canteen, which makes it tricky to keep from doing exactly what Shepard did – send it spinning out of control. But Kaidan has spent years perfecting his ability to do exactly this, so the canteen rises off the floor until it reaches eye level. Kaidan closes his fist and holds it still, floating almost motionless in mid-air.

“That mnemonic is so damned subtle,” Shepard says with an appreciative shake of his head. A flush builds at the back of Kaidan’s neck.

“Easier for me that way.”

Shepard grunts and unfolds his arms. “I was never good at levitation.”

“Because your mnemonics always apply force.”

“Need force to yank that pistol.”

“Sure, but if you want to control it, you need to learn how to hold it still.”

“I’m not good at still.”

“I know,” Kaidan says, lips curving into a smile. “So come here and let me show you.”

Shepard strays a step closer into Kaidan’s biotic field. The blend of auras creates a low keen through his nerves, familiar but always striking. The canteen wavers before falling to the ground.

“Sorry,” Shepard mumbles, but doesn’t back away.

“It’s fine,” Kaidan says, lifting the canteen again with another float of his palm.

Their eyes lock for a moment before Shepard clears his throat and looks down at Kaidan’s hand.

“You put everything in your wrist.”

“Yeah,” he manages. “You do it all with your arms.”

“Yeah.”

“So maybe, if you’re looking for finesse, try to create a mnemonic that’s a little, uh, smaller.”

“With my wrist.”

“Right. Um, I’ll show you. Here.” He steps in front of Shepard, angling his body to align their right arms. He takes Shepard’s right hand guides it to his wrist, tingle running down his spine when his fingers close around it. Shepard glances at him with soft eyes that stop the breath in his throat, but doesn’t object.

“Hands-on teacher?”

“Best way to learn,” Kaidan replies, gaze flicking to Shepard’s mouth before going back to the canteen. “Just follow my lead. Don’t act on the canteen. Concentrate on what my arm does. Visualize it.”

“Sure,” Shepard murmurs.

Kaidan reaches into the gravity well, his own corona unfurling, a steady candle to Shepard’s flaring torch. Goosebumps rise on Shepard’s arm, a subtle reminder that he’s human after all, one Kaidan is almost never close enough to witness.

He takes a deep breath and flexes his wrist, Shepard’s fingers loose and feather-light against his skin. A crackle of dark energy passes between them before he snares the canteen and turns his wrist palm-up to lift it off the floor, Shepard close enough his breath washes over Kaidan’s cheek. The canteen wavers but Kaidan keeps it afloat for several seconds, the mingle of auras, ripple of kinetic energy and closeness of Shepard enough to make him dizzy.

He lets it go with a clatter and puts space between them.

“Does that help?” he asks, trying not to sound breathless.

“Yeah. It does.” Shepard’s gaze stays on him, still and steady. “Might take a while to hard-wire my brain for something in the wrist.”

“Doesn’t have to be that. It could be something else. But you associate those big movements with force. Take that away, you might have more luck with leaving velocity out of the initial execution, so you can add it how you need it. Have more control over it.”

Shepard’s mouth crooks in a half-smile. “Sure I’m not a lost cause when it comes to control?”

“I’m sure.”

Shepard breaks his gaze and focuses on the canteen, brow furrowed in concentration. Twice he catches himself using his arm, then nearly wrenches his wrist trying to restrict the movement.

“It’s so ingrained,” he says with a shake of his head.

“That’s why they work,” Kaidan says with a smile. “Here.” He steps close once again, positions reversed with his hand on Shepard’s wrist this time. “Let me help.”

“Fuck, your hands are cold,” Shepard says with a laugh.

Hastily, he loosens his grip. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Shepard says with a grin. “Go on.”

Gently, Kaidan closes his fingers again. Shepard trains his eyes on the canteen, though they dart to Kaidan ever so briefly.

Shepard’s corona is so bright, so fierce, it’s a wonder he can wrangle it at all. Kaidan breathes in deep, letting his own kindle, the snick and crackle as they blend together forming a resonant hum that hovers just under his skin.

When Shepard’s arm moves, Kaidan tightens his grip, keeping the motion small. Instead of his usual languid, fluid posture, Shepard’s arm is stiff and resistant against him. The canteen spins in a circle but stays on the ground.

“Breathe, Shepard,” Kaidan says softly. “Just let it happen.”

Shepard inhales deep, like someone trying to relearn how. This time they move together, Kaidan picking up the slack when Shepard falters, until the canteen hovers briefly in the air. It’s more under Kaidan’s control than Shepard’s, but it’s a start, and that’s what matters.

They gutter out and the canteen falls, but Kaidan doesn’t let go and doesn’t step away, not yet, not quite yet, not while the remnants of kinetic energy are still sharp in the air and he has to remind himself to breathe, too.

“How do you do that?” Shepard murmurs. “You worked around me, without…taking over. How do you do that?”

Their eyes lock for just a moment. God Kaidan could get lost there if he’s not careful. “Practice. Years of it.”

Let go.

He means to. He means to. In his head he loosens his hold on Shepard’s wrist, drops his hand away and puts space between them. That’s what he tells himself to do. That’s what he intends to do.

But while he does loosen his grip, instead of fall away, Kaidan’s fingertips brush Shepard’s knuckles, the pad of his thumb running along the round muscle of his palm.

It’s an accident. Just an accident. So many of their touches are, but rather than move or pull away, rather than let it be just another one of those excusable, explainable slips, Shepard exhales, the breath fluttering out of him, then splays his fingers wider, as if making room for Kaidan’s to slot between them.

Let go, let go.

But instead he explores the open space Shepard has left for him, fingertips light, hesitant, ghosting Shepard’s skin as he finds where they fit, hovering, hoping, but never daring to rest. Never giving up the ruse.

It’s an accident. It doesn’t mean anything.

Except it does.

Shepard stays still as a stone save for the rise and fall of his chest. They’re close enough now their cheeks almost touch, though whether Kaidan moves or Shepard does to close that gap he can’t say.

The next time Kaidan’s fingers trespass through that open space, Shepard closes his around them and traps them there.

Kaidan’s breath hitches.

The gravity well sighs as Shepard calls to it, glow of dark energy limming their hands, accompanied by a soundless hum that strums every nerve in Kaidan’s body before settling in his groin. Without thinking his other hand comes to rest on Shepard’s hip, needing something, anything, to hold onto.

A soft sound stirs in Shepard’s throat. Kaidan’s hand doesn’t stay on that hip for long, because Shepard seeks those fingers out, too, lacing them together. Kaidan folds both arms until Shepard is surrounded by them. There’s no imagining any space between them now – their cheeks rest against each other, Kaidan tightening his hold until Shepard is snug against his chest.

Shepard turns his head, but after briefly meeting each other’s gaze, his eyes drift down to Kaidan’s mouth.

Kaidan can still let go. There’s still a way out. Chalk it up to adrenaline, nerves leftover from the standoff on the Ontario. They can walk it off, laugh, pretend it never happened, continue on like they always have.

But he doesn’t let go, and then the millimeters between Shepard’s lips and Kaidan’s no longer exist and the window is gone.

Shepard’s mouth is warm, soft, lips tinged with the salt of his sweat. They start out slow, cautious, neither of them daring to think about it too hard, but that’s not a problem for long, because soon there’s no room to think about anything at all.

Nothing else matters but this.

Slow and cautious becomes deep and headlong, Kaidan pushing his tongue between Shepard’s teeth, Shepard sighing into his mouth and taking him in. His fingers tighten around Kaidan’s, the glow of dark energy rippling out from their joined hands until it swallows them whole. Kaidan gasps at the sensation.

Shepard kisses him harder.

God.

Kaidan wants to spin him around, throw his arms around his neck and meet him head on, give in to everything, all of it, but he can’t bear the thought of turning loose of that hand.

They part when they run out of air, both straining to catch their breath, fingers still entwined, Shepard still firmly ensconced in Kaidan’s arms as his corona fades.

Shepard rests his cheek against Kaidan’s, ensconcing himself a little further.

“Oh,” he says softly.

“Yeah.”

Shepard’s fingers flex within his, twining and retwining, never letting go.

“You…don’t seem surprised.”

Kaidan closes his eyes, breathing him in, a star he’s somehow pulled down out of the heavens and trapped right here in his arms. “No. Felt it…for a long time now.”

“Oh.”

“…Yeah.”

Their coronas may have faded, but the mingle of their biotic fields is a constant, soothing whisper under Kaidan’s skin. A small, contented sound slips from Shepard’s throat.

“Why didn’t I see it?”

Kaidan huffs. “To be fair, I don’t think either of us are very good at this kind of thing.”

Shepard tightens his grip on Kaidan’s fingers and pulls them to his chest. The race of Shepard’s heart thrums under their joined hands. If Kaidan had any illusions about letting him go, they’re gone now.

“I think I’d like to learn,” Shepard says.

Kaidan’s stomach flips. “Me too.”

They stay still, Kaidan content to hold him, Shepard content to be held, until their lips find each other once more. Kissing Shepard is easy, effortless, like it’s something they were meant to do, a safe place for the live current running under their skin to go to ground.

Shepard, against all evidence to the contrary, is…safe.

Shepard gazes at him when they part, and butterflies cut loose in Kaidan’s stomach.

“You’re very good at that,” Shepard murmurs.

“We’re very good at a lot of things.”

“Yeah. We are.” He draws Kaidan’s hand up to press a kiss to his knuckles. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t know,” Kaidan admits. “What do you want?”

“You.”

A shiver runs down Kaidan’s spine, the euphoria of that one, single word enough to make him lightheaded. So simple. So complicated. They’ll have choices to make, all of them with compromises and consequences. But that’s something for tomorrow. Right now there is only the truth.

“I want that, too.”

Shepard releases Kaidan’s hand to turn until they’re face to face, then runs his fingers through the hairs growing over Kaidan’s right temple. All the while those glittering eyes search Kaidan’s face, as though reconciling all the things he knows with the things he’s learning for the first time.

The corners of his eyes crinkle as a smile spreads across his face, pure, open, and full of possibility. “Taste of my own medicine, huh?”

“Well…” Kaidan shrugs helplessly, and Shepard’s grin only gets deeper.

“Seems like I should have let you teach me a few things a long time ago.”

Kaidan flexes his fingers, a curl of dark energy igniting in his palm that draws out goosebumps along Shepard’s arm. “All in the wrist.”

Shepard laughs. It’s like music. “You and me.”

“I like that,” Kaidan murmurs, before kissing him again. “I like that a lot.”

#mshenko #kaidan alenko #mass effect #my fic #UST with biotics #in case anyone is wondering #the number of first kisses I have written for Sam and Kaidan #is currently sitting at 7 #and that's just the first kisses i have WRITTEN #¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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thephantomessoftheopera · 3 years

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Notes on Gaston Leroux’s “The Phantom of the Opera” - Chapter 13: “Apollo’s Lyre”

Image of the Apollo statue on the rooftop of the Palais Garnier from Wikimedia Commons

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The chapter “Apollo’s Lyre” constitutes the basis for the “rooftop scene” between Raoul and Christine in the ALW version, but in the book, it is really all about Erik. It’s quite possibly the most important chapter in the novel because we meet our title hero face-to-face for the first time, and because Erik overhearing Christine‘s plan to escape provides a turning-point for the plot.

The symbol of Apollo's Lyre is not only present in the Apollo statue on the highest point of the rooftop (that Erik is supposedly clinging to here), but also adorns the chandelier both in the Palais Garnier and in the original production of the musical.

At the end of the preceding chapter, Raoul had vowed to take Christine away, but she is still at war with herself about the idea. She wants to leave because she is afraid, but at the same time, warns Raoul that he will probably need to force her to leave since she isn’t emotionally ready to let go:

““But if I refuse to go with you when the time comes for you to take me away, you must make me go!” [...] she spoke these words with a forcefulness that seemed to be directed against herself.”

Every time Raoul offers to take her away right then and there, Christine refuses with an excuse of why it’s not possible to leave just now. Yet she is afraid that the next time she goes to Erik, she may never leave again. Erik seems to make her feel very deeply - but too much feeling can be very terrifying, especially if it’s a wild ride on that emotional rollercoaster of ecstasy, horror, pity, despair and passion that he sends her on. It’s no wonder she rationally wants to get out before it consumes her, and yet is afraid of losing it.

While she begins telling Raoul the whole story from her perspective, they repeatedly think they hear sighs, but still remain in the same place. This is a bit odd, considering how they kept running around before, but now, Christine insists that they stay, which is a bit curious. It is possible that she thought they were safe - but considering her general unwillingness to leave, I think it is even possible that she might be subconsciously sabotaging her own escape plan.

When Christine speaks about how she first met Erik, it becomes clear that masquerading as the Angel of Music was not initially Erik‘s idea. When Christine heard Erik in her dressing-room for the first time three months ago, he sang and spoke to her like a real man, except that he had this beautiful angelic voice and was hiding in the passage behind her room, so that he could not be seen. The first person to suggest that he might indeed be the Angel of Music is Mama Valerius, who prompts Christine to ask Erik if he is the Angel her father had sent for her. Erik jumps at the opportunity presented to him and confirms that her assumption is correct, and asks if she will let him teach her. She consents, and together they make amazing progress, developing both Christine’s technique and her inspiration to hitherto unknown heights.

One day, Christine sees Raoul at the Opera, and eagerly tells Erik about it. I bet he bitterly cursed himself then for passing himself off as an Angel, leaving enough space in Christine’s heart for a real man. But his threats to leave cause her to despair and to try to ignore Raoul - also because a marriage to him would be out of her reach anyway. Now it’s Erik’s turn to whine and accuse Christine of being in love with Raoul in the same way we’ve seen Raoul do before. But just like with Raoul, she won’t have that and even challenges Erik that she will ask Raoul to accompany her to Perros. According to her, Erik’s jealous reaction made her realize that she loved Raoul. I wonder if madly jealous Raoul also made her realize that she might possibly be just a little bit in love with two very different men?

Subconsciously, she seems to kind of know already that Erik is not really an angel, because when the chandelier falls, she is half-mad with panic and terribly afraid that it may have killed “the Voice” (and it would be a bit difficult to kill a heavenly being even if you dropped a chandelier on it). She also admits that then, Raoul and Erik were both “the equal halves of her heart” (and I think they still are, beneath all the complications that have arisen in the meantime). She runs to her dressing-room because that is where she is most likely to find “the Voice”, and when she hears the sounds of Erik singing and playing the “Resurrection of Lazarus” on his violin, she follows his voice through the mirror without being able to say how exactly she disappeared through it. She suddenly finds herself being gripped by a man in a black cloak and a full-face mask and tries to fight back, but then faints. When she wakes, she is resting on the ground near a fountain, and Erik is gently tending to her, but doesn’t reply to her questions so as not to give himself away as “the Voice”. Christine recognizes César the horse, and realizes that even though she never believed in the ghost, she had heard the rumours about him stealing the horse.

Erik takes Christine to the house by the lake, first on César’s back (that’s what he needed the horse for, after all) and then in the famous boat (which is rowed in the novel). She is no longer terrified, but feels strangely peaceful - an effect which she attributes to the possibility of having been drugged, even though she admits that at the same time, she was still in full possession of her senses.

“Lake Averne”, the name of the lake under the Opera House, is a play on words as well as meaning. First, “lac averne” is almost the same as “la caverne”, which means “the cavern”. There is also a real lake named “Lago d’Averno” in Italy, and in Roman mythology, that lake is one of the entrances to the Underworld. This fits with the fact that Erik also bears characteristics of Charon, the ferryman to the Underworld, whose name can be literally translated as “with glowing eyes”. The iconic boat ride certainly resembles the passage into the Hades, which is even alluded to in the novel.

The water tank below the Palais Garnier. Image from atlasobscura.com

Let’s stay in the Underworld for a moment. “The Phantom of the Opera” can also be seen as a variation on the story of Hades and Persephone (Christine’s ship in “Love Never Dies” is not called “Persephone” for nothing). Hades, the god of the Underworld, fell in love with the young and beautiful Persephone and wanted to marry her, but as the goddess of spring, she wasn’t willing to abandon the world above and go to live in the Underworld. Therefore Hades abducted her, she finally consented to marry him and became queen of the Underworld. Due to the intervention of her infuriated mother Demeter, it was finally decided that she would divide her time between living on earth for some months every year and living in the Underworld for the rest of the time.

