Titanomachy

Titanomachy
by miserylovedme
Patrick/Pete
NC-17 // 3,402 words.
note that: i own nothing and this is based off the mythology that hades stole persephone.

He has just enough time to think, Fire? before a hand grabs his ankle and he’s swallowed up by the ground.

Why anyone would consensually move to California is beyond Patrick.

It’s not the state itself, it’s LA. Los Angeles with its overcrowding and smog, huge sunglasses too-tan skin and heat, the fucking heat. He hates it. Every single part of it.

The only reason Patrick stays in LA is because his internship is almost up and he can practically see the offer from the record label. He’s going to make it; he’s not going to be just another once-wide-eyed hopeful from the Midwest going out to California in search of his future, following his dreams.

It’s going to be worth it, interning for nothing and working nights. Being broke, having no life and no communication with his family because the only time he can actually talk to them he’s passed out in his one bedroom apartment. So, so worth it.

He’s just merged onto the expressway when his gas light goes on. He wants to go home, it’s been such a long fucking day and all he wants is to curl up on his bed and maybe take a shower beforehand. But he knows he’s not going to get up early tomorrow so he can go get gas before heading back to the label.

He gets right back off the expressway at the next exit and heads for the nearest gas station.

Patrick knocks his forehead against the hood of his car as he watches his bank account drain before his very eyes. “Should have used a credit card,” he mumbles to himself and stops at thirty dollars because five gallons is good enough.

He’s just put the nozzle back into the cradle when he feels the rumble shake through the ground below him.

“Shit.”

Patrick might not be a seismologist but he knows that a gas station isn’t the best place to wait out an earthquake. He gives it a moment though, because driving probably isn’t the safest alternative to standing on top of thousands of gallons of explosive liquid.

Seconds turn to minutes, however, and when the ground does nothing, Patrick slides into his car and heads for the on ramp.

There’s a too-thick tension in the air and traffic has slowed; like the implication of an impending earthquake is the signal to drive at a crawling pace. It isn’t even rush hour; well past it, in fact. He swears a little and coasts along for a bit, which turns to stop and go. And then just stops.

Cars around him begin slowly merging to one lane and up ahead Patrick can see flashing lights. It makes a little more sense then.

It’s almost a half hour later that Patrick is even within sight distance of, what appears to be, an ambulance and two cop cars stopped in the middle two lanes with the drivers staring at the ground. Patrick cranes his head for a look, because to stop traffic on an LA expressway there better be at least two bodies. But Patrick sees nothing.

Traffic slows again and Patrick stops, his breaks squeaking a little and then there’s another low rumble that he can hear over the sound of the radio. The power goes out suddenly on the horizon and everything seems to get quiet.

The blackout rolls towards them, sweeping overhead and people are putting their cars into park, stepping out to look. Patrick looks down when the radio cuts to static and then goes out completely. He puts his car in park too.

Another rumble sounds and tension crackles like fucking lightning around him.

“This is weird,” he hears someone, who has stepped between his car and the median to look through the darkness at the city ahead.

Patrick finds himself getting out of his car as well. He leaves the door open and turns towards the emergency vehicles when voices become raised and people begin to panic a little. It’s never a good thing, Patrick thinks, to see a cop running from something.

It all happens so fast after that.

There’s a quick series of small shakes, another rumble, the power all over the city flickers on and then right back out. Then the ground explodes around them.

People scream and start running and Patrick would probably have run too, but the crack in the ground widens so fast and cars are going under, in and Patrick can see blackness and fire. He has just enough time to think, Fire? before a hand grabs his ankle and he’s swallowed up by the ground.


--


Patrick wakes up with the knowledge that time has passed, but he has no idea how much. His leg hurts like it’s broken, maybe, and he’s hot. Really fucking hot.

He reaches up and wipes the back of his hand across his forehead and it comes back dirty and covered in a thick sheen of sweat.

He blinks at it slowly, still stupid with sleep and not really remembering what happened to him. Carefully, he props himself up on his elbow and thinks. He remembers leaving work and getting gas, but it cuts off there; his memories are fuzzy like trying to watch a channel on TV that isn’t coming through all the way.

