All Chapters Deserves Comments

Hades - Buffy (The most compassionate ruler of the dead)

Persephone - Spike (okay probably William)

Demeter - Drusilla

One day ppl will understand that Greek heroes weren’t supervillains but complex human beings who are representations of the best and worst of humanity and that they aren’t remembered bc they were ‘heroic’ in a modern sense and that the Ancient Greeks rarely actually whitewashed their heroes actions but instead used them to tell fables and tragedies.

A pile of small, peculiar treasures grew beside her knee.

"There now," she whispered to a particularly shiny button. "Don’t you cry. The dark things are sleepy today."

With a soft giggle, she scooped up her haul into the hem of her velvet skirt and skipped upstairs. It was time to feed her flock.

In the library, Giles rubbed his temples, squinting over a crumbling Latin grimoire. A shadow fell across the page.

He looked up to see Drusilla peering down at him, her head tilted at an impossible angle, like a doll with a broken neck. Eyes gleamed with manic affection.

"Drusilla," Giles said cautiously, "Is there… can I help you with something?"

Without a word, Drusilla reached into her pocket, pulled out a small, jagged stone with a perfectly smooth hole straight through the middle, and dropped it right on top of the Latin text.

Giles blinked at it. "A hagstone?"

"For the peek a boo witches," Drusilla murmured, patting the back of his hand with cold, fluttering fingers. "So they don't suck out your good eye while you're reading your scary stories. Keep it in your waistcoat, old man. Or the little grey men will wear your socks."

Before Giles could formulate a single syllable, she spun around on her heel and fluttered away, her dark skirts whispering against the floorboards.

Down in his crypt, Spike slumped on a battered sofa, nursing a fresh bruise on his jaw and a very deep grudge against the Slayer.

Drusilla materialized at his side, dropping silently onto the armrest like a heavy feathered corvid.

"Oy, love," Spike grunted, not looking up. "Not now. Me head’s splitting."

Drusilla cooed softly. Her slender fingers darted out, gently tucking something rough and dry behind his ear, right into his bleached hair.

Spike flinched, swatting at his ear. "What's this then? Feathers? Garbage?"

He pulled it out. It was a cluster of dried rowan berries tied tightly together with a frayed piece of red twine.

"To bite the iron out of the wind," Drusilla whispered, leaning in to press a freezing kiss to his cheek. "The little golden girl has been sharpening her teeth, my pet. Mustn't let her bite the soft bits where your soul used to be."

Spike stared at the little bundle of berries, a strange mix of annoyance and fondness pulling at his mouth. "Right. Rowan berries. Because that's entirely normal to find behind a bloke's ear. Cheers, luv."

She beamed, stroked his cheek once more, and darted off into the moon lit night, leaving behind the faint scent of damp earth and crushed autumn leaves.

A pile of small, peculiar treasures grew beside her knee.

"There now," she whispered to a particularly shiny button. "Don’t you cry. The dark things are sleepy today."

With a soft giggle, she scooped up her haul into the hem of her velvet skirt and skipped upstairs. It was time to feed her flock.

In the library, Giles rubbed his temples, squinting over a crumbling Latin grimoire. A shadow fell across the page.

He looked up to see Drusilla peering down at him, her head tilted at an impossible angle, like a doll with a broken neck. Eyes gleamed with manic affection.

"Drusilla," Giles said cautiously, "Is there… can I help you with something?"

Without a word, Drusilla reached into her pocket, pulled out a small, jagged stone with a perfectly smooth hole straight through the middle, and dropped it right on top of the Latin text.

Giles blinked at it. "A hagstone?"

"For the peek a boo witches," Drusilla murmured, patting the back of his hand with cold, fluttering fingers. "So they don't suck out your good eye while you're reading your scary stories. Keep it in your waistcoat, old man. Or the little grey men will wear your socks."

Before Giles could formulate a single syllable, she spun around on her heel and fluttered away, her dark skirts whispering against the floorboards.

Some holy water and possibly a taser.