When they arrive, Erik sets a confused Christine down in his brightly lit drawing-room, which has been decorated with an enormous amount of golden baskets full of flowers. It is not quite clear where all the flowers come from, so I guess he bought them all for her. With a salary of 20,000 francs, he could probably afford the luxury of spending so much on flower decorations… He tells her that she is in no danger, as long as she doesn’t touch his mask. When Christine realizes that the Voice is not an angel, she starts crying. Erik then kneels down in front of her and proceeds to tell her without further ado who he is, begs her to forgive him, and lays his heart at her feet. He confesses how much he loves her, and how wrong his actions were, but that he did everything out of love for her. It seems that Erik was rather anxious to reveal the truth that he is not really the Angel of Music and end his deception, but at the same time, was waiting for an opportunity that would allow him to explain everything without the risk of her running away from him forever. Keep in mind that he took on the role of the Angel of Music for just a couple of months, not years as it is commonly assumed.

Christine then stands up to demand her freedom, and is taken aback when he actually concedes it to her, telling her that she is free to leave. But after all, she does not leave because he starts to play the harp and sing for her. The piece he is singing here is the “Canzone del Salice” from Rossini’s “Otello”, in which Desdemona laments the cruelty of love. It is often assumed that the „Otello“ Leroux is referencing here is the more famous “Otello” by Verdi, but that one didn’t premiere until 1887, while the story is definitely set before 1886. Furthermore, Rossini’s version of the “willow song” is the only one that starts with a harp solo. The song is included in the playlist, listen to it here:

https://open.spotify.com/track/25ILZhCIWIRjJVK8SqDWzn?si=U5EPiO_ySBOlIy5XvI1BGw&dl_branch=1

The next morning, Christine awakes on the couch in „her“ bedroom (aka the “Louis-Philippe room”) where Erik must have carried her after she had fallen asleep. When she can‘t get out, she suffers a fit of hysterics, although it seems that she has simply been unable to locate the door set within the wall. Erik has been out shopping for her, which is a rather cute scene when he comes back with all the boxes for her while she yells at him. He calmly tells her to get ready for lunch, and she slams the door in his face so she can take a bath in peace. She places a pair of scissors within reach so that she could kill herself if Erik “stopped behaving like an honourable man”. Her concern is understandable, being alone with the man who is madly in love with her, however it is important to note that Erik never physically forces himself on her throughout the story.

Remarkably, Erik’s house had both hot and cold running water, something that was still very rare then, which suggests that he actually lived in better hygienic conditions than most people at that time, and that he was a skilled engineer.

When she finally joins him, he tells her that she does not need to be afraid, and that all he asks for is that she will spend 5 days with him. After that, he hopes that she will come back to see “poor Erik” from time to time, shedding a few tears beneath his black mask as he speaks. He serves Christine lunch in the drawing-room, consisting of crayfish, chicken wings and Tokay wine, but he himself does again not eat or drink. From their conversation, we learn that Erik has taken on his name “by chance”, whatever that means. The meaning of the name is “sole ruler” which is quite fitting for him.

When Christine has finished eating, Erik invites her to see his room, and she doesn’t hesitate as she instinctively trusts him. Apparently Erik has a very gothic taste as far as room decorating goes, and all this also plays heavily into the death symbolism of his character. Erik sleeping in a coffin is reminiscent of vampire stories, especially because it seems to be a choice and not a necessity. There is also an organ with the score of “Don Juan Triumphant” on it, written in Erik’s customary red ink(?). Erik tells her that he started composing it 20 years ago. Christine asks him to play her something from his “Don Juan”, but Erik refuses because “some music is so formidable that it consumes everyone who approaches it”. It is quite significant that the “sing for me” motif is absent from the novel version, in contrast to the ALW version where it is very strong. Erik, in the novel, has no plans for Christine to sing any of his music. He wants her companionship and her love, and he wants to sing together with her and lose himself in their shared passion for music, but he definitely does not see her as an instrument of sorts. He did help advance her career, but not with the intention of having her perform his work.

Erik makes it clear that his own music is very different from Mozart’s „Don Giovanni“ and from “opera music” in general. “Don Juan Triumphant” can be seen as an allusion to Lord Byron’s epic poem “Don Juan” (in which, incidentally, Don Juan is sold as a slave to the sultana of Constantinople).

He sits down at the piano and starts singing the duet from “Otello” with Christine. There is of course more than one duet in “Otello”, but this one is most likely “Non arrestare il colpo/Notte per me funesta” from Act III (here: https://open.spotify.com/track/151M60b3qxzqKLDFwIVuUB?si=WX4TDWCeQVmIChqd6u7CyQ&dl_branch=1 and here: https://open.spotify.com/track/2Ep1OncGZCNR9yFevG6Pb6?si=QzG2JztuQ42MDoiVrLAaew&dl_branch=1 ) In this scene, Othello accuses Desdemona of betraying him, while she tries to convince him that she is innocent. She realizes that she has fallen victim to Iago’s plot, but Othello does not believe her and stabs her. This opera, for once, is in Italian, while most of the other pieces that appear in the “Phantom” are sung in French.

The unmasking in the novel happens while Christine is swept up in the passion of her duet with Erik. She “stepped closer to him, attracted and fascinated, enticed by the idea of dying at the center of such passion. But before dying [she] wanted to see his face…”

It’s not like she is sneaking up to him out of pure curiosity, but rather reacting to an instinctive wish to pull away the barrier between them. The scene is even more tragic because with a normal face, the passionate mood that Christine was in would have potentially led to her kissing him. But sadly, his face is anything but normal, so Christine recoils in horror instead. Erik’s reaction to the unmasking is violent and horrific as he goes mad with rage at her, even hurting his own face with her fingernails - an expression of his self-loathing. Throughout the scene, Christine seems fixated on the horror of his face more than his behaviour, though. Ashamed of himself, Erik crawls out of the room and shuts himself up in his bedroom.

“Apollo’s Lyre” by Annie Stegg Gerard

Erik’s appearance as described in the novel is indeed bordering the realm of the fantastic and supernatural. He is so stuffed with death symbolism that it is hard to take everything literally. Christine’s description makes it rather hard to see him as “real” because he seems to look like something straight out of a nightmare.

It is important to note that Erik is not just run-of-the-mill ugly, but that he is very clearly associated with death in many ways - from sleeping in a coffin and having funeral-style decor in his room to actually looking like a „living corpse“. Erik and Christine can be seen as a literal expression of the artistic topos „death and the maiden“, which especially towards the end of the 19th century associated death very strongly with the erotic (see https://eclecticlight.co/2020/01/05/paintings-for-our-time-death-and-the-maiden/ for a very good overview of the motif). Death here is usually represented as either a skeleton or corpse, or as an angel - which is very much in line with Leroux’s Erik.

”Girl and Death” by Edvard Munch

Combined with the fact that Erik‘s music creates feelings of passion, rapture and ecstasy in Christine, it is not a big stretch to conclude that Erik is associated not only with death, but also with sexuality. The duality of sex as both a life-creating and life-threatening force was acutely perceived by the people of that period. Love and death are connected, and both are represented in Erik‘s character. ALW‘s musical adaptation recognized this strongly erotic undercurrent in the story and translated it very aptly into songs such as „Music of the night“ or „Point of no return“. The way in which Christine describes her lessons with Erik - that they “awakened an ardent, voracious, and sublime life” in her, and made her live in a “kind of ecstatic dream” can also be interpreted as her romantic awakening, with all the frightening emotional chaos attached to it.

Raoul, on the other hand, is more associated with purity and propriety - which is reflected in how he views Christine, and the standards that she must conform to in his opinion.

Before seeing Erik’s face, Christine admits that she *would* have come back, but that now, she would never return because “you don’t go back into a grave with a corpse that loves you”. Note how she switches from the first person to the impersonal “you” in this sentence - “you” might not do that, but we already know she did in fact go back more than once. And she is still able to see something of the angel in him because he does not take advantage of the situation, but leaves her alone, turning to his music again.

And then, “music has the power to abolish everything in the outside world except its sounds, which go straight to the heart”. Erik starts playing the finale of “Don Juan Triumphant” where “ugliness, lifted on the wings of love, had dared to look beauty in the face”. Through the music, Christine can glimpse into the depths of Erik’s heart and soul, feel his torment and suffering, and is overwhelmed with compassion.

Once again, she is the one to tear down the wall between them. She pushes open the door to Erik’s room and asks him to show his face, sincerely thinking that she can handle it - but it turns out, she really isn’t quite able to when there’s no music between them. But she manages to put on a brave facade and lie to him about being able to look at him without horror. She despises herself for her lies, but then she also does what she must in order to be set free. Erik takes her for walks along the shore of the underground lake, and for carriage rides to the Bois de Boulogne (that’s where they ran into Raoul in Chapter 9). After two weeks, Erik finally trusts her so much that he is willing to set her free (with conditions, of course). It’s really heartbreaking when she mentions how he dared to try to make her look at him even when he wasn’t singing, like a “timid dog”. At this point, he is in her power just as much as she is in his.

When she finally leaves, she is moved more by his tears than by his threats, and his pain is what gets her to come back in the first place: “Those sobs attached me to him more strongly than I thought when I said good-bye to him.” Part of why she is afraid to leave is that she fears it will kill him if she leaves him.

At the end of the chapter, Raoul asks the fateful question that sums up the tragedy of Erik and Christine:

“You’re afraid, but do you love me? If Erik were handsome, would you love me?” “Why tempt fate, Raoul? Why ask about things that I keep hidden at the back of my mind, like sins?”

Christine’s reply along the lines of “Don‘t ask” was cut from the de Mattos translation. It clearly evidences that Christine has conflicted feelings for Erik that go beyond only horror or pity, and that she prefers to suppress them so she doesn't have to deal with them. The statement also shows that if Erik had not been cursed with his face, then things might have looked very different for him and Christine. Attentive readers of de Mattos might nevertheless notice that her next line „If I did not love you, I would not give you my lips“ evades addressing the „what ifs“ Raoul posed, but it still makes her appear less conflicted than she really is. Christine’s heart is a pretty deep ocean of secrets, and at the back of her mind, there seem to be quite a few things that she is unwilling to admit to herself, as Raoul suspected before:

“You obviously love him, and your fear, your terror - all that is still love, of the most exciting kind! The kind you don’t admit to yourself.”

I haven‘t really counted, but this must be like the fifth time that Raoul insists on his suspicion that Christine is in love with Erik, and he just can‘t get a „no“ out of her. That “no” is given very directly though when he asks her if she hates him. She kisses Raoul to prove that she loves him, at the same time telling him that the kiss is just a one-time thing („for the first and last time“). Then “the night is torn apart”, and the last thing they see is a pair of glowing eyes looking down on them from Apollo’s lyre - which are clearly Erik’s, who has overheard the entire conversation…

Image from wikipedia

Next chapter >>

#phantom of the opera #leroux phantom #lerouxreadingguide #gaston leroux #erik x christine #erik the phantom #erik in love #christine daae #the phantom of the opera #opera ghost #apollo‘s lyre #leroux #the phantom #raoul de chagny #poto

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sylkhi · 3 years

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HEADCANON:

Nico saying "I smell like death and animals fear me for it" is incorrect. Here's reasons why:

1. It's really no secret at this point that Nico is the most powerful demigod alive in-canon. He's so powerful that he has enough reserve strength and vitality (after recovering as much as he possibly could from Tartarus, starvation, and using the seeds in the state he was in. You don't ever fully recover from things like those) to constantly have his fear aura and cryokinesis emanating low-key, kind of like his wavelength.

But, it's at its lowest when he's with Will/Jason/Hazel/Reyna/Gleeson/whoever you ship him with, but never fully off. The fact that he emanates an aura puts him one step closer to god than mortal by the way.

ANYWAY, the constant emanation of the fear aura definitely makes animals skittish, but as he doesn't really let it off when he's alone with animals, they crowd him and glomp him whenever he's alone with them.

2. A lot of the animals he interacts with are probably animals tied to gods who don't have the best of relationships with Hades.

This one should be pretty self-explanatory. When you make an enemy of a god, you make an enemy of practically everything they represent (imagine permanently pissing off Hygeia or Asclepius... yeah, let's not).

Think of Annabeth and cows. Her Bovine Majesty, Hera, that goat skin gal, Queen of the gods, doesn't like Annabeth, and cows, by extension, do not (why are there so many commas???). The difference here is that Hera actively does things to screw around with Annabeth, and the only thing stopping her from screwing up Annabeth's relationships and (eventual) marriage is Athena giving her the look. Enough about my Annabeth|Hera head-canons though.

So whenever Nico interacts with a horse and equine creatures, or an eagle, or a cow, they get skittish and violent because of the gods they're tied to not liking Hades, and by proxy, him (exception here is Zeus, who genuinely dislikes Nico and would kill him if that didn't mean dying at Hades' hands, quite literally btw).

3. Animals don't really fear death (itself), which Nico represents.

Here's an important distinction for you and a head-canon from me (one I might write a piece on): Hades' children are representations of death itself, while Thanatos' children, as children of the god of death, represent it's causes.

I don't want you to think of to confuse it with him repping death by old age (that would be children of Geras).

Anyway, all creatures seem to take comfort in death, and thus Nico. And when an animal is comfortable with you, it tends to either leave you to your business, or seek your attention.

This one is cracky and feels like something I'd write a piece for at 3AM when I can't sleep.

4. This one is about Artemis|Nico.

Basically, as a sort of apology to Nico cause she knew what it meant to take away the only person he had at the time (and for a long time, really), I head-canon that Artemis has marked Nico with one of her blessings (a boon for my Hades players out there).

This specific mark is the one that numbs wild animals'/animals with violent dispositions' instinct to attack creatures they perceive as "dangerous".

Animals aren't daft. They can tell a dangerous individual, and some attack on sight to get the upper hand. Of course, Nico is too powerful for a non-mythical beast to so much as scratch him (he wouldn't kill them, just scare them off).

Anyway, with the mark, wild animals basically act as their domestic counterparts would around Nico.

I head-canon that when he first started shadow-travelling and would wind up passed out on totally different continents or in different places, he woke up one day in Tsavo East National Park with man-eating lions (look it up, fairly interesting) curled up around him and purring.

Anyway, now that we've dived into my mind and swam steadily downwards, we've finally reached the bottom where one thing is left: SHITPOSTING. Let's do it.

Animals when nico's fear aura is on: I do not know this man. I could see him walking down the streets and I would not recognise him. Sorry to this m–

Animals when nico's fear aura is low: cuddle time. Time to cuddle. Yup. Did someone say snuggling? Come here, boyo *glomps said boyo*

Nico:

Nico: so do you like me or not???

Zeus [on mount olympus]: I think it's about time I sent an eagle to pluck his ey–

(ground rumbles)

Zeus [nervously]: *clears throat* –to pluck the twigs out of the boy's hair, why is he so bad with maintaining his hair?

(Will is doing some stuff for a Veterinarian son of kymopoleia. Nico accompanies him to the vet's like the supportive boyfriend he is)

Will: why are you covered in cats???

Nico [covered in cats and enjoying every second of it]: cause you're giving the dogs a check-up, doctor

(Will got turned on when nico said doctor, guys, don't blame me)

(Hades and Hera get into a cat fight. It's for a very petty reason; their pet peeves with each other's children)

Hades: time-out! Can't we just try to get along now that our boys are dating each other?

Hera [pensive; the expression looks fake]: *adjusts goat skin on shoulders*

Hera: . . . no

(Cat fighting continues)

(Snow-white!Nico AU with Reyna and Hazel as main supporting cast, Percy as prince, and Hera as misunderstood evil queen with her own character arc? Closer than you'd think)

Reyna: stop singing nico

Nico: why?

Hazel: You're covered in birds nico. BIRDS, PLURAL!

Nico: makes me even more fly :)

Percy: omg literally so hot *swoons*

Hera: *strokes cow behind ears* can we skip to the part where he eats the apple and gets trampled by my trusty cow?

(The story falls apart. Not even the Apollo kids can save it. Lesson is not to let the aphrodite cabin do storytime at the campfire).

Hazel: oh, I didn't know you had pets, Nico

Nico: I don't

Hazel: why all the random animals, then

Nico:

Nico: you're not trying to kick out my other visitors, are you

That's it, guys. Deuces. Yes, some of the head-canons here might feature in my next nico-centric (ooohhhhh, *interest sounds*).

I'd like to do more posts like these, but they're a bit time-consuming to write up. It's still so worth it though.

Should I do more like these? (The "head-canon/opinion dump-into-shitpost" format). You tell me. I mean, I'll still make them, just more frequently if yes is the answer.