The bed beneath him is unfamiliar and that is enough to startle him into an upright position, however. He looks around quickly but he can see nothing other than blackness and a sparkle of fire not too far off.

Patrick can practically feel the adrenaline flood gates open and his heart kicks it into high gear. But before he can even make himself get up off the bed, he feels hands on him, grabbing his shoulders and they’re hot enough to burn. He screams in fear and pain and twists to try to squirm away but the hands don’t let go.

He feels hot, too hot, hands on his face and then there’s lips against his own. His eyes go wide before he passes back out.


--


When he comes to, this time, he’s tied down at the wrists and it’s brighter in the room; but all he can see is the bed still. He realizes his glasses have been removed at the same time he hears a soft, low voice from his right. “I was beginning to think you’d sleep forever.”

Patrick jumps but finds whatever is binding him has no give. He turns his head and sees a figure sitting beside him. He’s dark and possibly wrapped up in something even darker. But he can’t focus and it’s making his head hurt.

He feels heat from the body and he groans pitifully when the figure reaches out to place a hand on his forehead, pushing his hair away from his eyes. The hand flies back to its owner.

“Too hot still?” he—definitely male—asks and then sighs.

And Patrick, despite really wanting to cry, dozens of questions ricocheting around his mind about where he is and what happened and who the fuck are you, clears his throat a little and asks, “My glasses?”

The figure is still a moment before turning and then holding something out. “These?” It sounds uncertain but Patrick nods. He hopes they’re his glasses.

Hot hands slide the frames onto his face and everything comes into focus, but all he can do is stare at the person beside him. He’s dark, like Patrick thought, and his irises are completely black. It startles him and he pulls back as much as he can when that hand reaches towards him again. He can see the heat distortion in the air around it. But it stops again and the man beside him hunches down into himself a little, staring at him the whole time.

“I’ve waited for you,” he finally says.

And really, “What?”

“I’ve waited for you,” he repeats.

This is really all too much for Patrick right now. His head feels heavy and his body is starting to sweat, he feels off and this guy really isn’t helping him find the balance again. Patrick flexes his fingers and tugs a little but his hands don’t come free. He tries another question. “Who are you?”

“Hades,” comes the answer, as though it’s the most simple thing in the world.

Patrick blinks before he huffs out a laugh. His legs twist a little, they’re starting to tingle. “Okay,” Patrick says. Clearly he’s either dreaming or gone insane.

“No, Patrick,” he says, and Patrick doesn’t remember telling this guy his name. “I’ve been watching you.”

This is creepy. Patrick turns his head a little and the guy stretches out beside him.

“You’ve been watching me,” Patrick repeats. The guy—Hades, apparently—nods into his arms and smiles a little.

A too-hot hand stretches the small distance between them and comes to rest on his chest. “For a long time.”

“This is freaking me out,” Patrick says, voice going breathy and high.

But Hades shakes his head and inches in closer until he’s curled along Patrick’s side. “Don’t be scared.” He nuzzles at Patrick’s chest and Patrick feels the kiss he presses into his sweat-sticky shirt.

Patrick twists again, his legs feeling itchy-hot and that off feeling is traveling lower through his body down to his hips; his arms going numb. The heat the body against him absolutely radiates off and into Patrick. He feels like he’s going to explode.

Something presses to his lips and Patrick practically inhales it. But Hades just waits, rubbing the damp skin of, what Patrick realizes is, a pomegranate against his mouth. He coaxes without a word, his eyes deep and frightening, he leans close and Patrick finds himself biting down.

“There,” Hades whispers. “Swallow.”

Patrick can feel the flush that spreads rapidly across his cheeks. He does as he’s told, his mouth feeling blessedly cool when nothing else about him does.

Hades abruptly pulls away and slides to the edge of the bed. The fruit is tossed away before Patrick is entirely done and he watches hazily as Hades drums his fingers a moment before standing a flurry of dark fabric and heading off towards the darkness lingering at the edges of the room. He pauses enough to turn back to Patrick and tell him, “You’ll see it my way soon enough.” It’s not said in a threatening fashion but just the words, the implication, is enough to make Patrick shudder.

But then the light seems to vanish with Hades as he slips from sight and Patrick finds himself hovering just over unconscious for the briefest of moments and then he’s out.


