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Love was for fools—or to be more specific, Peter’s siblings.
Well, maybe not love. Perhaps a more apt description would be an unquenchable lust for sex and power. Peter isn’t sure his brethren—or their droves of ridiculous, bratty children—are capable of feeling such a pure emotion as love.
Certainly, in any case, it was never an emotion he had considered applicable to himself. Nothing in all the realms had ever held his interest, after all.
Nothing, that is, until him.
A glimpse of tousled hair, lithely muscled legs, and berry-stained lips changed everything.
In the blink of an eye, Peter, God of the Underworld, Overlord of Shadows, and King of the Dead had been completely ensorcelled by the pretty face of the Harvest Goddess’ son, and he couldn’t find it in himself to give a single fuck.
It happens quickly—as countless stories claim—this bewitching. Almost without Peter even noticing.
He’s lounging on his throne, bored out of his skull from half-listening to his dear sister address the court about the minutiae of the next feast.
Discussing a feast that has yet to happen during a feast that is already happening.
How...scintillating.
By Gaia, how he hates them.
Peter’s about to make his excuses and escape when he hears the sound of a plate shattering. He lifts his gaze—only mildly curious at this break in the monotony—to discover the beginning of a rather heated discussion.
One of Deucalion’s sons is arguing rather loudly with Claudia, the younger god’s face alight with what Peter guesses the boy considers to be passion, but to Peter, looks more like raving lunacy.
“What have I done wrong?” the young god—Jackson, yes Jackson—whines. “Why has he denied my suit? I have completed every task and gifted every item you listed, Claudia! How can he deny me?”
Peter raises a scathing eyebrow. Whoever rejected this little godling’s marriage proposal must be slightly more intelligent than the rest of their kin, given that it only took a simple no for this brat to reach a decibel that makes ears bleed and children scream.
Claudia barely glances at Jackson, too engrossed in her goblet. “I gave you a proper chance to court my son, but it is his decision. I told you he was quite particular.” Then the Harvest Goddess turns to ignore him completely, Jackson’s presence driving her further into her cups.
Peter’s frozen scowl thaws at the blatant show of disrespect, the corner of his mouth twitching. He watches as Jackson's indignant rage grows, the godling's perfect face turning a ruddy red.
Lounging further back in his throne, Peter allows himself to wait out the remaining seconds of the exchange so that he might witness any further ridiculousness. He sees it building in Jackson's body language: the boy's stiff shoulders, his heavy breaths, and his twitching hand reaching out as if to strike—
BOOM!
The room erupts into chaos as Jackson flies backward through the hall. The god bounces against a marble pillar, falling to the floor in a graceless heap.
A small, smoking crater fills the space where Jackson once stood.
All of the other gods and goddesses are yelling at one another, trying to determine which tipsy deity let one rip.
Claudia has yet to even turn around.
Jackson is moaning and rolling around on the floor, milking his injury for one of Kali’s beautiful offspring that had hurried to his aid.
Talia, robe billowing and golden laurel askew, looks livid.
It’s absolutely delightful.
Over the squabbling of the pantheon, Peter registers the sound of a dark chuckle. For a moment, he thinks it’s rumbling from his own chest.
But, no—his eyes follow his ears to see a shifting shadow to his left.
Peter sees the boy’s lips first—lush and pink and parted wickedly. They’re twisted in amusement, those lips—the joy in that common expression mutated into something so much more captivating by the wonderfully guilty glint in the boy’s eyes.
Oh, it’s those eyes that doom Peter.
They’re as bright and as colorful as the midday sun, and focused on Jackson’s antics. It’s those eyes that shock Peter’s icy heart into a single, terrible throb—one that stutters into a full, rhythmic beat. One thump turns to two, and slowly into another. And another.
And another.
That terrible beat ignites a flame within, setting Peter’s eyes ablaze in the brightest of blues as they fixate on the beautiful creature clinging to the shadows of Olympus. It’s stupid and trite and so very mundane, but with one look, Peter falls farther than he did on his way down into the Underworld.
Oh yes—it’s as Peter notices the malicious glee shining within the boy’s eyes that he falls truly, and quite madly, in love.
Peter follows the boy, walking lazily through the shadows alongside him until they reach the mortal realm.
He watches as the godling’s ethereal glow dims as he steps foot onto the soil, each stride the boy takes becoming more and more solid.
They travel across rolling hills of clay-like earth, plants springing to life under the boy’s feet despite the infertility of the ground.
Peter lurks, attention rapt, when the young god meets other travelers. He growls in satisfaction when the boy guts a slaver, eyes sharp and immortal blade sharper. He laughs when the boy plays tricks on thieves, and he allows himself to smile softly when the boy magics bread for hungry children.
If at all possible, Peter falls even further.
When the young man’s stride finally slows in front of a small house resting in the middle of rich farmland, Peter invites himself in.
Inside the space are a bed and a fire pit. There are bunches of aromatic herbs and colorful wildflowers hanging from the ceiling, and a small altar for Claudia rests beneath the room’s only window.
Peter leans against the hearth, gazing at the boy as he enters the hut.
He watches, his heart beating furiously, as the godling disrobes. Smooth, porcelain skin is unveiled before his greedy eyes, and he can’t help himself from skimming a hand down the boy’s spine as he bends over the room’s basin. The boy shivers slightly, his back bowing as he slowly splashes water on his face.