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cabinofimagines · 3 years

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Failed Exam :(

A/n: I’m such a simp and I’m okay with it. Anyway, here’s this and uhh yeah I didn’t proofread at all :) - Day

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

A n n a b e t h

She hums as she looks over the exam sheet that your teacher returned to you after grading it. She furrows her brow and shakes her head, muttering things like “too vague of a question” and “there could be multiple answers to this”. You huffed from your cross-legged position on her bunk, “Annabeth, it’s no use now. Can I just burn it or something?”

She looks at you incredulously, “Burn it?” She sets the paper down on the desk and moves over to you, arms crossed. You nod and reach for her hand, holding it loosely, “It’s like therapy, y’know? Burning the thing that caused me so much stress.”

Her face scrunches in a smile, “That sounds unhealthy somehow.” She brushes your cheek with her thumb, “But if you think it’ll help you cope then let’s find a lighter.”

H a z e l

You’re sat at your table in Mess Hall, pushing at whatever you had leftover from the offering. You lost your appetite after hearing your grade on the final you spent so long studying for. It didn’t make sense.

Someone nudged your shoulder but you didn’t look up, not really in the mood to join the conversation buzzing around the room. The nudge turned into a comforting hand smoothing over your back, “You okay sweetheart? You look a little blue.”

Your head turned immediately, a small but sad smile on your lips, “I’m fine, just finals y’know?” Hazel hummed in response and sat down beside you, gripping your arm close and leaning her head on your shoulder. A chuckle bubbled in your chest, the gesture was so sudden that you forgot why you were upset for a second.

“I made some brownies if you want one. And they’re still warm!”

R e y n a

Reyna is sat at her desk looking over some of the new plans for the cafe an older demigod couple wanted to open when she saw the light bleed in from the door. She glanced up just in time to see your vacant expression move quickly over and fling your arms around her. She sputters as her chair squeals back from the sudden movement, “What’s wrong, mi corazón?”

You let out a deep sigh and nuzzled into her neck, her braid brushing against your cheek. You didn’t want to tell her precisely what made you upset, not yet anyway. You just found out and the only thing that kept you from tearing up on the spot was the thought of Reyna. You just wanted her to hold you for a moment, just long enough to compose yourself.

Her hand combed through your hair as she whispered into your ear, “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

P i p e r

“I could charmspeak your professor into--” you cut her off with a laugh, “Pipes, that wouldn’t make me feel better, but I appreciate the cunning plan.” She grinned at your amusement and wrapped her arms around you. Her hands rubbed smooth circles along your back, coming to rest on your shoulders as you pulled away, “You still kicked ass in every other class, and yeah it sucks right now, but this exam doesn’t define you.”

You nodded in agreement, knowing she was right but still having a hard time getting over it. Piper could tell that it would take a moment to really get over this, so maybe she could distract you until then. “Picture this: you and me, that cute little ice cream shop downtown, and then seeing that new movie that just hit theaters?”

You hummed, your lips twitching upwards, “I can definitely picture that.”

F r a n k

You needed to spar, get your mind off of that stupid stupid exam. You were looking for somebody, anybody to fight with. You didn’t care if you lost, you just wanted to get rid of whatever frustration you had inside of you.

Frank was warming up on the side right as you caught his attention and gestured him to ready up. He shot a shy smile and hustled over, raising his spear to show he was ready, “Your move--” You lunge forward and take advantage of his dropped guard, swinging your sword down against the base of his spear. He stumbles but catches himself, “Alright, so no friendly banter this time ‘round.”

You two spar for a good while and stop with no clear winner in the end. You’re both breathing heavily and sweating more than you’d care to admit, but regardless you still slump into his large figure. He sputtered, caught off guard again, “Uh…” He was confused as Hades, but hugged you back. He figured you probably needed it.

L e o

“It’s just one exam, babe!” He joked, but his smile dropped when he saw the glare you shot him. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and thought that maybe he should try a different, more sensitive approach this time. He watched as your hands ran over your face miserably, you were close to tears at this point, the cause laying beside you on his workbench.

He moved closer and crouched down in front of you, taking your hands in his own calloused ones. You still wouldn’t look up, your eyes trained on his dirty boots. He pursed his lips, “Let me try that again; it’s just one exam. I know you studied really hard for it and I’m proud of you for working so hard on the material.” He pecked your knuckles, letting his lips rest there, “It really sucks right now, but I promise this doesn’t say anything about how smart you are or how hard you worked.”

Some part of what he said stuck, but it didn’t change how shitty you felt about failing. Still, you could tell he was trying to understand at least. You looked up into his big brown eyes, “Thanks, Valdez.”

N i c o

“A happy meal is not going to make me happy, Nico.” You grumbled and chewed on your fries grumpily. He stared at you with a deadpanned expression, “I never said it would make you happy, but you’re not hungry anymore, are you?” Well you couldn’t argue there, he even paid for your meal so you guessed you shouldn’t complain.

“Y’know next time you have like a history class or something, I could probably get some reliable sources for you. The Underworld is full of interesting characters.” A small smile spread across your face, “Maybe, but I think I need a break from classes right now.”

Nico nodded and you two sat in silence again, just munching on your happy meals.

“Your professor is a dickhead.”

W i l l

“Well hello there, twinkletoes.” Will chimed, wrapping an arm around your waist as you strolled inside the infirmary. You looked a little glum but you moved into his embrace anyway, “Hello, sunspot.” His brows furrowed and he lead you over to his work station, sitting down on a wooden chair and bringing you to sit on his leg.

His golden curls fell into his eyes, peering up at you curiously as if he was analyzing an injury. You knew you wouldn’t be able to hide it from him-- and if you did cry, at least you’d have a fantastic reason to steal some candy from his jar. Technically that’s for his younger patients, but you always got away with stealing a few.

So you spilled. You told him everything that was bothering you, how you felt you didn’t study hard enough, how stupid you felt. He listened silently with his head rested on your shoulder, shooing people away if they looked like they were going to interrupt.

P e r c y

Percy was napping after a full day of training the newbies at camp. It’s a position he enjoyed, but it was exhausting to fight and teach at the same time. Percy has always had a hard time breaking down the things he does. He just… does it most of the time.

You snuck in while he was out, drooling on his pillow like he usually does when he’s this tired. All you wanted right now was to snuggle up with Percy and forget about that dumb exam, but you also didn’t want to wake him up accidentally. You moved behind him carefully, snaking an arm around his middle, and pressing into his back. This was already helping, just being close to him served as a sort of safety blanket for you.

He stirred slightly, making you freeze in place. You could feel him tense up as his hands move to your grip, feeling your familiar hands before relaxing again. He turned to face you, eyes still closed and his lips pouty from sleep. He grumbled something, causing you to let out a questioning hum. “I love you,” he said again, a bit louder this time. You grinned, your heart swelling, “I love you too, Perce.”

J a s o n

“Babe, listen--” He stopped short when he saw you with your head down on your desk. He came to bug you with the new game Leo and him made up to pass the time, but you looked less than enthusiastic at the moment. He approached carefully because he didn’t know what was wrong and if it was something he did, well… he didn’t want a repeat of that incident.

You looked up suddenly which startled him, “I failed my exam.” You croaked before letting tears of frustration fall. You angrily wiped them away as he moved to wrap his arms around you, bringing you to his chest. You sniffled, “I studied so hard and for what? I didn’t even pass.” He shushed you and kissed your forehead.

“You studied and regardless of what the results were, I’m proud of you for trying at least. It’s not an easy subject, but you still worked hard to understand and do well.” You calmed down slightly, but you still felt horrible, “But I didn’t do well--”

“You will next time, okay? You’re a smart kid.”

-Day

#percy jackson #x reader #Nico di Angelo #Leo Valdez #Piper McLean #jason grace #Hazel Levesque #annabeth chase #frank zhang #Will solace #imagines #HoO #pjo #reyna #percy jackson masterlist

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dreamingofaizawa · 3 years

Text

Queen of Hades

Hades! Shouta Aizawa x Persephone! Fem! Reader

***18+ Fic***

If you are not 18 years or older, please refrain from reading any further. Thank you.

Warnings: TW: Incest, kidnapping, stockholm-ish, slow-burn ish, smut, praise kink and body worship if you squint, possessive during smexy time, overstimulation, squirting, dacryphilia, masturbation (not super descriptive tho), unprotected sex (pretty obvious but I’m putting it here anyway), creampie, aftercare, tiny bit of angst at the end but not too bad.

Word Count: 9.7k (Holy shit)

Author’s Note: *kinda long note here, you don’t really have to read it if you don’t want to*

Ohhhkaaaayyyyyy so this took a lot out of me. This is my longest fic so far, and honeslty I’m kinda proud of it. I’ve always been a sucker for Greek mythology, and I’ve always had a soft spot for Hades because he’s so sorely portrayed as a villain in mainstream media. He’s really not as bad as movies like Percy Jackson and Hercules make him out to be. Nothing in the mythology suggests that Persephone was unhappy, so I took it a ran with it. I also drew a bit of inspiration from Lore Olympus on WebToon (iykyk) for the parts regarding Demeter’s parenting.

The only three characters I really referenced to mha besides Aizawa is Hizashi Yamada (Hermes), Momo Yaoyorozu (Aphrodite), and Bakugo Katsuki (Ares). I went with Momo for Aphrodite solely because she seems like the only one Bakugo would willingly listen to since she’s on par with him at least in intelligence. I made Bakugo Ares because he’s the god of war, and tends to get angry easily. Their temperaments are similar, except for the fact that Ares can be pretty cowardly (sorry not sorry Ares).

Anyway, enjoy~

The god sat on his throne, contemplating his lonely existence for what felt like the hundredth time. It may have been, considering he is immortal. At one time, he’d never given loneliness a second thought. He didn’t mind being this way. His job was important, even if melancholy, and he took it very seriously. Keeping Cerberus tame and entertained was probably the most difficult part, physically. The three-headed dog sat at the entrance to the underworld, guarding at all times to ensure any and all souls that passed through could never escape. And Hades simply ruled over this plane of existence, ensuring nothing was out of order and those kept in the depths of Tartarus remained there.

However, in the last couple centuries the raven-haired god had been plagued with longing for someone to share his existence with. He no longer wanted to be alone. He craved someone to spend his time with, someone to think about and experience what mortals and gods alike called love. He wanted a queen. With the time he had on his hands, he prepared himself to scour the mortal realm as well as Olympus, to search under the invisibility his helm allowed him. Soon he was walking the realms, invisible to all creatures, observing, searching for his queen.

____

Being the daughter of Demeter wasn’t easy. The goddess hovered over you, making sure you were doing your duties properly as the goddess of vegetation. Being a goddess yourself was only made difficult by your mother. She needed perfection. You worked diligently to hone your powers, urging plantlife to grow to your will and learning about the time before the gods. You spent every day under her guidance, until she was finally satisfied with your performance. She’d finally stopped pushing you about a century ago, now simply watching with no commentary or instructions.

Today was finally the day you’d be able to have time completely alone outside your quarters. You wandered, stopping in a beautiful meadow. The sight made your heart swell with joy. Lush, soft grass stretched as far as you could see, flowers of all colors blanketing the area. From bright, vibrant sunshine yellow to deep cerulean and mulberry. Some of the lone flowers stood tall enough to touch your hips as you floated through the greenery. It was serene, peaceful. Your chest felt light, finally you were free from your mother’s harsh gaze to relax, all alone.

As you finally decided you’d return, you thought of the beauty of the area. It didn’t take long for you to find a few choice blooms to pick and carefully pluck them from the ground. Keeping them alive would be effortless from your amount of training. You’d keep them in your chambers, a memory of the feelings you experienced here. Satisfied with your choices, you took a final glance around you and began your return.

You only made it a few steps when suddenly the ground began to quake. Only a horse’s length from your feet, you watched wide-eyed as the ground split open to a huge chasm, chunks of earth tumbling into the void. A golden chariot pulled by four beautiful black stallions emerged from the fissure, pulling to an abrupt halt next to you. A raven-haired man stood proud in the chariot, one hand extended out toward you. His face showed no emotions, his dark obsidian eyes tired and sad, a scar curved under his right eye and light scruff adorning his chiseled jaw.

You shrunk away from his hand, unsure of his identity or the reason for such a surprise visit. “Who are you?” you ask warily, your eyes narrowing slightly. “I am Hades, god of death and wealth. Your mother would know me as Aidoneus.” Your eyes widened in shock. No wonder you didn’t know who this is. Hades rarely left the Underworld, and hasn’t in the past thousand or so years according to what you’d heard from your mother. Why was he here of all places? Sensing your apprehension, he reached out for you once more.

“Please, my sweet, come with me to the Underworld.” Your eyebrows scrunched in confusion. You weren’t entirely sure why the god of death wanted you, but you didn’t want to find out. Shaking your head, you took a few tentative steps backward. “I...don’t want to go with you…” The idea of abandoning your duties was absurd. You were a goddess, and your mother would be absolutely furious if she found out you’d gone with Hades and vanished to the underworld. Not to mention how your family might feel about your sudden disappearance.

A loud cry of your name had you snapping your head toward the source. A beautiful woman donning golden armor wielding a spear was sprinting toward you, her brown curls pulled tight into a woven plait down her back. “Athena!” You called to her as you began to run, but you were lifted off your feet before you could take a second step. In a blur of motion you found yourself in Hades’ golden chariot, a strong arm around your waist holding you tight to the god’s side. He peered down at you with those deep dark eyes as the chariot descended into the chasm.

“I am sorry, my love. But coming with me was never your choice to make.” You looked upward, watching as the earth closed above you. Panicked, you struggled in Hades’ grasp, but he was too strong for you to escape. “Please, don’t fight me.” You shot the god a glare that could kill, tears streaming down your face. “I never asked to be taken! Why? Why have you stolen me away?” A heaved sigh escaped his lips. “I will explain, my love, but for now,” he brings his other hand up and taps your forehead with two fingers, “Sleep.” Your eyelids droop, and your consciousness fades to black.

____

He had hoped you’d come with him willingly. Of course, he knew the chances of that happening were rather slim. Confiding in Zeus about his newfound feelings for you may have been a bad idea for him, considering he was the one to come up with this ridiculous plan. The god of the sky was supposed to be distracting most of the other gods and goddesses with a meeting, though it isn’t a surprise that Athena had managed to slip away. He was rather lucky to have been able to escape Athena without direct confrontation. He may be a powerful god, but Athena was the goddess of war strategy and wisdom. She could probably fight Zeus himself and find a way to come out victorious.

But now, as he gaze down at your sleeping form in his bed, he can’t help but feel it was worth the trouble. You were absolutely gorgeous, a beauty to rival Aphrodite, though he’d never say it aloud for fear of the woman’s jealous revenge. He watched the rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips parted ever so slightly with your breath. He wants so badly to kiss you, to hold you and cherish you, to worship you the way you should be. But he wants you to accept him and love him of your own accord. He’d made that decision from the first time he laid eyes on you. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead before leaving you to rest.

____

It felt like you hadn’t even been asleep for a second, like you had only just closed your eyes. But you definitely weren’t in the chariot anymore, and Hades was nowhere to be seen. Sitting up, you took in your surroundings. You lay on a large bed covered in fine pelts and furs on the wall furthest from the door. The room itself is large enough to fit at least three chariots and room to spare. Cool blue floated around the room, candles inset in the walls lit with cerulean fire, emitting a soft glow and shadows dancing in the light. The room was relatively empty, save for the armor on the wall along with a two-pronged scepter and a helm. There was no question in your mind where you were.

The large wooden door creaked as it opened, the King of the Underworld himself standing in the doorway. You glared as he made his way over to you and sat on the edge of the bed. “Why am I here, Hades?” You absolutely meant for the edge to come through in your voice, letting out your aggression in the most passive way possible. You hoped the tinge of fear you felt hadn’t shown through as well. As much as you didn’t like being taken against your will and hated Hades for it, you didn’t want to get into a fight with the god of death.

“Please, my name is Shouta. The mortals call me Hades. And you’re here because I’ve fallen in love with you, sweet goddess.” His voice was gentle, apologetic even. “The kidnapping was Zeus’s idea. I only went along with it because I knew my sister would never let me have you if I asked. I know how she is with her children.” You gave a small huff and pulled your knees into your chest, eyes still on the god. “Talking to me first was always an option, you know.” His shoulders shook as he chuckled. “My apologies. I should have talked to you first.”

Apprehensively, you asked the question you were sure you already knew the answer to. You tore your eyes away from him, suddenly the furs underneath you were the most interesting thing in the world. “When can I go back?” His hand appeared in front of you, and you didn’t flinch or move away as his calloused palm cupped your face gently, making you look up into his dark eyes. “I’m sorry, my love. But I can’t let you return yet.” You gave a small nod, and he pulled his hand from your face as he stood. “Walk with me?”

