by M J Marstens
Oh, gods.
Just stay quiet, Val, just stay quiet.
I chant this over and over to myself, but do I listen?
Do I ever freaking listen?!
“Can you smell orgasms?!” I burst out incredulously.
Oh shit.
Dev would totally punch me right now if he heard me say that.
I want to punch me for saying it out loud.
What happened to my internal filter—did the orgasm shatter it?
Kung Fu lets out a low, deep moan and Bi-Polar’s eye starts to twitch.
“We need to get her to her cell now,” he tells Kung Fu instead of answering me—which might be for the best.
Both men grasp a small portion of my sleeve and practically run down the hallway as I trip along in their grasp.
Prisoners hoot and holler behind us, whistles echoing off the dim prison walls.
The two guards are very careful not to touch me again. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or not. An image of Dev flashes through my brain and I’m instantly swamped with guilt.
Dev—my dream boyfriend, the one that I left back in Asgard.
We reach my cell before guilt renders me immobile, and Dick One and Dick Two, as I’m now calling them (partially because I’m furious at them and partially because I can’t stop imagining what their dicks look like), unceremoniously shove me inside. They each stomp off in opposite directions, but without a backward glance at me, so I pop both my middle fingers up at their departing backs.
Fucking gods! They’re probably arrogant human-haters. But then part of me wonders if they are fucking gods … to make me have that kind of an orgasm, they must have some kind of lust power, right?
I’m so frazzled that I barely take stock of the other inmate in my new home.
My thoughts are stuck on Dev and my arrest.
It happened so quickly—quicker than I expected. I barely had time to reconvene with Dev and snag Mjölnir. That’s right ...
I stole my father’s infamous hammer.
How the hell else am I supposed to break out of The Sphincter?
Certainly not by using my non-existent god powers.
I need that hammer to ram the Back Hole so hard that it flops open bigger than a sausage alley and lets all of us demis stream out.
I feel terrible for taking it—I feel even worse for making my father sick from the Visine. I love him; the others I could give a fuck less about and, as gods, everyone recovered four times as fast as a human would have. Which explains why I’d hardly had time to shrink Mjölnir and shove it into my bra before Ra’s minions were there to haul me away.
My amusement at seeing my stepmoms pale, shaking, and a little gassy was replaced with guilt at the profound look of sadness on Dad’s face.
And the fact that I didn’t even get to tell Dev goodbye.
But, Dev is one in a million—even in the god world. He’ll find a way out of Asgard just like I’ll find a way out of The Butt Hole with Asteio. All I need to do is get the lay of the land and some allies. I turn to my cellmate now, finally taking him in.
What the heck are they feeding everyone here?!
He’s tall and muscular, with tanned skin and a six pack that looks as hard as stone. His inky hair is cropped on the top, but long on the sides and the back ...
A mullet has never looked so sexy, I freaking swear.
And when he turns his eyes on me?
Holy shit.
It must be something in the undead water of Duat because my body flares to life just like it did for Kung Fu and Bi-Polar.
Let’s just hope that this demigod can’t smell orgasms, too.
8
The Original Tupac
Two Minutes and Four Seconds Earlier …
That Raiden dickwad moved Squirrel Tail out of my cell a couple of hours ago. I don’t think he liked us getting drunk on the regular. We did get a bit loud when we imbibed.
I lay back on my bunk and regret that Squirrelly was moved washes over me. I am gonna miss him.
Luckily for me, he did give me a parting gift. A toilet bowl full of wine. Don’t judge. If you’d been in prison for four hundred years, seventy five days, twelve hours, and six minutes, you’d happily drink from a toilet, too.
How did I do that fast math?
I’m a Sun demigod.
Even if I can’t see the sun, I can feel it. I know every second that passes—which is possibly worse than not knowing.
Ra was quick to take out any other part-solar deities. And since Daddio’s the Incan Sun God, whelp, my head was on the chopping block before you could say Inti.1
I sigh and lean back against my bed, wondering who they’ll bring in next. Hopefully, it’s not the demigod of flatulence again. He was an awful roommate—and not just because of the smell. He had a rotten attitude that went right along with his scent.
Squirrel Tail and I must have pushed it too much the other night when we dared the inmates in the cell across the hall to a dick-dancing contest. I won, of course. I’ve been in a cell for longer than most of these other demis, so I’ve had all the time in the world to practice twerking my rod. As a result, my dick can karate chop better than Jackie Chan. Yeah, I know who that is. Sometimes that Khepri dude “loses” his phone and we can stream shows. He’s not a totally evil guy—for a god.
Or a guard.
Watching shows on his phone is one of the only perks in this place.
That and I-Scream night.
It’s not what you’re thinking—the cold, delicious human treat that I’ve seen made and eaten on TV. I-Scream night is the night that Ra picks an unlucky demi to torture. We all take bets on how long it’s gonna take the poor bastard to scream.
Heartless?
Abso-fucking-lutely.