That the boy can feel his touch even through the shadows makes Peter burn.
Before he can do anything further, the door opens once more.
”Father!” the young god exclaims.
A rugged mortal startles at the sound, but quickly strides forward to embrace the boy.
”Stiles! How I have missed you, my boy!” Happy tears are spilling freely between the two men. “It was a longer courtship than usual. I feared you might not return.”
The boy—Stiles, oh yes, Stiles—sighs wearily. “Mother wanted some of the spoils of Deucalion’s last siege, so she dangled me in front of one of his sons.” Stiles wraps an arm around his father’s shoulder. “You know how those pure-bloods hate to love a halfling like me. It took eons for him to spew sonnets and dazzle me with his gift for javelin.” His father chokes on a laugh as Stiles rolls his eyes at the memory.
Peter listens as the two banter back and forth, a steady stream of snark and love flowing through their conversation.
It’s a revelation, the love between these two beings. And, as Peter leaves the small house hours later, the shadows of the universe licking at his black robes, he decides that he wants it for himself.
He learns from his nephew that Stiles, the only son of the Harvest Goddess and the mortal Noah Stilinski, has been trapped between the two realms from the moment he took his first breath.
Stiles’ mother, equal parts fickle and controlling, once loved Noah—even enough to bear him a child. But like all gods, she grew bored. She took Stiles to Olympus and raised him there, only allowing him visits to the mortal realm when it became clear that Stiles was as much a child of a human as he was a god.
Indeed, it only took four mysteriously exploding casks of ambrosia before she let him leave for the first time.
Oh yes, Claudia allowed him to leave on the condition that he always had to return, forcing Stiles to grow like all the Earth’s plants: under her thumb.
Derek, quite bemused by the whole line of questioning, told Peter of Claudia’s most recent game—luring in suitors for Stiles’ hand to hoard their gifts, only to have Stiles, whose only incentive to participate in the whole charade was his time with his father, reject each suitor. Those rejections, Derek informs him, have now made it a challenge to wed and bed the boy.
Peter may have incinerated a few dozen rooms in his palace at the thought.
Derek leaves him after his outburst, the god’s feet quick and his eyebrows singed.
Peter falls into his throne, fuming. “Those fools think they’re good enough for my Stiles?”
His undead minions tremble at his words, ghosting out of his way as he launches himself back up from his seat, pacing menacingly across his throne room.
Peter prowls out onto his stony balcony, glaring down at the black river crashing into the base of his home. The souls of the dead drift sightlessly amongst the waves, silvery hands dragging the river’s lone ferryman across to each edge.
Peter breathes in the familiar surroundings, calming himself so that he doesn’t burn his entire fucking palace down.
In his mind’s eye, he conjures an image of Stiles, the boy’s eyes alight with mischief and his lips open and waiting.
A different sort of fire ignites within his chest, and Peter sighs with dark longing. “It’s no wonder he’s never said yes,” Peter murmurs, sauntering back to his obsidian throne. He reclines back and shuts his eyes. “Gods these days,” Peter breathes. “They just don’t know how to court.”
Claudia allows Stiles to stay with his father for only two weeks before she demands he return for another suitor.
Stiles spends all day helping his father in the fields, and he lays out in the heather under the light of the dying sun as he waits for his mother to force his return.
Peter gets there first.
He bursts out from the Underworld, chariot circling a startled Stiles. Peter snatches up one of the god’s delicate wrists and pulls him in. He stops the cart long enough to gaze down into Stiles’ curious gaze, one that grows deliciously heated when Peter slides a strong hand down the boy’s thigh, fingertips digging into the soft flesh under Stiles’ ass.
Peter drags the boy’s body against his own, his other hand wrenching Stiles’ chin up until their lips are brushing up against each other in the sweetest of kisses.
Stiles pants against Peter’s mouth, toned body taut and wriggling against his own. Peter can feel every delicious ridge and curve and hardness of Stiles nestle ever so neatly against him.
Peter uses his grip on Stiles’ jaw to force his thumb into the boy’s mouth. He grins when he feels unforgiving teeth latch onto him. Pressing his thumb back even further, petting Stiles’ silky tongue, forces a sharp whine from the godling’s throat.
”By Gaia, you’re magnificent,” Peter exhales before slamming his mouth over Stiles’. He wraps his arms even tighter, and hikes the boy’s leg up his hip as he licks into the wet heat of Stiles’ perfect mouth.
He feels it when Stiles gives himself over—when the boy curls his hands into Peter’s thick hair and starts to rock against Peter’s thigh. It’s when he wrests a moan out of Stiles that Peter forces himself to pull back.
He watches as Stiles’ eyes finally blink open, pupils dilated and eyelashes fluttering dazedly. Peter memorizes the image of Stiles’ mouth, red and raw and utterly debauched, and promises himself that it’ll be a look Stiles always wears.
Peter smiles down at his beloved and says, “Hello, Stiles. Are you ready?” He opens up another portal into the Underworld.
Stiles blinks. “Ready?”
”Yes, darling.” Peter chuckles, indulgent. “To go home.”
”Home...” Stiles swallows. He doesn’t look away from Peter’s burning gaze.
“Don’t worry, husband—I’ll let you come back here.”
Stiles’ eyes widen in surprise. “You—you will?”
Peter laughs. “Of course, Stiles.” He snaps the reins and they plunge into the shadows. “Anything for you.”