His eyes were hopeful, waiting for the answer he wanted. If you declined, would he force you to go with him anyway? You squeezed your knees further into you, giving an indirect ‘no’ to test his reaction. He let out a small sigh, “I see. If you need anything, you can call for me.” He moved to walk out of the room, not halfway to the door when you stopped him. “Actually...um...I think a walk would be okay.” Slowly, you got up and walked over to him, and he gave a small smile before leading you out of the room.

The underworld was nothing like you thought it would be.

Hades - or rather, Shouta - led you on a tour of all three realms of the Underworld on the boat steered by Charon, the ferryman that delivered souls to the three parts of the Underworld. The Elysian Fields were gorgeous, mirroring daytime in the mortal realm with lush greenery and bright sunshine. This part was reserved for the mortals that were exceptionally heroic in their lifetime. Good people who lived lives giving to the people that needed it with no expectation to be repaid. All the souls here were happy, either playing or relaxing with each other in this afterlife.

The next part was the Asphodel Fields. This realm was darker, stuck in a deep limbo but beautiful all the same. A bright full moon sat high in the sky, the ground littered with luminous teal crystals. These souls were shadows of themselves, normal mortals that made mistakes and loved and lived their lives as best they could. They now live a mirrored life here, as a shadowed version of themselves. It was not a sad existence, but one that the mortal souls could be satisfied with.

As you rode the boat with Shouta on the river Phlegethon toward Tartarus, your body began to shake and your breath shallowed. You could feel the foul energy seeping into the air the closer you got. This was where the worst of the worst were kept prisoner. This realm locked a wicked soul in a loop of punishment and suffering. He looked down at you and wrapped an arm securely around your waist, and you peered up into his black orbs. “Tartarus is not a place I enjoy taking you, but I do intend on making you my Queen. You will need to see it even from a distance. I promise, you are safe.”

With a nod, he turns his attention back toward the bow. The closer you got to Tartarus, the more you began to feel fear. Despite the river of fire and the heat pouring from the banks, your body shook. The sheer bloodlust, anger, resentment, and malice pouring from the shoreline was enough to make your heart race. You may be a goddess, but you are young and weak compared to the god next to you. You feel yourself pressing into Shouta more as you float past the shore. The sights before you are horrific, if only because of the souls that are there.

You’d learned about the war between the gods and the titans early on in your life, and now here you were seeing the titans for yourself. They were enormous. Even on their knees, bound in chains thicker than the largest tree trunk, made from Adamantine the metal of the gods, they towered like mountains. They were monstrous, some with more heads than you could count, some with extra limbs, some with animalistic traits and some purely demonic. The sound of the chains rattling rang through the entire realm as a few lunged out toward the boat, only to be stopped short by the chains.

You jumped several times, fear consuming you. Shouta held you close, his arm tight around your shoulders as you clung to him. Confidence and power radiated off his form as he raised his other arm, the chains around the titans tightening and drawing into the ground with a flick of his wrist. He leaned down and whispered into your ear. “You are safe, my love. They cannot hurt you.” You calmed a bit with Shouta next to you, securing you to him and keeping you safe.

The ferry floated along and soon you were out of the realm of Tartarus, back at the palace grounds that the god lived in. The building was beautiful, built like the temples the mortals built for the gods. However, the stone it was made from was not white but black, polished to a beautiful shine that reflected the cool blue glow from the misty realm. This area was not in any of the three parts of the afterlife. It was the god of death’s personal realm.

The large temple sat high on a rocky hill, a staircase carved into the cliff face that led down to the five rivers that course through the underworld, all of them parallel each other until they branched off. The realm itself was magical in its own right. It seemed to be an enormous cave, huge stalactites hung from the ceiling, which was shrouded in deep blue mist that sparkled and mimicked the night sky. It was so high even the largest and lowest stalactites hung miles above the ground. The ground was all black earth, void of vegetation but full of life all the same, the scent of upturned earth and rain filling your senses.

You ogled at the beauty of it all, despite the darkness. You hadn’t taken the time to observe before the tour, but now that you could you almost didn’t want to look away. You felt the warmth of Shouta’s body as he pressed against your back, a hand gently taking your chin and directing your head up to look at the misty abyss. “Would you like to know what sparkles through the mist?” You gave a small nod. Though the mist was thick, there was something sparkling from far above it that made up the constellations in the sky of the mortal realm.

He stretched an arm out, palm up as if to catch something. The star you recognised as Polaris shone brightly then faded, and the glimmering speck fell from the fog, landing square in Shouta’s palm. It was a large gem, sparkling against the darkness. You traced your fingers along its ragged edges, and it floated back up to its place when you dropped your hand. It was then you remembered that Hades was not only the god of death. He was the god of wealth, of earthly riches, precious gems and metals that mortals sought to obtain.

Shouta’s voice was smooth and deep in your ear, his body still pressed up to yours. “Let us go inside, my love. It is time to rest. Tomorrow, I will take you to see Cerberus.” You let your body relax into him, relishing in the safety of his embrace. Giving a small nod, you let the raven-haired god guide you into the palace. He led you to a hot spring in the back of the palace, the large steaming pool set deep in the ground and illuminated by blue flame candles. He left you alone to bathe, and you relaxed into the water as you reflected on the recent developments.

Despite kidnapping you, the god clearly harbors no ill intentions toward you. He’d even revealed that the whole thing was, in fact, your father’s idea. He’s kind, sweet, nothing like the angry and cruel god the mortals seem to fear. And he radiates power, his strength clear even when he first appeared to you in the field. He suppresses his overwhelming prowess around you, you’d realised. It became clear just how powerful a god he is when he took you through Tartarus. As powerful as he is he’s gentle toward you, compassionate and caring, dare you say loving. He did claim to have fallen in love with you.

Still, you had duties as a goddess, though your mother was more than capable of handling it on her own. The only reason you had duties is because you are the daughter of gods. You wondered briefly what she was thinking right now, if she knew you were gone, if Athena had informed her of your current placement. You would have to wait to find out. Until then, you would enjoy your time here. The Underworld is beautiful, and mostly peaceful, disregarding Tartarus. If Shouta means to make you his Queen, maybe you could learn to love the man as you’ve come to love the realm he rules.

And of course, the god himself was rather handsome. His deep obsidian eyes held eons of emotion. Strength, power, loneliness and longing. And when he looked at you, you could tell he was sure he loved you, his eyes full of pure adoration. His long raven locks framed his face perfectly, the onyx crown he wore nearly invisible in his dark tresses. His jawline was strong, sharp, his ivory skin seemingly glowing blue in the atmosphere of the Underworld. The robes he wore hung loose around his frame, but it wasn’t hard to tell his body was strong and well built. He was a god, after all. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want to see him in all his glory.

You finished your bath and fell asleep in the same bed as the god, your backs to each other and plenty of room between you. You only knew him for a single day, but you trusted him with your immortal life. When you woke up, Shouta took you to see Cerberus like he said he would. The dog sat proud just inside the entrance, the gate closer to resembling a cave entrance than an actual gate. Cerberus had his own wide perch above the ground to look down and watch the entrance closely, his job as gatekeeper being taken just as seriously as Shouta took his job as king of the Underworld.

Reaching the river bank, Shouta stepped out and held his hand out to you, helping you out of the riverboat after him. Soon the two of you were approaching the three-headed beast, and the closer you got the more you understood just how large Cerberus is. Sitting on his haunches, his shoulders towered far above your head. You’d have to climb up onto his back to reach his three heads. As the two of you approached, the hound turned his heads and bowed low, muzzles nearly in the dirt with a low growl emanating from him.

Shouta, with a hand at the small of your back, walked up to the beast and placed a hand on the middle head, slowly petting up and down in between his eyes. You could hear the whoosh of his large tail behind him. He may be the guard dog to the Underworld, but he was still a dog, you supposed. “Hello, old friend. Meet your future Queen.” The head closest to you lifted, a large huff blowing in your face from his snout, before his nose twitched as he sniffed at your hair and face. You giggled, the air tickling your neck and face, as you reached up and held the large head in your hands and kissed above his nose.

“Such a sweet boy, aren’t you?” The hound’s tail swished harder and one of his front paws tapped against the ground, his body almost dancing at the praise and attention. Mindlessly, you let your hand pet at his fur as you observed the other two heads. Each one seemed to have a different personality. The one you were giving attention to was happy and jumpy, constantly sniffing and licking you. The one in the center was calm and collected, stoic even, eyes trained on the entrance as Shouta pet it. The furthest from you seemed angry, a low growl a near constant as his gaze was focused on the cave entrance.

“Show her a little respect won’t you? It won’t kill you.” The angry head huffed before turning its gaze to you, giving a short bow, and with a snarl turning his attention back to the entrance. As interesting as guarding the gate seems, the only one that actually entered through the gate was Hermes. You watched as the god zoomed in and out, delivering souls to the dock, sending those who could pay off with Charon as he rowed them to their respective placements. You doubted any soul would be able to leave. They’d be spotted and caught easily, if Cerberus had anything to say about it.

Several months passed while you were down in the Underworld, staying by Shouta’s side through whatever he needed to do. No matter how many times you travelled through the underworld with Shouta, you never got enough of the beauty of it all. Sometimes he’d take you through the Asphodel Fields, deep into the crystal forests. He walked with you through the fields with a warm hand at the small of your back, gently guiding you where you had yet to roam. The longer you stayed, the more you found yourself wanting to be around the god.

Any time he needed to visit Tartarus, you’d join him, and he’d keep you tucked into his side the whole time. You felt safe in his hands. Lately you’d been cuddling closer to him at night, longing for his embrace. His rather thick arms would curl around your waist and shoulders, pulling you tight to his chest. You'd wake up to the god’s deep obsidian eyes on your face, his gaze soft as he told you how beautiful you are or how thankful he was that he could wake up next to you. He’d leave soft kisses on your forehead and cheeks, thick fingers rolling shapes into your skin.

It was those little intimate moments that had you falling, very possibly in love, with the King of the Underworld. When he’d run his hands down your arms and whisper his affections. When he’d teach you about the workings of the Underworld while you pet Cerberus’s head. In the bath when he’d wash you after a long day, never advancing further than a chaste kiss to your shoulder and neck. The lingering, longing, loving gaze he set on you while you rode the riverboat to the different realms. In no time at all you’d realized you’re happy here.

Now, you both stood at the gate with Cerberus once again. One head was nuzzling up against you, the other two focused on the entrance as you and Shouta pet the happy dog. You’d learned that while the center wasn’t averse to physical touch, he preferred to be left alone. The angry one had become less growly and aggressive toward you, which you supposed was progress. Though you were sure if you ever attempted to leave the Underworld, Cerberus would stop you regardless. Not that you wanted to leave.

A whoosh of wind rushed past you and suddenly Hermes was standing on the other side of Shouta, a wide grin plastered on his face as he leaned on the god’s shoulder. “What’s up, Sho?” His hypnotic green eyes wandered over to you and his eyebrows raised as his grin widened. “So this is miss Persephone, is it?” He held a hand out for you to shake. “It’s good to meet you.” Tentatively, you reached out and took his hand, shaking it before you asked the question burning in your mind.

“Sorry, but why did you just call me Persephone?” A moment of realization hit the blonde. “OH! Yeah, you’ve been called Persephone by the mortals, as well as the rest of Olympus. The Bringer of Destruction. Fitting for the Queen of the Underworld, isn’t it?” Your breath quickened and eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. “Why would they call me that? I haven’t done anything!” Shouta narrowed his eyes at the god. “Hizashi, what’s this about?” He leaned away with his hands up in mock surrender.

“Hey, it wasn’t me. When Demeter found out her daughter was missing she abandoned her duties up in Olympus. The mortal realm has slowly been changing ever since she left, slowly becoming cold and barren. It’s not pretty. Your other siblings are trying their best to uphold Demeter’s abandoned chores but...they aren’t their mother.” Shouta slipped an arm over your shoulder, tucking you into his side, and you clung to him in your increasingly distressed state, relishing in the safety his arms often held for you. The two gods talked as you tried to ground yourself.

“How much does Demeter know?” A high-pitched hum rang from the blonde. “Well Zeus, Athena and I are the only ones who know you took her. I believe Hestia, Hera, and Poseidon know she’s here but not how she got here, and the rest just don’t know anything. Zeus made Athena swear not to say anything, but considering she’s his favorite it may be only a matter of time before she confesses to Demeter with no repercussions. There’s also a possibility Aphrodite and Eros know for reasons that should be obvious to you.”

While they spoke your mind was reeling. You never thought anything of your mother’s hovering, but she’d abandoned her duties up in Olympus just because you’d vanished. What did that even mean? And now that the mortal realm was suffering, would you be punished for it? Would you be blamed for your mother’s absence?

____

“Do I have to go back to Olympus?” Shouta could hear the slight panic and sadness in your voice, and it made his grip around you just a bit tighter. Both their eyes flicked over to you, Shouta’s gaze soft and concerned. Hermes - Hizashi - gave a kind smile. “So far, nothing’s been decided. Zeus is pretty adamant about keeping this whole thing discreet, so for now you can stay here with Sho.” You seemed to relax in his arms, but Shouta could tell you were still stressed about the whole situation.

“Thanks ‘Zashi.” The blonde nodded, then zipped away and returned to his duties as the messenger god. Shouta looked back down at you and he could see the tension in your face. Eyebrows slightly scrunched, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you chewed on it, crossed arms and hands clutching your biceps. He’d almost call it adorable if he couldn’t feel just how stressed you were, leaning your body into him like a cat seeking shelter from the rain. His arm slipped down to your waist as he guided you back to the ferry.

It didn’t take long for the both of you to be back at the temple. He sat you on the bed then kneeled in front of you, rough hands gently holding your own, calloused thumbs massaging circles into your skin. “My love, you are upset.” He watched and listened as you poured out your worries, all of them fears of whether or not the mortal realm would survive, if you were to be punished for your mother’s actions, if your mother would punish you herself for disappearing. He reassured you that he wouldn’t let anyone punish you for anything, that he’d protect you with his life.

He had already vowed to himself never to let anything happen to his precious Queen. He is not a violent god, but he would hunt down any soul that dared so much as a wrong thought about you, vowing that there would be hell to pay. If he ever let something happen to you, he swore he’d never leave the Underworld again, and instead trap himself in Tartarus indefinitely. Eventually, he would express his devotion to you, his undying love and loyalty, but for now all you needed to know was that you were safe with him.

His heart nearly skipped a beat when your eyes filled with tears, voice breaking as you cried about not wanting to leave the Underworld, not wanting to leave his side. You’d grown to love the realm for all it had, as well as the man who ruled over it. He knew as well as you did that you would eventually have to return to Olympus, and there was no guarantee you would ever come back. Well, there was one, but he would never suggest it to you for it was almost cruel. It kept you connected to this realm, like a chain to an anchor.

But then you had to go and ask.

____

You could see the turmoil behind his dark irises. He was thinking, and thinking hard. “Sho...is there any way for me to come back?” His jaw clenched, something you’d come to recognize as a signal of stress for the god of death. “What do you mean, love? You could return any time you like.” You squeezed his hands, willing him to listen. “I mean permanently, Shouta. If somehow my mother refuses to let me return, is there a way to tie me to you? To make sure I need to return no matter what?”

His usually calm features twisted in surprise, eyes wide and jaw clenched tight, his hands gripping your own. But the shock only lasted a moment before he was relaxing again. “My love, there is a way. But it is not kind to you, to force you to return here.” The sadness at that statement was clear in his eyes. He didn’t want to think of it, but the possibility for you to never want to return to him was there. Your eyebrows furrowed deeply and you ripped your hands away from his, planting your palms on either side of his face and forcing him to look deep into your eyes.

“I want to return here, Shouta, to you. Look into my soul and tell me I’m lying to you.” His dark onyx stared into you, and you stared back. He would know your sincerity, whether he wanted to or not. He had to know how much you truly cared, how far you’d fallen since that day in the meadow when he scooped you up into his golden chariot. You had to make him know. He didn’t protest when you began to pull him closer, leaning in until your lips ghosted over each other.

You’d never been this close before. He never advanced on you, never made you uncomfortable, never forced anything on you. He refused to force even the smallest things on you, like placing a hand on your waist or your shoulder, always asking permission and making sure you were okay first and foremost. Maybe it was just because of how gentle he is with you, or the fact that he’s the sweetest deity you’d met. Maybe it was the work of Eros. But you were no doubt in love with Shouta.