But after centuries in the dark with little to do other than rip your sheets into tiny strips and attempt to make homemade macrame,2 you kind of lose a little bit of your own sense of humanity.
I miss the sun.
Not just my father, the sun god, but the actual warmth and light of the sun.
When Squirrel Tail came, it was almost like I got a little piece of my humanity back. He was brand new to the jail, full of stories and life. And a shit ton of ass hair. That’s how he got his nickname. It was so bushy, even when he was in full human form and not trotting around as a half-goat man, his ass-hair curled out of his crack like a tail. That bushy tail even beat out the fact that my roomie could shoot wine from his fingertips, if it gives you any idea just how impressive the fur was.
Asteio was his real name, but nobody calls anyone by real names here. That just leads to a lot of nostalgia, which is bad when you never get visitors and have a sentence lasting all eternity.
In fact, that very thought kind of brings me down. And normally, I’ve got a pretty sunny disposition—pun totally intended.
Across the hall, Blimpy, a chubby demigod, son of Nomkhubulwane3 calls out, “Sunny, dick dancing rematch. Tonight!”
I sit up and wave a hand at him.
“Sure. Sure.”
But further conversation cuts off when I hear footsteps. I stand up in my cell. It’s never a good idea to meet a new demi lying down—some fight for dominance or other bullshit like that.
My jaw drops when I see my new cellmate.
Holy shit!
They’re giving me a woman?!
And not any woman—a scorching one with thick brunette hair and breasts as delicious and ripe as passion fruit, jiggling slightly under her prison-issued orange sweatshirt. I gulp when my eyes travel down and I realize they haven’t bothered to make her change out of her street clothes. She is wearing the tiniest shorts known to man.
Thank the gods—every single one.
I want to—no, I need to run my tongue up and down over those smooth, creamy legs.
Right.
Fucking.
Now.
I run my tongue over my teeth, glad I brushed this morning. I quickly check my embroidered loincloth�
�I don’t do prison uniforms. I’m damn glad that I’m sporting my yellow pair today. There’s a sun embroidered over the crotch and a red chevron pattern over each leg. It’s one of my favorites. I brush my mullet aside, determined to make a good impression.
I take a step back as the guards push her inside.
She stumbles a little, her rough work boots scuffing against the stone floor. She turns and glares out at them, not acknowledging me for a second, but giving me time to admire the curve of her ass.
Oh, sweet demi-goddess.
This woman has got to be the daughter of some lust god because, right now, the sun on my loincloth has risen. My dick is hard in a way it hasn’t been in centuries.
That ass is worth a thousand poems; it would make her a principal wife any day.4
But she seems upset, and I don’t want to ‘fuck up’ any chance I might have with her. So, I make my sunset the best I can by focusing on a bug crawling across the wall—nothing like staring at a beetle to make your cock shrivel.
I clear my throat and my new soulmate—cellmate—turns to look at me.
Her eyes are a gorgeous blue and strike at me like lightning, sending electric thrills through my veins and raising all the hair on my arms.
Mr. Sun starts to come to attention again.
No!
Down boy!
I slide one hand down to shield my Magic Mike from view as I put the other forward to shake.
“Hey, I’m Tupac.”
“Like the singer?” the demigoddess asks as she takes my hand.
Her skin feels softer than butter against mine, but she’s hit on a sore point.
“Nothing like him. He’s an imposter. Or was.”
I can’t help but curl my lip—that stupid rapper has transformed all my glory into dark rhyming slurs. No one can hear my name anymore without thinking of feuds and mayhem when all I am about is calm and nature. I was a farmer before I was taken but, apparently, being a gangster is more glamorous.
More worthy of google searches.
I have to resist blowing a raspberry.
“His music was C-R-A-P.” (See what I did there? I’m pretty proud of myself.) “I was around for centuries before he was.”
My cellie’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh, so, you’re ancient. Wow. I’m only twenty-seven.”
Her eyes flicker around the cell and she sits down on my bed.
The sight of her on my bed sets off a whole new round of sunrise, sunset.
Fuck me.
(I wish she would.)
“I’m Val.”
“Val.”
I let her name roll around in my mouth like chocolate—it sounds just as decadent.
“So, um, Tupac, sir … I mean … um, how do you prefer to be addressed? Your Radiance? Mr. Tupac? Grandpa?”
She bites her lip.
I swallow hard. She didn’t just sir me. Why is she being all respectful? Horror rushes through me—does she think I’m old?! My libido falls to his knees like Marlon Brando crying ‘Stella!’—this cannot be happening! We’re demis. We live thousands of years; some of us are even immortal. Surely she’s slept with someone fifty times her age before—oh, just that thought makes my sun throb in angry heat. Nope.
Can’t picture that—don’t want to.
But if she is that innocent … my mind whirls at all the delicious ways I could corrupt her. I can show her that centuries of experience are a good thing—not a bad thing. I wonder if she’s read the human book Twilight—that got passed around the prison like an STD (As did Fifty Shades of Gray—I liked Twilight better). I try to remember who has the copy now as I answer her.