--


Patrick feels like he’s living in a dream. There’s absolutely no way for him to know if this is real or if he’s even alive anymore. He vaguely remembers the expressway and the blackout; he can hear the explosion of the ground. But when he tries to think past that the pain in his leg becomes over whelming and he has to stop.

He wakes an undetermined amount of time later to hands on his face and his arms still stretched above his head; they’re completely numb so he doesn’t bother shifting them at all.

Hades shifts against him, sighing and stretching a little, rubbing his head against Patrick’s chest like a giant cat. Patrick feels like, not only a prisoner but, a spoil of war. He’s a captive, that much is clear, but nothing makes sense. He just can’t remember.

“You’re mine,” Hades practically burbles, turning into him and leaning up to press his face into Patrick’s neck.

Patrick just closes his eyes, because what the hell is he supposed to say to that? He’s barely got a grip on up from down in the heat he feels from the body curling over him. It just too fucking much to focus with.

Then Hades presses his lips to the exposed skin of Patrick’s throat. Again and again. And Patrick finds himself shifting a little for another reason when his groin begins to tighten in arousal. He lifts his head up because this cannot be happening to him. He’s been stalked and kidnapped and now, apparently, developed sexual Stockholm syndrome.

Not happening.

But when he raises his head, Hades surges forward and grasps the sides of his face in both hands and presses their lips together.

For a second Patrick is so hot he thinks he’s going to just melt into the bed.

And then… then it gets better.

Hades pulls back, panting a little, and slides himself up over Patrick’s hips. It’s then that Patrick realizes he’s embarrassingly hard and Hades is too. He grinds down, hands on Patrick’s chest and groaning lightly. “So long,” he mumbles and then his mouth is back, licking fire into Patrick’s.

For whatever reason, Patrick parts his lips this time and Hades groans wildly, sounding a little hysterical as he pushes forward and rubs against Patrick’s stomach. Their tongues clash and their mouths slide together, over and over and Hades teeth trail down his chin, biting and sucking alternatively.

Patrick’s hips lift and rub into him and Hades groans again, sitting back up a little; Patrick’s hands come free.

To his own surprise he reaches down and grabs Hades’ hips, holding him down against his own and pushing up.

“That’s it,” Hades whispers, sitting up fully and tossing his head back. He grinds slowly back and forth against the rough material of Patrick’s jeans. When he looks down Patrick sees for the first time that he’s wrapped up in a robe not unlike paintings of Greek and Roman gods.

And then it clicks.

Patrick laughs, harsh and sudden and the rocking body atop him stills. Wide, black eyes look down at him, his lips are parted and wet, just a little bit swollen and his cheeks are sweaty. “What?” he asks, hands coming down to Patrick’s chest and rubbing.

“Hades?” Patrick finally says. “God of the Underworld?”

There’s a long moment of silence and inactivity before the black-haired figure nods a little.

Patrick laughs.

Hades scowls. “What?” he demands, hands getting hotter against Patrick’s shirt.

“Hades,” Patrick repeats, suddenly certain that, yeah, insanity is the right choice for what’s happened to him here.

There’s a long-suffering sigh from above him and Patrick cracks his eyes open, a small giggle still floating through his chest. He drops his hands to push up at Hades’ robe until his thighs are bare; he rubs slowly. Might as well go for it.

Hades reaches a hand down to rub at his obvious erection, palming it over the material of his dark robe, which does nothing to contain it. “Call me something else then,” he says. “I won’t care. You’ll learn soon enough. You’re mine forever.”

Patrick very nearly rolls his eyes, but he settles for saying, “Peter, then.”

Hades gives Patrick a look of disgust. “Why that name?”

“Holds the keys to Heaven,” Patrick says, as if that’s any explanation at all.

Hades just looks at him a moment before he laughs, loud and obnoxious sounding in the still, hot air around them. “You’re getting your theologies mixed.”

Patrick really doesn’t care at this point what he’s mixing; he doesn’t feel in control of himself. He slides a hand further up Hades’ thigh and wraps his fingers around his cock.

Hades gasps a little and lets his own hand fall away. “Peter is fine,” he says, arching forward into Patrick’s hand and closing his eyes as though this is all he’s ever wanted from the start. It probably is, Patrick reasons.