When your lips connected it was like a wave of heat crawled over your body, a spark igniting flame that rolled through your veins. You fit perfectly together, molding to each other in a sweet, passionate kiss. His own hands found purchase on your waist and neck, gentle caresses holding you close. Finally pulling away, you were both breathless, sucking in air through shuddered breaths and adrenaline. His voice came through heavy and thick with swirling emotions. “There is a way to keep you here, but will you wait and think about the decision before it is made?”

You knew what he was doing. He was preparing himself for what, in his mind, is an inevitable rejection from you. You also understood that he was taking you greatly into consideration, thinking about you and your happiness first. And that’s why you knew you loved him. Because you cared about him before yourself. Loving each other more than yourselves was something you shared. “Tell me now, my King, and I promise I’ll think about it.”

He sighed, but you couldn’t tell if it was from relief, sadness, or stress. Regardless, he explained to you the magic of the Underworld, and that if you were to eat a pomegranate seed from the realm you’d be compelled to return, whether you wanted to or not. You gave a nod and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you, Shouta. I will think about it. And you’ll know my answer when it comes time for me to return to Olympus.” He nodded, clearly grateful that you’d heed his words. However you fully intended to eat a seed when asked to return to Olympus. You had already made up your mind, and nothing could change it.

____

Waking up every day to see your face was a blessing for the god of death. He loved that you’d become comfortable with him, that you curled into his side while you slept. He adored your half-lidded, sleepy eyes when you first woke up in the morning. He adored your mussed hair before you combed it out and pulled it into a loose braid down your shoulder. Everything you did made him adore you even more, everything about you was the most beautiful thing to him.

He loved all of you, all that you did and said, every little detail of your existence. And he made sure you knew, whispering sweet nothings as he held you in bed, praising your beauty while he bathed with you. Every morning he watched your gorgeous eyes flutter open and made known his gratitude for being able to hold you so close. You never said much yourself, but he’d never have it any different. Your movements were enough for him. He lived for the little gestures and physical touches. The way you’d cling to him while you were out, how you’d hug him close at night. How you’d lean into his chest while you bathed together, or run your fingers through his hair when you relax in bed.

But he hated what you did to him, when you’d get close and squish your body up against him, when he felt your soft skin under his rough palms. He hated the feelings being with you unlocked, the filthiest parts of his mind coming to light. He wanted to ruin you in the best way, to make you his forever. He wants to worship every inch of you, and watch as you unravel beneath him. Late at night while you were fast asleep he’d gaze at your body, eating up every bit of exposed skin and letting his imagination run rampant. Tears falling down your face from pure overwhelming pleasure, sweet sounds pouring from your kiss-swollen lips, legs quivering and fingers clawing at the bed beneath you.

Tonight was no different as his eyes raked over your slumbering form. He could feel himself hardening just at the sight of you, and it drove him insane. He was slightly disappointed in himself for allowing something like lust to affect him so heavily. But it did, and he had to take care of it.

____

You were only half awake when you heard a soft curse and felt Shouta shift in bed behind you. When you rolled over to curl into him, you confirmed he wasn’t there and it woke you up rather quickly. Still a tiny bit groggy, you got up and went to search for him through the temple. Really, there weren’t very many places to search. It wasn’t long before you ended up outside the bathing room, but something stopped you before you stepped through the curtained entryway.

You could hear heaved breaths and soft curses from inside, the light slosh of water muffling a lot of the sounds. The sounds which were coming from none other than Shouta. You slowly pulled the curtain back, just barely, and peeked in. The sight before you made your thighs squeeze together and heat build in your stomach. The god was leaning on the edge of the small pool, head thrown back and his lower half below the water. It wasn’t hard to figure out what he was doing, with his hand submerged and the muscles in his arm flexing and pumping slowly.

You’d be lying if you denied how much you wanted him. You craved him in the worst way, wanted to touch his bare skin and feel the muscles in his back tense under your fingers. You wanted to see him lose himself and ravage you, to watch as he let his more primal instincts take over. The only problem you saw was how you would approach the subject, especially when your lustful feelings were becoming very hard to ignore. But now, you had just found the perfect opportunity.

Shouta’s back was mostly turned toward the curtains, so it wasn’t hard for you to slip into the room unnoticed. Silently, you padded up behind him and knelt. He was still pumping himself below the water, whispering filthy words and your name under heavy breaths. You reached out and grabbed his shoulders, making him jump, but you quickly shushed him. “It’s me, my King.” He froze, his entire body tensing and his shoulders rising with shuddered breaths.

“I-I’m sorry, my love...I-” You released your grasp and leaned over to look in his eyes, silencing him. “No, Shouta. Don’t be sorry. We may be deities but we are afflicted with emotion, same as any mortal.” Leaning down, you kissed and nipped below his jaw. “Come to bed, and we can help each other with those emotions.” He turned his head to you, brows slightly furrowed and concern laced in his voice. “You don’t have to help me, sweet girl. You shouldn’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Did I not just say we’d help each other?” Surprise was evident on his face as he gazed up at you from the water. You leaned close to his face, lips just grazing each other, and stared deep into his eyes. “If I didn’t want to do it, I wouldn’t have offered.” Just as he pressed forward, you leaned back and stood, leaving the god shocked and wanting more. “I’ll be in bed, if you feel like joining me.” You swayed your hips a little more as you disappeared behind the curtains, a small tease to lure the god.

Back in the room, you stood at the foot of the bed, back to the door as you waited for him. You made it abundantly clear what you wanted, that you knew what you were asking for, and knew what you were offering. The door creaked open, and you could feel the heat of Shouta’s gaze on your body. He was on you nearly instantly as the door shut, his hands roaming your body and lips ghosting over your neck. His voice was raspy, heavy with lust and want. “Are you sure you want this?” You pushed your hips back into him, feeling his hardness through your thin robes.

A sighed ‘yes’ passed your lips, and it was all the confirmation the god needed. His hands came up and pulled the fabric off your body, the cloth wrapped around his waist following soon after. His thick fingers pinched and pulled at your body, relentless in their attack on your skin. His touch floated over you, sending electricity buzzing through you. Lust built like a wildfire, spreading and burning your blood as it coursed through your veins. You leaned back into him, pressing yourself against his strong body as he peered down yours and left kisses on your neck and shoulder. Your body felt impossibly hot, arousal pulling you deep into him as he traced your body with feather light touches.

Suddenly he grasped your hips tight, turning you and pushing you backward onto the bed. He stayed standing, and you both took a good look at each other for the first time. Yes, you often bathed together, but your back was always to his chest, and the lower halves of your body were submerged. He never touched you anywhere other than your back, shoulders and hair when he helped to wash you, and you never turned to look at him. But now, as you looked up, there was no doubt in your mind you were looking at a god.

He looked as if he was sculpted from marble, ivory skin pulled taut over chiseled muscles. Scars littered his body, discolored lines carved into his skin, each holding a story. Your breath hitched in your throat when your eyes landed on his cock. You may be a goddess, but if you weren’t prepared, he would undoubtedly destroy you. You felt more than heard the deep chuckle he let out, a devilish smirk set on his lips. “Don’t worry, little one. I won’t break you,” you lifted your eyes to meet his, “Yet.” You swallowed thickly, anticipation building in your chest. He climbs up and slots himself between your legs, leaning over you as his hair hangs in curtains around your face, drawing your eyes to the man above you.

“My love, you can tell me to stop any time.” The look in his eyes told you just how serious he was. He would do anything you asked of him without a second thought. You gave a nod and looped your hands around the back of his neck, pulling him down into a deep, sweet kiss. Your bodies pressed into each other, your skin burning against his as every cell in your body longed for his touch. Both your tongues poked out and melded together, tasting and savoring each other while his hands roamed down your body and your fingers massaged into his scalp.

When he finally pulled away you both panted, hot breaths fanning over each other’s face. One of his hands trailed down and gripped your thigh, fingers digging into your plush flesh as he ventured toward your heated core. He gathered the slick at the apex of your thighs, groaning at both how wet you had become and the little breathy moan you let out as he pushed a thick digit into your sopping folds. Soon he was adding a second, the burn quickly subsiding into pleasure as his thick fingers curled and scissored, stretching you and preparing you for his cock.

The pleasure was intense for you, never having experienced it like this before. In the 200 years of your life you’d never lain with a man, but there was nothing your mother could do to stop you from learning to pleasure yourself. She knew nothing about what you did alone in your chambers. But this was something different entirely. Shouta’s fingers reached deeper than yours could, stroking every sensitive spot inside you that you’d never known existed. Your legs shook as that familiar coil built in your abdomen, though much faster than you could build it on your own.

Shouta cooed praises into your ear, that knot beginning to fray the more he focused his attention on that gummy spot on your walls. His thumb slick with your juices reached up and rubbed at the little nub between your folds, and it only took a few tight circles for you to fall apart on his fingers with a moan. He drew out your orgasm, curling his fingers into you until you were choking on sobs from the overwhelming pleasure, your thighs trying to clamp down on his hand and nails digging crescent shapes into his wrist.

You whimpered as he pulled his fingers from you, moaning softly as you watched him suck your essence off his fingers with a lewd groan. He leaned down and pulled you into another heated kiss, and you could taste yourself on his lips. “Are you ready for me?” His breaths are heavy, hands gripping your hips tight, jaw set as he tries to compose himself. “Yes, my love. I’m ready.” He kisses you softly as he pushes into you slowly, swallowing up the little mewls dripping from your lips. One hand is rubbing at your swollen clit and the other toying with your breast to distract you from the stretch of his thick cock.

Your own hands are dragging down his back, trying to ground yourself as the god sank all the way into your cunt, stilling as he bottoms out completely. You’re both taking heaving breaths as your walls flutter, adjusting to him. Your legs are quaking and you mewl softly, tugging at his hair. “Please, Shouta, move.” He pulls his hips back and slowly thrusts back in, dragging the head of his cock along your sensitive walls deliciously. He starts a slow pace, languidly driving himself deep inside you. He leans down and kisses at your neck, the angle change making you throw your head back and moan.

You purposely clench down on him, and he bucks his hips up into you with a curse under his breath. His hands come back to your hips, fingers digging harshly into your skin as he growls. He pulls back until only the tip of his cock sits inside you, and snaps his hips forward, punching all the air from your lungs as he sets a brutal pace. Shouta doesn’t react as your nails claw furiously at his back, only yanks your body into him as the tip of his cock kisses your cervix with every thrust. Deep guttural growls and moans pour from his lips, the sound of wet skin slapping skin and the sweet, salty smell of sex permeating the room.

The little air you’re able to suck in is expelled in whines and sobs, fat tears streaming from your eyes as they roll back in your skull. Your mind was so far gone with pleasure, your entire body shivering and shaking as calloused fingers rub your clit, sending you head first into a powerful orgasm. His growls deepened as he kept himself from his own release, pounding into you with reckless abandon. His voice was raspy and breathless and one hand gripped your chin, tilting you to face him as he slowed his rutting. “That’s right, little goddess. Cry for your god, for your King. Tell me, who do you belong to?”

You took a moment to breathe through a sob, barely able to think with the overwhelming sensations. He was still thrusting his hips into you, slowly, dragging along your fluttering walls and gripping your face ever so slightly harder. “Answer me, sweet girl. Who do you belong to?” He punctuated the question with a sharp snap of his hips, stealing the air from your lungs before you gasped it back in. “You! I belong to you Shouta!” He’s pounding into you again, his hand moving to squeeze gently at your neck as he drives his cock deep into you over and over again.

“Yes, you’re mine. All mine forever. My goddess, my Queen, my wife, my love.” He lets out a loud moan, rubbing at your clit furiously. “Cum for me again, pretty thing. Cum.” Your entire body thrashes with the intensity of your orgasm, electricity jolting through you, your body answering Shouta’s command as if it knew you belonged to him, just as you both had said. You scream a moan as clear liquid splashes over his thighs and abdomen, and he fucks into you relentlessly as he chases his own release. With a long, low growl he shoves himself up against your cervix, pumping his thick seed into you and painting your insides white.

He keeps his cock buried deep inside you as he wraps his arms under your waist and rolls over onto his back, holding you tight to him as you lay boneless on his chest. You’re panting heavily, a sheen of sweat covering the both of you as he rubs his palms up and down your back. Fatigue tugs at your mind, your eyelids drooping as your breathing finally evens out. You feel Shouta shift your body with ease, pulling himself out of you with a hiss and lifting you into his arms.

You nuzzle into his chest as he walks, and soon you’re in the warm water of the bath, sitting on the submerged ledge between Shouta’s legs and leaning back into his chest. You can feel the water running down your arms as his hands cup and pour it over you. His rough hands are gentle as they run over your body, slowly cleaning you and massaging your aching muscles. You’re drifting in and out of consciousness, barely registering being carried once again before being laid down on the bed again. Shouta’s strong arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest as you relax in his hold.

Barely conscious, you kiss his chest lightly, getting a kiss to your temple from the god. His deep voice is tired, but happy, gravelly from earlier. “I love you, (y/n).” You echo the sentiment, barely a whisper, and somewhere in your mind you wonder if he heard you. The question vanishes as quick as it had appeared, and you drift off to sleep.

***About 2 months later***

It was early, much earlier than you’d normally wake up, when someone showed up at the temple. You were in bed with Shouta, and he awoke at the presence of other gods. Yes, gods. The both of you went to see who it was that garnered his attention. Hizashi - Hermes - stood at the top of the staircase with another god and a goddess. You recognized both. The god with spiky blonde hair and eyes red as blood was Ares, god of war. The goddess had hair black as Shouta’s pulled high on the back of her head. The front of her red dress draped low, down to her navel, her shapely figure complimented by the soft fabric that was no doubt woven from silk. Aphrodite.

The three stood at attention as the two of you walked out, the three eyeing you with very different looks on their faces. Hizashi regarded you fondly, like old friends reconnecting. Ares was angry and guarded, as always, and Aphrodite had a glint in her eyes that you couldn’t quite discern. The ravenette turned to the god of war and nodded, and Ares visibly relaxed, no longer ready for a fight. Hizashi strolled over and leaned on Shouta’s shoulder again, a wide grin plastered on his face. “Hiya, Sho.” The blonde nodded his head at you. “(y/n).”

You smiled back at him, greeting him kindly before turning to the other two and giving a short bow. Aphrodite returned it, but Ares almost sneered. You weren’t really surprised. “Why are you three here, Hizashi?” Shouta asked sternly. The blonde seemed to deflate slightly as he walked back over to the other two and stood with them before speaking. “Well, for one, Demeter knows now where her favorite daughter has disappeared to. Imagine her fury when she found out her own brother had stolen her away.” Shouta groaned, then huffed. “She’ll live.”

The blonde chuckled. “Probably. Zeus has ordered that Persephone, formerly known as Kore and given the name (y/n) by Demeter, return to Olympus indefinitely.” Your eyes widened in shock and time seemed to freeze at his words. Your heartbeat drowned out any other noise, panic swirling in your head. Indefinitely? That meant until your mother decided you could come back to Hades, and you knew the answer would be never. You couldn’t live in a world where you couldn’t come back to Shouta.

The god could sense your distress and pulled you into a tight embrace, still discussing the arrangement with the three deities. But your mind was elsewhere. You knew what had to be done if you ever wanted to return. Heart racing, you leaned back and grabbed Shouta’s face, pulling him to meet your eyes. “Let me eat a seed, Shouta. Please.” His eyebrows knit together and his body tensed as he shook his head. “I can’t let you do that, my love. I can come visit you in Olympus instead.” But you wouldn’t have any of it.

____

He watched as your eyes filled with tears, your voice quivering and breaking as you spoke. “No! My mother won’t let you see me! And even if I begged her she won’t allow me to return here. She won’t let me come back to you.” Fat tears rolled down your cheeks, sobs shaking your shoulders as you tried to hold them back. He hated seeing you so sad, so heartbroken. But he knew what would happen if you ate a pomegranate seed. To be fair, so did you, and you were willing to do it if it meant you could see him again.

You were willing to be compelled to return, compelled so strongly that if you didn’t return your body would fall ill and weak, pain seeping into your very bones. You would need to return here, to the Underworld, or you would suffer. You would need this realm to survive. He had explained it to you when you asked, and you’d promised you would think about it. Still, he hated the very idea of you being in pain. His mind reeled with the possibilities, and as much as he hated it, you both knew how this was going to go.

____

Staring up at the god, you waited as he lost himself in thought. You didn’t want to force his hand, but if you needed to, you would. Three other deities were present, and could probably hold him long enough for you to pull a red fruit from the earth and swallow down a seed. A deep sigh came from the raven haired god, and a large hand cupped your face as he pulled you into a sweet kiss. He leaned his forehead against yours and sighed softly before speaking, his voice low. “I won’t force you, my love. It is your choice to make.”

