Sope_nope



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    The man in charge moved closer, gun unwavering. “Move to the wall and turn around.”

    He obeyed, feeling a sour taste build up. Two officers came closer and grabbed his arms, roughly twisting them back. The handcuffs were locked on him and made him doubt his own plan.

    “Percy Jackson,” Detective Marcus Bell announced. “You’re under arrest for the suspected murder of Annabeth Chase.”

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    In the aftermath, a thousand and one deaths flash before his eyes, and Ares feels them all. Every sword. Every spear. Every knife.

    Over and over again, he breathes his last breath, sometimes at the hands of another soldier and sometimes at the hands of himself. He stares at his own face, caked in blood and viscera, and hates himself for loving it.

    War is his vice of choice. It is his lover. His best friend. His worst enemy. He hates to love it, but no matter how he tries, he can’t seem to escape its clutches.

    He’s not quite sure if he really wants to.

    - - -

    It’s ironic, isn’t it? Ares hates all of Poseidon’s children with a vengeful fury, and yet, in this new world of Christianity and Capitalism, Perseus Fucking Jackson is the closest thing he has to a priest.

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    08 Jul 2025