“Hades works.”

Patrick strokes him slowly, the fabric of Hades’ robe pooling over his wrist and down his arm; it’s light enough that he doesn’t reach down with his other hand and push it up to the side. Hades sighs a little, hips lifting on each downstroke of Patrick’s hand, his fingers sliding slickly over the smooth, warm skin in an easy, unhindered mimic of sex.

Hades’ eyes are closed and his face is slightly tense. “Yes,” he breathes, one hand balanced on Patrick’s chest and the other reaching down to pull his robe up and push it over his thighs.

For the first time Patrick can see him, what he’s doing. Hades watches him a moment, hips still thrusting into Patrick’s damp fist in a steady rhythm. The heat in his body kicks up another notch and Patrick suddenly feels a little desperate. He tightens his fist and pulls a little harder, but a hand grasps his wrist and pulls his own away.

“Not yet,” Hades gasps shifting until he’s on his knees and squirming between Patrick’s parted thighs. Fingers dig into his belt and Patrick feels his jeans being tugged down his legs. Before he can even react, the dizzy feeling in his head slowing him down, Hades is shoving a hand down between them and grasping both of their cocks in one hot hand. Patrick cries out, arching up and grabbing both of Hades’ shoulders.

“That’s it,” Hades mumbles, working his hand rapidly between them, pumping his hips into the motion. Patrick’s pale skin is flushed almost red beneath him, he cries out every time Hades scratches his nails against the head of his dick and suddenly he’s pulling at the dark material of Hades’ robe.

“I can’t,” he suddenly hisses out. Hades doesn’t stop but his forehead bunches in confusion. He leans in to bite at Patrick’s cheek.

“You’re doing fine,” he soothes, tongue laving over his teeth marks.

But Patrick shakes his head and tugs harder at the robe in his hands. “Let me see,” he whimpers, back arching as Hades rubs his thumb over the head of his cock. “Please.”

Hades doesn’t, though. He leans in further, pressing his body to Patrick’s and tugging his robe up enough to allow skin on skin contact and plants his hands on either side of Patrick’s head. He thrusts up against him, starting a quick, rough rhythm that has Patrick reaching up with one hand to brace it against the headboard. He cries out wildly, pushing up against Hades’ hip and the cock digging against his own.

He feels so fucking dizzy.

It only takes a few harsh thrusts and then they’re both coming against each other. Patrick whines high in his throat and Hades groans harshly, working through the aftershocks with small, blunt thrusts against Patrick’s stomach.

Patrick is hot again, way too hot to have this body on top of him right now and he tries to push at his shoulders, twist to the side to get out from under him, anything; but he passes out when it becomes too much, too fast.


--


The next time Patrick blinks his eyes open he expects to be in one of two places: his bedroom, waking from a really fucked wet dream or in the nut house.

What he sees when he reaches up to pull his glasses properly back onto his face is a head of mussed black hair, the curve of a dark tanned hip and a balled up black robe.

He’s still in the Underworld.

And if this is all real, and Hades isn’t a liar, it’s for good. Panic rises quickly in him and Hades’ dark eyes open, fixing on him.

“Settle,” he whispers, reaching out an arm and resting it over Patrick’s stomach. His heart is still beating wildly in his throat, but just the mere command in Hades’ voice makes something inside of Patrick calm a little. He shifts further away from the warm, naked body beside him, though, and Hades just follows. A leg curls up over his own, holding him in place.

“You’ll grow used to it,” Hades tells him. Patrick isn’t sure if he means the heat or being this close to a self-proclaimed Underworld deity, but either way, he closes his eyes and listens as Hades continues on, stroking the skin of his hip as he does. “You’re mine now, your future lies with me.”

Patrick startles himself when he whispers out a quiet, “Yes.”

Hades smiles against his shoulder and Patrick feels something like pride swell in his chest. He clenches his eyes tightly and tries not to think about it. He’ll wake up soon in his room and this will all just go away.

Hades laughs a little into the kiss he places on Patrick’s chest as though he had heard his thoughts. He shakes his head and just says, “Mine now.”

Patrick doesn’t say a word.