You let out a shaky, relieved breath and pulled away from him. Extending your arm out to your side, palm down to the earth, you willed the plant to grow. In mere seconds, a tree sprouted from the dirt, a single large pomegranate glowing with the magic of the Underworld hanging just at your face. You plucked it smoothly, then let the tree shrink back down and vanish. You cracked the fruit open and held a single seed in your palm, looking to Shouta as you took a deep breath. He gave a final nod, and you popped the seed into your mouth, swallowing it whole.

You felt the magic course through you, a piece of the Underworld itself flowing through your body and making itself a part of you. Turning to the three, you spoke, radiating the confidence of a Queen and a goddess. “You three have witnessed me consume a pomegranate seed from the Underworld of my own volition. You know that Hades has not forced anything upon me.” The three nod, acknowledging the truth in your statement. You addressed the goddess of love. “Aphrodite, I believe you can confirm that I love Shouta just as he loves me, and that it was not influenced by you or Eros but developed naturally.”

She gave a sweet smile, nodding in confirmation. Turning back to Shouta, you wrapped your arms around him and he held you tight in a final embrace before you left for Olympus with Hermes, Ares, and Aphrodite. You peered up into his dark obsidian eyes. “I’ll be back, I promise.” He smiled down at you, adoration and love the only emotions in his gaze beside a tinge of despair. “I know you will, my Queen. If you are ever in danger, or if you long for me too much to bear, tap the ground and I will come to you.”

You held him close, then separated and walked to Hermes, who picked you up gently and held you to his chest. Aphrodite and Ares climbed into their own chariot and set off before you. With a final glance to the god of death, you called out to him.

“I love you Shouta.”

“I love you too (y/n).”

He and the rest of the Underworld vanished in a blur, replaced by the grand palace grounds of Olympus.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

tag list:

@chou-maitresse

#tw: incest #tw:incest #aizawa shouta #shouta aizawa #aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa bnha #aizawa mha #shouta aizawa mha #shouta aizawa bnha #shouta aizawa smut #bnha aizawa #aizawa smut #bnha #mha smut #mha #bnha smut

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reannabeth · 3 years

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So I am rewatching the Percy Jackson Peter Johnson movie, and I just thought I’d make an official post for all my icks with it.

Why? Cause I like to rant? Idk.

First off, characters:

The age thing threw me off. They’re sixteen? Seriously? Why did they think that was a good idea? Did they want it to be a full-out series or not?

Leaves less room for character growth, both physically and mentally- and romantically (which I will get to in a bit).

Plus, the way the characters are written in the books is meant to fit twelve year olds, so everything they do feels off. Pessimistic 12 year old Percy was so funny. Like his sass would genuinely catch me off guard, because he’s so freaking young and you don’t really expect him to be so fearless and rash. Movie Percy does have sass and the awkward pessimist thing down pretty much to a ‘t’, but the way the right it can come off a bit corny, despite Logan Lerman’s best acting. Boy does the guy do a great job. His performance almost overshadows the bad writing, but not quite. Gods, the Capture-the-Flag tripping all falling over himself thing was fabulous, though the rest of the scene didn’t quite match up (do they even know how that game works??) Also,,, later corniness. Again. I don’t really care about the eyes thing, because blue is still the color of the ocean.

Annabeth is way too aggressive. Why is she so eager to slice-and-dice him even though they’ve never officially met? I guess she took the place of Clarisse in that way, but WHY. Clarisse had reason; Percy humiliated her and her cabin. If they wanted to get him to heal in the water and such, that could’ve been achieved if they had just followed the freaking books. They just… butchered her character in so many ways. Her appearance, the handy dandy Yankees ball cap, all that. The whole purpose of her being blonde was to discount the stupid dumb blonde stereotype and feed into her need to prove herself to everyone. That was taken away too.

Speaking of which… Grover. Baby boi, they ruined you. I didn’t mind them making him black… until they made him all party-like and confident. That may have not had to do with his race, though, and just trying to make him act more like the satyrs from the myths. But that defeats the point that Rick made; he purposefully made Grover scared and stressed and doing his best all the time as a foil to that stereotype- which is made obvious when the Party Ponies come into play in the second book. I miss that Grover. Also, why was he just like standing around during the disaster of the Minotaur scene (Gods, they made that so lame). It would’ve been better if he was unconscious, because then he wasn’t just standing around. I could’ve excused it as him just being reluctant because he’s scared, but this Grover is brave and more protective, a better fighter. Why would he just stand and watch? There are just so many things that don’t add up.

Chiron and Luke were really the only characters that felt true to their book forms.

The stand-off between Luke and Percy was cool, but the plot twist in the book is just so much better. I was totally blown away by the easy-going camp counselor dude poisoning a twelve year old kid with scorpion venom. Also, Luke got his scar from Percy? NOOO. It was never about Percy. It was about Luke and his dad. Percy was just a means to an end or an enemy to get rid of.

Gods, they forgot the prophecy, too. And Ares. And Clarisse. And Mr. D.

I don’t even want to talk about Hades. Or Persephone, for that matter. Why was she there? It wasn’t winter and- nope, not even. Just nope.

Riptide is a ballpoint pen, not a clicky one (though this one is admittedly cooler. WE NEED THE TARTARUS SCENE WHERE HE ANNABETH FIGURES OUT HE CAN WRITE WITH IT). And the shield thingy… that’s Tyson’s. He made it in the second one.

The thing is, Rick ties everything into his later works, so many of the changes they made mess with future possibilities and therefore narrow the rest of everything.

I understand not having every scene, every detail included in the movies. But why keep things if you’re going to change them?

Why have the hydra come in this movie? It comes in the second book, bro.

WHERE ARE THE ORANGE CAMP HALF-BLOOD SHIRTS??

Oh, right I was supposed to have topics. Sorry, everything is blending in together.

uh… ROMANCE.

Why was Grover a ladies man :|

What the Tartarus were they doing with Percabeth? Long, kinda creepy stares and close contact. THIS STUPID LINE: “I definitely have strong feelings for you. I just haven’t decide if they’re positive or negative yet.”

Like,,, EW. Is this supposed to be the “You drool in your sleep” replacement? How about no.

They took away the cute little crushes and slow-burn friends to lovers (even though it kinda started off as enemies).

MOMMA’S BOY

every moment Percy had with his mom was so awful. Why is he using “mother” so much? That’s only for his dad, because they haven’t reached the kind of relationship where Percy can call him Dad. I wanted to see the scene with her coming home from the candy shop with a big bag of candy and him pretending to be cranky when she shows affection but you can tell he loves it and ughhhhh

WHY

What did I like? The music. The Lotus flowers and casino scene. The pearl plot line thing was admittedly smart, but overall problematic and questionable. Why the Parthenon? Why not Crusty’s?

I do also like Percy and Grover’s bud relationship, but Annabeth was supposed to be his guide of a sort. So they either could’ve had them both guide him, or her alone. We needed more time to get to know her.

Where was Cerberus? I guess they didn’t want a repeat of Fluffy in The Sorceror’s Stone (since this is the same director), but still. He’s a major part of the Underworld system. And I wanted fancy Italian suit Charon and the “died in a bathtub” scene. The Hellhounds were also creepy, so how does the whole Mrs. O’Leary thing work? Also, makes me wonder why they didn’t have Percy be attacked by one during Capture-the-Flag like in the books.

ALSO WHY DID GROVER STAY? WHY? The Sally I know would never let him do that. Also, Sally can’t even get through the boundaries and into Olympus anyway, so why…? Why.

Persephone being all weird and flirty to Grover was just… ew. Again. Ew ew ew ew.

Hades is not the bad guy, he just came across a situation he could take advantage of. It doesn’t make sense that Luke would get it to Hades and Hades alone. It gets rid of the whole Kronos thing.

And the prophecies were gone, too. I know they brought them up in the second one, but not very well. The second one retconned the first’s continuity and yet still sucked on representing the second one. Yeesh.

Anyway, that’s my spill. I could organize it better, but I’m too tired at this point.

#Percy Jackson #peter Johnson #the lightning thief #pjo #rant

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sserpente · 4 years

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A/N: Requests from @bi-readytobakepie-cry-and-die, @walkinoxymoron, @mysticalflowerroadprune, @thenocturnalsyren and two anons. I have an order here, chips with extra fluff? Anyone? You asked for fluff, you’re getting fluff—and the chips, too. 🍟

Words: 2975 Warnings: pure fluff, sleep paralysis

You spun around when your attacker lunged, acting surprised. He had you cornered, with no way to run—or so he thought. It was a devilish smirk that curled your lips upwards when he aimed to stab the thin air surrounding your illusion as it disappeared right before his eyes. He screamed, anger and frustration getting the better of him. It was his last mistake before you pierced his head with an arrow. You used a small crossbow attached to your right wrist to shoot your enemies, usually refrained from fighting up close. You were simply not the type. Besides, you hated the feeling of blood that was not your own on your skin.

You had been hunting these people all the way to New York now. Cleopatra would be truly proud of you. But those artefacts were not only of personal value for you and your heritage but also extremely dangerous which in the wrong hands could cause a lot of damage—and the most selfish part of you, so you knew, wanted to keep them all to yourself.

There was only one of them left now and quite apparently, you had received some unknown help. You were not the only one hunting the man who was quite likely aiming to have Assassin’s Creed come to life as he climbed over every rock and piece of debris he could find to get away. Although you were grateful for their aid, you couldn’t help but wonder what it was they wanted from him.

Stopping dead in your tracks when he came to a sudden halt, you moved behind a metal barrel and observed how a woman with ginger hair and a black suit fired three shots. Not a single one missed its target. Dead. The spook was finally over. Now all you still needed was that contract hidden in one of his pockets.

“Hey, there’s another one!” The mechanical voice was coming from above you when you emerged from your hiding spot and attempted to approach the corpse. Looking up to find a man wearing a red and gold suit, you barely had the time to spin back around when another man on their team—short hair, with a bow and arrow as his weapon of choice—unceremoniously aimed at you.

“No, stop!” Your eyes widened, reflexes kicking in. You felt the familiar tingling in your body whenever you teleported, leaving an illusion behind and letting the archer’s arrow hurtling through the empty spot you had stood in less than a second ago. Rude… “I believe we are on the same side.” They jumped when you reappeared behind them.

You struggled to remember their names, purpose and story. The woman with the red hair was called Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow for short. Former assassin, she now worked with this secret organisation called SHIELD. There was Tony Stark—billionaire and Iron Man and Steve Rogers aka Captain America who spent seventy years frozen in the sea. The man who had almost killed you had you not been supernaturally gifted was called Clint Barton and sometimes Hawkeye. You were familiar with Thor of course. How could you not be? You had grown up reading about gods and goddesses… being one yourself.

“The question is… who are you?” Tony Stark had removed his suit by now and revealed an average-sized man.

“My name is (Y/N)—not a fancy superhero name, I know.”

“And you practice magic,” Thor tossed in with crossed arms.

“Magic? No. I cast illusions. My father was human, like most of you. My mother on the other end… are you familiar with the tale of Persephone and Hades?”

Tony Stark raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you’re a Greek goddess?”

“Half-goddess. I prefer the term hybrid.” You usually wore contacts to hide your true eye colour. It was much more saturated than others.

Alarmed, you turned when someone else entered the room. They had taken your crossbow from you just to be sure but to be fair, you could bring it back into your possession in the twinkling of an eye.

“Where have you been, Reindeer Games? We could have needed you out there.”

“Urgent matters.” A smooth, mysterious and dark voice stated simply—mockingly almost. While you sincerely doubted that his name really was Reindeer Games, for some peculiar reason you were dying to learn who he was. Raven hair, blue eyes and those sharp cheekbones… his clothing looked Asgardian, too. He was definitely not human. Neither were you, depending on how you looked at it.

Electricity rippled through you when your eyes met. The strange Asgardian made no move, whatsoever though, to introduce himself.

“You will be…?” You asked with a polite smile.

Natasha frowned suspiciously. “He is…”

“Loki,” he interrupted her hurriedly, dashing you a smile as he did. “Thor’s brother, I am afraid to say.” You laughed when the God of Thunder shot him a playfully hurt glance.

“Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Loki.”

“She lived on the moon, didn’t she?” Clint murmured.

Tony pursed his lips. “Where did you come from?”

“Egypt. I spent the last six years in Egypt.”

“Right… and what is a Greek goddess doing in Egypt?”

“Half-goddess—and I told I don’t like being called that. I was working with archaeologists and securing sacred artefacts. You know… objects like the box of Pandora.” You winked at him.

The Avengers, so they called themselves, exchanged puzzled looks—almost as if they were in on a secret you were yet to learn about.

“I see. You best stay away from… well. (Y/N), Loki is…” Clint started.

“…determined to show you around.” The God of Mischief interrupted him sharply, directing all of his attention to you. “What is it you can do then?”

“I cast illusions.”

You smirked when his eyebrows rose in an impressed manner and he offered you his arm to make you decide in that moment that you liked him.

By now, around three months had passed since you more or less joined the Avengers. They had helped you return the artefacts to Egypt and Loki… Loki and you had found yourselves spending a lot of time together and getting to know one another. He was wonderful. Intelligent, witty, mischievous and thoughtful and even quite introverted when it came to talking about his inner thoughts and feelings. There was something he was not telling you though—something that Thor too was making the Avengers keep silent about.

Whatever it was… perhaps one day, he would be ready to tell you. You were not going to pressure him into anything. You had your own skeletons in your closet—which was why you were beginning to fall in love with him—and the reason your heart almost leaped out of your chest when Steve and Thor returned without him from one of their latest missions which had entailed the words venom, dwarves and drinking water.

You had been against them wandering off on their own and without any backup, especially if something otherworldly was involved. Thor was quite megalomaniac, so you had figured. His ‘that’s what heroes do’ attitude made you want to slap him every now and then. Loki never considered himself as a hero and for some peculiar reason the Avengers never bothered to treat him as such either.

“Where is Loki?!”

They were bruised, injured and covered in blood. You did not even want to imagine what they must have dealt with. The book you had been reading flew over the sofa as you hurried to confront them.

Thor shook his head. He was still out of breath.

“We don’t know,” Steve answered you instead. “He disappeared shortly before the explosion. He might still have been in the building.”

“The explosion?!” You shrieked. “Well, why didn’t you look for him?”

“The dwarves were still there.” Dwarves. If only they were harmless. They certainly looked the part—right until they tried to scratch your eyes out with their tiny and venomous claws.

“Okay, you two, into my lab. Bruce just got back from England concerning the venom, (Y/N), you calm down. Loki goes to ground all the time.”

“Why are you all acting like he does not matter? What is wrong with you, Stark?”

“What’s wrong? He is a fucking crim—“

“Stark!” Thor roared. Indignantly, you shook your head as they hurried out of the room. “Don’t worry too much about him, (Y/N)!” You heard him yell to you. “You don’t know Loki like I do!”

This was starting to get ridiculous. But you had no time to ponder over this—you were way too worried for him, right until something crashed into the living room and broke the glass table in front of the sofa. No, not something. Someone.

“Loki!” Thank the stars. He must have teleported himself out of there. He was covered in dirt and dust, a laceration on his forehead. His blue eyes met yours for only a brief second before the adrenaline in his body died down and he fell unconscious.

The venom. Loki was an Asgardian god. If the dwarves’ venom affected him so strongly… he was sweating, too. With all your strength, you heaved him on the sofa and slid a cushion under his head. None of the other Avengers would be back anytime soon anyway.

You left for only a brief moment, returning with a wet cloth to cool his skin and clean his wound. There was nothing else you could do for him except for watching over him to make sure he healed.

“Loki… get well soon, my king.” He had told you about his desire to claim the throne, to be the first choice for once. He certainly was your king. “Get well soon so I can kiss you.”

Smiling, you gripped his hand tighter, leaning against the sofa. You had always slept like this back in Egypt. You had worked with a young archaeologist only a few years younger than yourself. Your sleep paralysis—something you had not even told Loki about just yet made it hard to restfully slumber at night. She on the other hand had had nyctophobia—fear of the dark. It had been hard to leave her behind, knowing she had become something like a sister. Since then, sleep had rarely come to you… until you had met Loki and now knew you could always spend the entire night talking to him instead.

Holding his hand now and feeling his warmth and his presence filled you with joy. Before you even knew it, you had fallen asleep next to him, kneeling on the ground. Unbeknownst to you, however, the God of Mischief had still been awake the entire time and heard every single word you had said. Kiss me? He thought—the last one before he slid back into unconsciousness.

