mpxhel:
Strangely enough, spirit possession was not something Hel often saw. Most of the spirits and ghosts that lingered in the land of the living were all too eager to follow the direction she gave them, and would step into Helheim with nary a fuss. But those were of her pantheon, clearly this one…
Still trying to extricate herself from the possessed demigod’s arms, she shifted, trying to slip away only for those arms to clamp tighter around her person. A frown that had already appeared at the sudden contact grew even more. While she was no means a abrasive goddess, she was not an overtly affectionate one either. Physical contact was something she was still learning about. But preferrably not from possessed half-mortals who would forget the actions of the ghost while hijacking their body.
In a flash, she pulls one of her arms free. But rather than use that to leverage herself off his hug, she brings it up and touches two cool fingers against the other’s forehead before tilting their head back. Her hand glowed before the faint light flowed down, casting an eerie shadow upon the demigod.
“Definitely a stowaway.” She murmurs before cupping the other’s face, almost intimately. In fact, if her hands weren’t glowing and her face not set in the sternest of looks, they would look like they were wrapped in an intimate moment. As it were, it was more of a supernatural one.
“Leave the boy’s body,” She says calmly, her eyes seem to look not into the physical eyes of the demigod but to those of the spirit that was currently using him as a meat puppet. “While I’m asking nicely.”
With his smile not fading, Rowoon’s eyes watch the goddess as she evaluates the status of the man holding her. Her request is expected, as cool fingers cup his cheek, the sensation an enjoyable one, because it has been so long since he has been able to feel anything. There is no way the spirit is giving that up any time soon.
“No” the demigod replies, grin only widening, defiantly, whilst a large, cheeky hand slips down to give the goddess, the most feared and respected being, a little squeeze on the behind. What’s the fun of being dead if you can’t do what you want and to hell with the consequences? She can’t hurt him anyway, or risk hurting the vessel. She can ask nicely, or she can try to force him, there is no way the spirit is giving up his new home without causing hell on the way out - and was she willing to risk that?
“The body is mine” he replies, voice deeper then the tone Rowoon would usually use, more sinister, more twisted, whilst chocolate eyes blaze defiantly. “I won’t be giving it up nicely, are you willing to cut me out?”















