multi-fandom oneshots

sunlight (bucky barnes)

excerpt: And Gaea help him. He's hit with the full force of it, his stomach turning pleasantly as you appear from behind the corner, a disarming little lady dressed in pastels with a flower tucked behind your ear. And he thinks, vaguely, that it would be silly to imagine your power was coming from elsewhere. It is painted on every inch of skin, every strand of hair, every lash on your eyes and wrinkles on your lips. He wants to tell you this.

Instead, he folds his arms and sneers. "I could feel you halfway across this city."

pairing: hades!bucky x persephone!reader

word count: 10.2k

warnings: mentions of: miscarriages, famine, war, death, human trafficking, skin whitening + inaccurate mythology, i read percy jackson okay, very short smut scene

note: most definitely based on sunlight by hozier that's the song the reader sings and its so beautiful pls listen!!

James doesn't need money. In fact, he doesn't really need anything. Sleep, food and drink... He can survive for years and years and years without even a drop of water – but death? Death is his lifeblood.

And he is surrounded by it, of course. Ever since his brother had killed his father, chopped him to pieces and condemned him to eternity in the deepest pits of Tartarus. James had had the responsibility of the Underworld thrust into his arms, and he had taken the mantle of King of Darkness with both discipline and amusement.

Every god had their niche, and his concerned the Great Beyond, Life After Death, the Fade to Black, if you will. He oversaw the going-ons of the Underworld, punished those in need of punishment and blessed those who had lived their life well and true – it fed his land and fed him.

Though not the God of Death – no, Thanatos took that title – he was the God of the Dead. He needed just as much of it as his counterpart did. God, did he need it; craved it like the sweetest of wines, the sharpest of drugs. Death was refreshing and cooling and it slipped down his throat with such relief that for a second he imagined what it would be like to be a mortal stranded in the desert.

(And then the thought passed, and his moment of humbleness was left buried deep to be recovered when he needed it again.)

He found his fix up there – the dumping ground upstairs, the mortal realm. Mortals were wretched little creatures, you see, made of all that dark, slimy stuff that was covered by layers of social expectations and bad jokes and horrible tastes in food. Their greed, combined with their yearning for depravity, made it easy to create a little operation in New York.

A mob boss is what they called him. And honestly, it's funnier than it should be – having to make deals with little men and carry their metal weapons and intoxicating substances across the world. He could have it all done in a minute, but where's the fun in that?

He got a steady flow of death, the Underworld thrived, and the people working for him got whatever it is their little wanton hearts desired – money, usually, of which he had too much. It didn't matter, at the end of the day. They'd all end up down below sooner or later.

"A letter for you," a voice says beside him.

He had been alone in the room, but Hermes always found a way in. As was his job.

"A letter?" James drawls. He sets down the glass in his hand, taking the offered scroll. "Must be my lucky day."

Hermes shrugs, dark skin glowing in the firelight of James's study. He's taken the form of an unsuspecting delivery man, dark blue pants and a white shirt, a name tag pinned to his chest. Hi, the tag reads. My name is: Sam. Apart from the pair of wings sprouting from his back, shining gold and white in the light of James's fireplace, he'd blend in perfectly. "If you count a summons to Olympus as lucky."