When he woke again, you were still there, holding his hand. He smiled. It was nice, knowing that somebody cared for him. It made the pain the venom caused as it cursed through his veins a lot more bearable. Tomorrow, he figured, he would be over the worst. And then his smile suddenly disappeared. She only cares for you because she doesn’t know what you’ve done, a scornful voice in his mind whispered.

Loki clenched his fists. He rolled his eyes when he discovered Thor sneakily peeking into the room.

“What happened?” He croaked. It was an unnecessary question, really. He knew what had happened. He was just too weak to nag ‘What do you want’.

“She fell asleep over three hours ago, Loki. I tried to wake her but she refuses to leave your side.”

Loki looked him directly in the eye, his heart skipping a beat. She refuses to leave your side. “Why have you been so keen on keeping a secret from her what I did in New York?” He asked, taking his chance now that they were alone. For once, there was honest curiosity in his voice.

Thor hesitated. Then, he shrugged. “Because you were.” It was all he replied. He understood then. Just this one time, his brainless brother understood why it was so important to him to keep from you what had made him, in the Avengers’ eyes, a villain. He just wondered for how much longer he could keep up the act.

With a gentle smile, Thor turned to leave the room. “I knew you would make it out.” He added before he disappeared. Loki rolled his eyes yet again, albeit amused.

Perhaps it was wrong. He would never find peace living in constant fear that you would find out on your own and hate him like all the other Avengers did. He took a deep breath when you opened your eyes—and for the first time in a long while, he was at loss for words. What should he first say to you? Should he thank you? Ask if you had had pleasant dreams?

“Good morning, my dear.” He eventually opted; to his utter shock, however, your eyes widened. You did not move, not a single inch and yet, your eyes proved you were awake. Did you already know? Had he scared you somehow, or done something in his half-unconscious state?

Anytime now they would appear—those pitch black monsters with the long claws and the terrifying red glowing eyes. You had seen them in a film as a child and ever since then, they had become the personification of your fear. Rejection, repulsion, hatred, loneliness… they all meant to grab you. Falling asleep, you had been holding Loki’s hand, so why had your sleep paralysis returned?

The sorrow, you answered yourself. You were worrying for Loki when you fell asleep. Was he still here with you, on the sofa? You could not see him. Instead, over the backrest, crawled the first monster. It stared at you darkly, making your eyes widen in fear and then, out of the blue, another one reached for you from behind, beginning to shake you. Shake you? That was new. They usually never managed to actually touch you, you always brought yourself to wake up in time.

“(Y/N)! (Y/N), are you alright?” Loki. Blinking frantically, you fought hard to move your limbs, to tense and relax your muscles repeatedly to fully wake up. When you finally did, you were met with a very concerned Loki. “What is happening to you? You started screaming at me.”

“I did? I’m sorry…” One deep breath, then two, then three. “I was… nightmare. Never mind. Are you feeling better?”

“A nightmare? That did not look like a simple nightmare.” Loki knew what nightmares looked like. He had them all the time, after all.

“Maybe not. But I don’t want to burden you with that. You seem to be having your own problems.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He spat, sitting up and putting his feet on the ground fast.

“Loki, there is obviously something you are trying to keep a secret from me.”

“So you mistrust me?” He responded with a quiet voice.

“I don’t mistrust you,” you insisted, cupping his cheek. “I just feel like there is something you are not ready to tell me about yet and until then… it would be unfair to rant about my problems instead.”

Loki looked up. Regret was sparkling in his blue eyes—regret along with remorse. You do not even deserve her, the voice whispered.

“I am a criminal.” He suddenly said, the word murderer not quite leaving his lips.

“What? What are you saying?”

“A little over five years ago, I invaded this planet in an attempt to rule it. I was blinded by a promise which could never be held and betrayed not only Thor but also myself.”

“You did… what?” Your lips parted. I invaded this planet.

“It matters not. Thanos is dead now.”

“Thanos? Thanos made you do this?”

“No,” he snapped. “The sceptre, it… I killed many innocent people, (Y/N). It was only a small price to pay for the recognition I sought.” He looked you dead in the eye. “I regret making these sacrifices but at the same time… I do not.” He was torn. You could feel it burning in his stunning eyes.

“Why did you never tell me that?”

Loki scoffed scornfully. “I assumed you would despise me like everyone else if you knew. I took lives, (Y/N). I took lives for my own gain. I am not a hero, I never will be.” And he did not want to be, so you figured. You did not despise him. Quite on the contrary… you were only falling for him more and more. The pain that Thanos had inflicted on him still sat deep. He blamed himself, assuming it was no one else but him who deserved to be called evil and a villain.

Actions might comfort him more than your words could now. So you leaned in, placing your palms on his thighs for balance and tenderly pressed your lips against his. If anything, the God of Mischief was taken aback, still, the moment you joined for a hesitant kiss, his eyes fell shut. With a sigh, he cupped your face and pulled you closer, his tongue asking for entrance almost timidly. For now, explaining to him what sleep paralysis was and how it tormented you at night could wait.

“I don’t hate you,” you breathed out once you parted again, desperate for oxygen. Your lips were swollen—his were too, a little. “I think I am falling for you, Loki Odinson.”

His expression was hopeful, vulnerable even—so unlike his usual cool and confident demeanour. His smile, honest and raw, was contagious.

“I heard you,” he admitted. “I heard you promising to kiss me once I woke up.”

Biting back a joyful laugh, you kissed him once more.

A/N: If you enjoyed this story I would appreciate it so much if you supported me on Kofi! ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥

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hexalianrebel-blackfeathers · 3 years

Text

Hot Foot

Panda’s Notes: I wrote this for the exclusive and express purpose of making @eldritchtickles suffer. So I hope he likes hates it. >w<

Find it on Ao3!

Zagreus was feeling… well, something; he wasn’t sure what to call it. He swirled his fingers slowly in his scrying pool as he narrowed his eyes.

It might have started with Hypnos… Zagreus flinched a bit as the water shimmered to remind him of his own memories.

--------

“Wake up!” Zagreus had said sharply upon approaching the sleeping attendant, quickly moving his hands to scribble on Hypnos’ bare soles.

Hypnos jolted with a squeak, kicking Zagreus’ shoulder and knocking him to the floor. “Oops.” He murmured, not apologetic in the slightest as he chuckled. He let his clipboard and quill hover as he leaned to offer the godling a hand. “You’re back early, Tickles.” He smirked, heaving his brother to his feet as he glanced at his parchment. “Ah, the Wretched Sneak got you this time, huh? You never were good at dodging pokes, you know.” He taunted, quickly lifting Zagreus’ arm to prod his ribs.

“As if you’re any better!” Zagreus argued with a slight smile, covering his side and pulling his arm back. “Those lash marks on your ankles are cute.”

“Huh?!” Hypnos flinched, a gold blush lighting his cheeks as he glanced at his feet. There wasn’t anything there, except for Zagreus’ nails zipping up his soles again before catching both of his ankles. He traced lines around Hypnos’ ankles, seeming to follow a path that had been covered over.

“Heh, I’ll be sure to ask Meg if she knows how much you like feathers on your toes.” Zagreus taunted, about to walk away when Hypnos casually slipped an arm around him.

“Don’t think that just because your feet aren’t ticklish, I can’t get you back.” Hypnos smirked, wiggling his fingers under Zagreus’ chin.

-------

Zagreus jumped slightly, having practically felt the brush of Hypnos’ fingers on his neck as he remembered that conversation. He huffed as he splashed the water to silence it. He didn’t feel any closer to labelling the thoughts running through his head though. He peered hesitantly into the pool again, and the water rippled oddly.

-------

Orpheus plucked quiet little notes, a rare smile gracing his face as he seemed to look for a rhythm of some kind.

“Tell me, mate,” Zagreus said gently, leaning on the arm of the musician’s chair. “How often do you tune a lyre anyway?”

“As often as you must, my friend.” He shrugged, smiling a bit more as the prince rolled his eyes. “Or as often as you use it. I believe I tuned mine…perhaps every other day when we were performing the most. These days, I’ve come to notice that this lyre your father gave me doesn’t need much tuning; although, I admit I can’t help the urge to adjust the strings in occasion—" Orpheus had glanced up and around, finding Zagreus seated at his feet. “Am I rambling?”

Zagreus chuckled, resting his chin on his hand as his elbow balanced on his knee. “Yes. It’s nice.” He smirked. “You seem so relaxed when you speak freely.”

Orpheus shook his head, crossing one leg onto his opposite knee as he continued to play. “You’re always so kind, my prince. Although now that I’ve given it some thought, why do you ask about tuning? Have you acquired a lyre of your own?”

“Ah, I admit I’ve certainly considered it, but I asked about instrument tuning because a certain someone needs some tuning up.” Zagreus grinned a bit deviously when Orpheus didn’t seem to get it, reaching to pull the musician’s foot into his lap.

“I’m not sure that I—Ah!” Orpheus’ fingers tripped on a foul note as the prince’s knuckles dragged up his sole.

“Was I too subtle for you this time, Orpheus?” He taunted, drawing swirling shapes with his nails. “Or have you not learned to keep your wits about you yet?”

Orpheus cringed, covering his mouth as snickers rattled his frame and as his free hand attempted to find its place on the lyre.

Zagreus chuckled, shaking his head and scribbling his fingers. “See, you’re trying to play while I’m doing this; how am I to take that except as a challenge?” He sneered, watching Orpheus crumble into giggles as he kept a tight grip on his ankle. The prince hummed to himself, feigning an innocent grin as he reached up over his head. Orpheus had barely gotten his bearings when Zagreus presented the Harpy Feather Duster. He yelped softly with a chuckle as the blue plumes were shoved under his chin.

“As promised, mate.” Zagreus joked, his smirk returning. “But if you kick me, you die.”

Orpheus had been pretty unconvinced by his bluff, his leg flailing a bit when the feathers flicked along his sole.

“I’d call it a pity that you’ve yet to sing for us, Orpheus; but at the moment, I admit this is my favorite song of yours.”

-------

Zagreus found himself chuckling. It was still his favorite song, and Orpheus performed it well.

This feeling… What was it? Zagreus stared into the scrying pool, his eyes widening before he stepped back and covered his face.

Actually, maybe it was better he didn’t think about this anymore at all for the rest of time.

The water rippled. His memories called to him. Zagreus sealed his fate with a glance.

-------

Hades was “mad” at Zagreus, which was different from how he was when he was just normal mad. Zagreus had approached his father’s desk with a pair of leather sandals dangling from their broken strings between his fingers; and when Hades looked down at him, the look in his eyes almost seemed like…relief? The boy was puzzled for a moment until his father scooped him up and announced that court was adjourned for now.

“I’m sorry, Father.” The prince murmured as he was carried to his bedroom, earning a soft grunt that he couldn’t decipher. He was set down on his blue bedsheets, and his father seemed careful to let his legs dangle over the side.

Hades simply held out his hand, and Zagreus handed over the sandals to be inspected. At a glance, the soles seemed fine, but the insides were burned black; and the strings that Zagreus always struggled to tie around his ankles had several points where they’d been burned through and hastily tied back together. It was a wonder he’d been able to attempt tying them, let alone struggle with it.

“How many is that now?” Hades asked with a sigh, kneeling beside his son’s bed. “Do you remember?”

Zagreus nodded quickly, and Hades watched him count on his fingers. “Five…?” He said with all the confidence of a pair of burned sandals.

Hades chuckled, but he nodded. “Indeed. Five in half as many months. I won’t be requesting any more pairs if you’re just going to burn them all.”

Zagreus pouted, kicking his feet softly. “I don’t do it on purpose, Father…”

“I’m aware.” Hades hummed, moving his hands to lift Zagreus’ feet by their heels. “You get this from me, I’m afraid, but controlling it requires managing your emotions.”

Zagreus tipped his head, seeming to process that statement.

“You have to be calm, Zagreus.”

“I’m calm!” The child insisted, smiling brightly and bouncing a bit. His soles glowed a bit brighter, and Hades quirked an eyebrow as he felt the heat grow more intense. “…R-Right?”

Hades shook his head, tapping his son’s soles with his fingertips. “I don’t think so. What are you thinking about?”

“Um… I’m thinking about when I was playing with Than and Hypnos, and then Meg came to play even though she hasn’t in a long time, and we were running on the balcony, and that’s when the strings…” He blinked as he looked down; his feet were blazing orange, and red heat radiated up his ankles. “Oh… I see!”

“Do you?” Hades couldn’t seem to resist a smile. “I don’t think you’ve got it yet. What else were you thinking about?”

Zagreus tapped his chin, but he took a breath to steady himself. “I was thinking about Mother and you.” His feet cooled just slightly, and his toes flexed a bit as he watched them curiously. “Mother Nyx was away crafting the night and you…” He seemed to hesitate, almost looking for another thought.

Hades watched him, letting his thumbs rest on the tops of his feet as he found himself understanding. The heat was indeed fading. “You thought of me…” He sighed, moving his fingers slowly. “Because I was busy?”

“Um…maybe.” Zagreus murmured even though he was nodding, and he squirmed a little as he put a hand over his face to hide it. A giggle slipped out of his mouth, and a bit of heat reignited.

“Calm, Zagreus.” Hades tried not to smile, his fingers flexing purposefully. “Control.”

“I’m calm.” The boy insisted again, hardly any more convincing with the giggles falling out of him. “I’m ca—Stop tickling me!” He laughed, hiding his face again, but his reactions grew measured whenever the heat increased.

“I’m not doing anything, boy.”

“Liar…”

Hades paused, glancing up slowly; and Zagreus’s soles blazed brightly again as he covered his mouth. “You would accuse me of lying, boy?”

Zagreus squealed and tried to scramble backwards, only to get caught by one of his ankles and lifted upside down over his father’s shoulder. His hands flailed as Hades’ fingers dug softly into his ribcage, and he laughed brightly and tried to kick.

Hades returned to work with Zagreus zipping past to find his friends again. Small sparks followed after his small footsteps as he laughed excitedly. The burns on Hades’ fingertips were minor, and they were healed within the first hour after court reconvened.

--------

Zagreus groaned heavily into his pillow, crossing his legs under himself as he sat on the bed.

He was jealous. A little bit at least. Maybe he was nostalgic. He was definitely wishing he could think about something else.

“Prince?”

Zagreus nearly jumped out of his skin when someone’s hand rested on his head. Achilles flinched away from him with a chuckle, setting his spear against the wall.

“Achilles?”

“Are you alright, lad? You seem troubled. We can postpone the exercises you wanted if you need to talk.”

“Ah, no.” Zagreus insisted, standing up suddenly and dropping the pillow on the bed. “I, uh… Sorry, sir. Please, let’s get started; I’ll even give you the first shot this time.”

Achilles watched the prince run out to the balcony, chuckling softly as he followed a moment later.

“You seem awfully unbalanced today, lad…” Achilles called as Zagreus was looking over his weapons. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I assure you I’m quite certain, sir.” The prince said firmly, taking hold of Varatha and spinning it between his hands. “A knock or two in the head would do me good, so…” He paused as he heard an unfamiliar clatter, spinning around to see Achilles apparently wincing as he flexed Malphon’s fingers over his own. “Sir, what are you—?”

“Ah, well, I figured it’s about time I employ other strategies, prince.” The shade grinned, turning his wrists and getting a feel for the weight of the gauntlets. “You’ve grown so skilled since you were young; I fear you’ve seen all that I’m capable of with my spear.”

“I highly doubt that sir; although, I admit I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in Malphon.”

“Perhaps I’ll surprise you yet then; hand-to-hand combat and wrestling were quite popular in Greece when I was your age. Or, when I was young, I should say. Now then, I believe you offered to allow me the first strike.”

Zagreus chuckled and shook his head, holding Varatha defensively as Achilles lunged toward him. A sharp punch in the chest stung quite a bit more than he’d expected, stunning him enough that Achilles got ahold of his spear to start a grapple.

Zagreus adjusted his hold, standing his ground and pushing back hard. “Alright, I may have miscalculated. You still have quite a bit of fight for someone who claims to have lost his taste for war.”

Achilles laughed a bit, adjusting his stance to pull Zagreus’ spear. He twisted at the waist, pulling Zagreus across his front leg and wrenching Varatha out of his hands as he fell. “You mustn’t taunt me if you can’t even keep your stance, lad. I hardly regret embarrassing you after a performance like that.”

Zagreus cringed as he lifted himself up. “Embarrassed? I’ve been knocked over befo—Ack!” He had extended a hand, attempting to call Varatha from where Achilles had thrown it, but before the weapon could respond, Zagreus was flinching away from a jab at his waist. “What are you doing?”

“Ah, heh, apologies lad. Consider this… For old times’ sake, perhaps. I like to think I owe you for that arrow you shot at my back a few weeks ago. And more accurately…” Achilles grinned, stepping closer to him again and grabbing at his wrists to attempt to shove him down. “You read like an open book.”

“I-I—You… Sir, wait!” Zagreus cried out, unable to keep from smiling until Achilles swept his legs out from under him.

Malphon’s claws dug deep into his sides as Achilles perched himself on his legs, and he quickly found himself regretting the minutes he spent tormenting Orpheus with them. Okay, that wasn’t true, but his conscience was certainly making an argument for it. The Fates had curious ways indeed.

Zagreus clutched at Achilles’ arm, laughing helplessly and writhing as those fingers crawled up and down his stomach.

The shade chuckled, pressing his palms against his student’s sides. “Honestly, lad, you could at least pretend to put up a better fight. Are you sure there’s nothing you need to talk about?”

“It isn’t important!” Zagreus insisted through giggles, resting an arm over his face.

That didn’t mean it was nothing though. Achilles rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Well, if you’re sure. While I have you though…” He hummed, pressing one hand to the stone under them as he turned. He glanced curiously over the prince’s feet, the heat radiating off of them seeming to fluctuate as he settled himself. “You mentioned once that you couldn’t feel the new rug you bought for your room, didn’t you?”

Zagreus blushed a bit at the memory and chuckled. “Yes, hardly a change at all. I could tell the difference by pressure, but I was at least hoping the texture w—Hey!” His voice had escaped as a squeak when one of Malphon’s metal digits pressed firmly into his sole and zipped up toward his toes.

“You felt that, I take it?” Achilles laughed a bit, hooking his fingers into both of his feet and raking them up and down. Zagreus broke immediately, laughing loudly and trying to reach his back with one hand.

“I’m afraid you’re a bit too tall for that one these days, lad.” Achilles taunted when the prince just barely hooked his robes, dragging his fingers up through the prince’s toes until he was squealing.

“I yield; I yield, sir, please!” Zagreus cried out, trying to squirm with a bit more earnest.

Achilles chuckled softly and paused, pushing himself up to stand over him. “I will admit that was quite a bit of fun. It would seem these are more effective as weapons than I originally thought.”

He offered a hand, and Zagreus rolled his eyes and reached to take it, only to scald his hand on the heated metal gauntlets. “Ouch…” He hissed, yanking his hand back and looking it over.

Achilles couldn’t help laughing, removing one gauntlet to offer his bare hand and patting his shoulder before going to place Malphon in its spot. “Apologies, prince. Now, then… Perhaps you’d be interested in more traditional training?”

Zagreus rested his hands on his hips. “Well, sir, that depends.” He reached out, calling Varatha into his hand. “How quickly can you arm yourself?”

The shade smirked, taking a stance and leading his opponent in a short circle. “Energetic as always…”

“As always, indeed. …And thank you, sir.”

#Tickling #a panda writes a thing #hades game #hypnos hades #zagreus #hades #achilles #orpheus

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ly-canthropewrites · 4 years

Text

Love or War

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Word Count: 2998

Rating/Warnings: SFW. Brief mentions of previous season drama.

Summary: “I saw you staring at each other, I wasn’t sure if it was sexual tension or murderous rage”

You can feel the heavy gaze from across the field. Intense eyes fixated on your figure as you rattle the chain-wire fence that surrounds the newest section of Alexandria. The post-apocalyptic town has been thriving since the end of Negan’s reign and with the undead being the town’s only consistent antagonist, it has given the community an opportunity to expand their borders. The chain-mesh fence was scavenged from the Sanctuary before the community fell off the map and serves as a strong protector as the new plot of land gets tilled. But it remains fragile when leant against and it has become a daily task during guard duty to rid the walkers that stumble near the temporary fence, a job you jump at to vent your frustrations.

The deliberate noise draws the attention of the few walkers close by and they turn, growling as they catch your scent in the wind and they shuffle your way. It’s second nature now, muscle memory, to shift your grip on the knife handle and strike at their heads, using the fence for leverage and stability. The motions do nothing to quench the frustration and fire that rages inside you and you growl, yanking your knife from the last walker’s head with more force than necessary. The bloodied blade gets cleaned on the rag that is tied to your belt loops and then you are left with nothing to do, no more walkers to distract you from the boredom or the swirl of emotions that fester inside.

You find yourself glancing over in his direction, succumbing to the gravitational pull of the universe and you don’t find yourself surprised at all to find him still staring at you, a dark scowl painted across his face. You sneer back at him, standing strong with your own gaze.

“Stupid, fucking redneck,” you mutter under your breath and the fire that burns in your chest grows hotter, feeding off of your anger.

The swishing of grass on your left distracts you and you are met with Carol only a few feet from you. You nod at her, giving her a tight-lipped smile as well before turning to look at the perimeter, finding nothing in the wilderness has changed and you sigh.

“I saw you staring at each other, I wasn’t sure if it was sexual tension or murderous rage,” Carol says lightly, walking to your side and mirrors your stance; arms crossed and back straight.

You scoff, openly showing that you aren’t in the mood for her banter today but it doesn’t deter the older woman.

“Most definitely murderous rage” you grit.

“See, I don’t know about that - I see a lot of passion,” She teases.

You throw her a withering look, disdain heavy in your eyes and if Carol isn’t careful; some of that murderous rage will be pointed at her soon.

“So if it is murderous rage, how long are you going to remain angry at him?” Carol tries a gentler approach, obviously getting the message and you wince, guilt beginning to set in as you mentally chastise yourself about your unrestrained attitude.

Shrugging, you refuse to make eye contact with your old friend. “I don’t know Carol, he humiliated me,” you breathe.

“He didn’t mean too, he was worried,” Carol begins to defend him but when she sees you shaking your head and the flash of hurt across your face, she stops herself.

“But he did it anyway. He humiliated me, he berated me in front of everyone, undermined me, treating me as if I am some soft fucker who hasn’t been beyond the walls” you spit and you render the woman silent, unsure about what to say next.

When the silence between the pair of you becomes stagnant, Carol realises it’s time for her to leave and she steps back a few feet, mulling over her next words.

“Talk to him,” she pleads and you snort, “Fuck no,”.

Carol says your name in warning, making you roll your eyes. “I’m not fucking submitting. If he wants to talk, then he can man up and come to me with a goddamn apology,”.

You hear her heavy sigh behind you before her retreating footsteps, leaving you to stew in your malcontent alone. It is your stubborn pride and bruised feelings that prevent you from talking with your old companion, from making amends and burying the hatchet, an ideal that is important in this world because life is too short and unpredictable to be so petty. And yet, you cannot help yourself this time. He hurt you, deeply, a stinging wound that will take time to heal.

It’s not like you have done anything wrong in the first place. With the apocalypse a decade old, resources are unimaginably scarce, leaving only items that are grown, hunted or handmade to be used. It was commonplace for you to be the first person out of the gates in the morning and the last to return in the evening, spending hours and even days hunting, refusing to go back to Alexandria empty-handed. You are too stubborn for your own good, too arrogant in your capabilities to survive and adapt to the dangerous world. As a repercussion, your last run was almost the death of you.

Enemies are like hydras; one falls and another takes its place. Negan was once considered Alexandria’s greatest threat, but that fear was usurped by the latest peril; the Whisperers. Negan ruled with fear and violence. The Whisperers rule with death. Their ability to influence herds is an obstacle that the community does not know how to overcome. The capricious nature makes every run, every scouting mission, every patrol dangerous and life-threatening. Therefore, it became law that no-one is to go outside the metal walls without a group and without informing the council. It should have been expected that you would struggle with this rule, never been one to abide by strict regulations, but the thought slipped the minds of the council and you kept slipping outside the gates.

Your last run is a perfect example of why the rule is in place; you got caught by the herd with Whisperers dotted within. Perhaps they tracked you down or perhaps it was just shit luck that you ran into them, but it resulted in a fight for your life and an injury that planted fear on sight. It was sheer, dumb luck that allowed you to escape with your life; an old tree fell whilst you were in the midst of swiping at walkers and humans alike, and caused a great enough distraction that gave you the opportunity to bolt. You damn well shocked Rosita who stood on guard duty that evening as you came sprinting towards the main gates, coated in two types of blood and clutching at your side, out of breath with wild eyes.

That night you had Siddiq inform you that you got lucky the knife wound at your abdomen was free of infection but he was stern to chastise that only one hour more and you wouldn’t have made it, wound too deep to be stemmed by only pressure and the combination of exhaustion and blood loss would have defeated you. His words didn’t shake you that night, instead, you shrug nonchalantly and smirked, telling him that death in this world is inevitable and you would greet it like an old friend.

You refused to stay in the infirmary that night, scrunching your nose at the thought of being surrounded by sick people in a sterile environment, rather opting for the privacy of your own place. He was unable to stop you, letting you go with an armful of supplies and a sigh, watching you stagger down the pathway. You made it only halfway home before you were halted by a loud yell, the noise capturing the attention of not just you but the other residents that were milling in the nearby courtyard.

“What the fuck wer’ ya thinkin’?” Daryl yelled, storming towards you with a glare that would frighten Hades. “How fuckin’ stupid are ya?” he adds.

He berated you in public that night, practically screaming in your face about your stupidity, your lack of respect to the council and their rules, your selfishness and conceited attitude. He didn’t let you get a word in to defend yourself as he raged, words becoming harsher by the second. You could handle the words but it was the venom in his voice that surprised you. It was filled with so much anger, so much hatred and spite that you lost the words that you wanted to scream back at him. Instead, when he took a moment to catch his breath, you just walked away, your eyes on the ground as you stifled the bewildered cry that ached in your chest.

The incident happened two weeks ago and you haven’t spoken since, avoiding each other like the plague but the distance hasn’t stopped either of your from directing heated glares at each other, consequently deepening the rift in your friendship.

----

The guard changeover occurs on dusk and when your replacement comes, you greet them with a tight smile as you pass over the unused rifle before quickly leaving the post. You don’t head home after the shift and instead, you go down to the armoury with hopes that working maintenance on the weapons will distract you from the words Carol has lodged in your mind. Daryl worried? You scoff at the thought. In a previous time, those words would have made sense - you and Daryl have been partners in crime since the fall of the world, similar in too many ways and it made sense that you were friends. But after seeing the pure acrimony he directed at you, you fail to believe it stemmed from a place of compassion.

It was well past midnight when the doors to the armoury creaked open. It was probably someone on shift wanting to pick up more ammo or something alike. What you didn’t expect was to see the rugged hunter ease into the room. You stared at him with furrowed eyebrows and a twist in your lips, hands paused on the shotgun you were working on.

“You weren’t home when I knocked,” Daryl states simply, gruff voice a melody to your ears after the long radio silence.

“You know I don’t sleep when I’m alone,”

It’s true; you struggle to rest when there is no-one watching over you, a position that is usually filled by the man in front of you.

Daryl nods, biting down on the inner side of his cheek as he reflects. Of course you don’t, you never have and he knew that. The poignant silence weighs heavily between you and Daryl shifts uncomfortably, moving further into the room to take a seat on the chair that sits in front of the sole workstation. You never sat at the workstation, preferring to sit on the floor so you had more space to work with but at this moment, you hated how you were positioned lower than the man.

“Yer gonna use that thing on’ me?” There is a ghost of a sly smirk upon his lips, a sparkle of mischief in his eyes but you aren’t having it, you won’t befall to his sparse charm.

“Don’t tempt me, Daryl Dixon,’’

The full use of his name and the stern attitude makes Daryl wince, the severity of damage he inflicted to you now evident before him. He nods silently, gnawing anxiously at his lip as you both fall back and stew in silence. You resume cleaning the weapon in your hands, needing to keep busy in an attempt to distract your mind from the chaos that sits in front of you. Daryl watches you, this time without the hatred and disdain, but his gaze is just as heavy as before.

“Why are you here, Daryl?”

He notes the tiredness in your voice, not the physical exhaustion that is a permanent state in this new world, but the emotional weariness that burdens you.

“‘M here to apologise,”

“Are you here because Carol told you to or because you actually want to?”

His hesitation is a loud answer and you scoff, glaring up at him with your teeth bared.

“Of course not. Daryl Dixon never apologises because he actually wants to, no, someone else has to puppet him. You are so fucking incompetent,” you growl, “You can’t even do the right fucking thing. Whatever ‘apology’ you have concocted to make this all better; forget it, Daryl. I don’t fucking accept it!”.

You take a predatory satisfaction in seeing the raw hurt flash across his face at your words. Your words are harsh, digging at old wounds that the man harbours but you can’t even conjure up the guilt or regret; hungry to dish out the same pain that you have received. Vexation and wrath raise its ugly head and you furiously rub at the long barrel of the shotgun, as if you would be able to transfer your rage through kinetic energy.

“Yer keep sacrificing yerself for the group ‘n’ and I fuckin’ hate it,” He breaks the icy air. His voice cracks despite his whispered tone but you catch it the little hitch.

Your cautious gaze meeting his is the signal he needed because he keeps going, as if the dam inside breaks and the words come spilling out; unrestrained, pure and honest.

“You’v’ done it since the beginnin’. Take the burden of the group on yerself ‘n’ takin’ all the risks. We’v only survived this long b‘cause of ya. You’v always kept us goin’. When the prison fell, you wanted ter round everyone up ‘n’ then Terminus happened and..” he breaks off, eyes squeezing shut as he recalls the horrible and degrading things the savages there threatened you with; how they held the machete to your neck and how powerless he was to stop everything. You were so close to death that afternoon as well, mere seconds away from being just an empty vessel.

“Then all the shit that's happened since. You’ve never stopped, never broke down. Just kept trudgin’ on. But it all caught up and you could’ve died out there… without me. ‘N I wouldn’t have known until it was ter late”.

“But I could have died in here and you still wouldn’t have been able to do anything, Daryl - that’s life,” you argue.

Daryl’s head whips up so fast, you are sure he could have suffered whiplash, but you get distracted by the flames in his eyes.

“It’s not life. You ‘ave no fuckin’ idea what yer do to me, woman,” Daryl groans, looking at you so helplessly, almost insulted at how you don’t get it.

“Apparently I piss you off!” you retort, “Ya know, with my selfish attitude and lack of respect” you parrot his own words back to him, a glare resituating across your face. “You yelled at me, Daryl. You screamed in my face, in front of everyone, and then gave me the cold shoulder. Me, out of all people, your fucking friend”.

He shakes his head while you speak, an action that only infuriates you more. You are ready to attack him about that, mouth already open as you reveal your disgust, “Stop fucking shaking your head as if I’m playing the vic-”.

In your rant, you don’t acknowledge the scrape of the metal stool along the concrete, given barely enough time to react to the new stimulus of rough lips upon yours and a hand that grips your chin. Daryl swallows your surprise, mouth unyielding as he crowds into you, pushing you back against the back leaving you no room to run. He kisses you desperately. Frantically. It is messy and unruly, a bruising kiss that steals the breath from your lungs and makes your head spin. You can taste every single secret that has ever danced across his lips, taste the fear that dwells within him but has never been uttered to another soul. You learn more about Daryl in this instance than you ever will in a lifetime.

You both are slow to break apart; lips barely separating as you catch your breath, greedily sucking in as much oxygen as you can to sate the burning of your lungs.

“‘M so fuckin’ sorry,” he cries against your lips.

His hand still has a firm grip on your jaw, which is sure to leave finger-shaped bruises in its wake, but like his kiss - his touch is desperate as well.

“You’v neva been a victim. I was just so fuckin’ scared that I would lose ya. I can’t lose ya,” he stresses, a voice that sounds so pained and winced; it sounds as if the wounds were personally inflicted upon him.

He drops his death-like grip on your chin, bowing forward to rest his head against yours, never straying too far from your space. Your arms wind around his hulking form; bringing him closer and Daryl lets himself slump against you, his head slipping to rest on your shoulder as he nuzzles into your neck and his body, although heavy, feels like comfort from a warm blanket. You can feel him utter endless apologises into the crook of your neck, lips brushing along your skin and you memorise the soft tone of his voice as he echoes “‘M sorry,”.

You hush him, turning your head to press a gentle kiss to the dark tresses, whispering “I know,” to every apology he mutters. Eventually, the apologises fade and you are submerged in peaceful silence, curled into each other. You don’t need to ask why he couldn’t have just told you all those words at the beginning, to save you both the agony and trauma of the last few weeks. But your Daryl is complex, a stunning mosaic of intricate emotions that aren’t easily given and you accept that this is who he is. The man would go to war for love; for you.

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