“You can just call me Tupac, though my prison nickname is Lover,” I purr seductively with a smile as bright as midday.
“No, it’s not!” Blimpy yells from his cell.
I turn to see him standing at the bars, staring at Val like she’s the first rain cloud to travel through the desert sky in months.
I step in the way of his view.
“Don’t listen to Blimpy,” I tell her. “So, what trumped up charge are you in for?”
Val grins.
“Oh, it’s not trumped up. I gave all the gods of Asgard the runs and hid the toilet paper—it was a literal shit storm,” she laughs.
I cock my head, confused.
“But …”
Her smile widens.
“I got arrested on purpose,” she clarifies.
“Why would you want to come here?!”
I’m eternally grateful she’s here—but that makes zero sense.
“Because …” Val’s explanation, whatever it is, gets lost when she reaches down the middle of her shirt and touches her boobs.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.
Fuck yes.
But she doesn’t start to tweak her nipples like I’m hoping.
Instead, she pulls something out of her shirt—and it’s not her bra.
Huge sigh of disappointment.
It’s a hammer. . . a tiny, two inch tall hammer—like a child’s toy.
I blink and try to clear my head from the gutter, I mean its confusion.
“I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
Val’s grin grows wider.
“I said—I’m gonna bust us all out of here.”
It dawns on me she doesn’t mean bust a nut—this Chiquita Banana has an escape plan.
9
Val
I watch Dad’s hammer grow in my hands until it’s a giant mallet, still marveling at the fact that Mjölnir let me pick it up in the first place. That was, by far, the trickiest part of my plan because Mjoli seems to have a conscious mind of its own—only the worthy can pick it up and all that.
I’d wrapped my hand in one of Dad’s old t-shirts just in case, but Mjoli had come along nice and easy and when I’d whispered to ask it to shrink, it had. The huge-ass sentient hammer had shrunk to the size of a toothpick and let me shove it in my bra. Once there, I’d heard a little creak and the metal had gently wrapped around my breast like an underwire. Part of me had wondered if Mjoli’s conscience was male at that point but, ultimately, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that I break Asteio out of Ra’s turd of a prison.
I use Mjoli to smash the cuffs chained around my ankles; then, I stand in my cell. My tall, swoon-worthy, and incredibly old cellmate gapes at me as I study the welds on the hinges.
“What is that?” he breathes.
I don’t answer. I change the subject. If this fails, I might still be able to hide my weapon and try again. But I definitely won’t be able to do anything if he spills the beans. “Do you know how to get outside?” I ask him. “If I break down the cell door, do you know the way?”
Lover just shakes his head. I can’t call him Tupac in my head—that just gets too confusing because Dot had liked rap music. So, Lover it is—even though that feels like a weird thing to say to a guy who walks around in patterned underwear. I don’t think he’s gotten the memo that only seven-year-old girls wear suns on their panties. But that’s what happens when you are a demigod who’s old—you lose touch with reality … and what’s hip.
I swallow the thought that I will one day be that embarrassing. Then, I decide I’m being just as petty as my step sister, Skanky. And that is a definite no-go in my book. Number one life goal: Do not be Skanky. So, I shove aside any judgement against Lover, who has been nothing but welcoming since I arrived. He didn’t even challenge me to a prison fight or anything, even though I could tell I sat down on his bed. It smelled like him, like warmth and fresh streams somehow, which should be impossible in this dark place—but demigods can often do impossible things.
I turn back to the hinges on our cell door to study them some more. They look normal enough, but with gods, you can never tell. Ra isn’t known as a trickster god, thank goodness. If Uncle Loki had built a prison, it would be much harder to break out of—I can guarantee that.
As I bend forward to inspect the bottom hinge, Lover squeaks behind me.
Did he stub his toe?
I don’t turn to look because some heavy set dude from across the hall sticks an arm through his cell. “Psst. Hey gorgeous, if you free yourselves, would you mind freeing me too?”
I look over at him and then back at the hinges. “That’s the plan. Full scale prison riot.”
I lift the hammer, about to take a swing, when this beetle on the wall flies into my face. And—like most girls—I frickin’ shriek and step back.
I squawk again when the beetle starts to transform into a man. I watch as wings turn into arms and its spindly insect legs grow into tall, muscled pillars.
Shit!
I thought this prison stifled most demigod magic! At least … it stifled the magic that would help them escape.
Becoming a beetle would definitely make that list.
Which means this isn’t a demigod.
It’s a god. Only full god magic isn’t stifled in this prison. It’s why I brought the hammer.
Lover and I are both frozen in place as magic swirls around us and a devastatingly handsome god presses against my chest.
Not just any god, the hot Egyptian prison guard who’d just made me orgasm like my afterlife (not just my life, but my freaking eternity) depended on it.
My cheeks flame.
Dammit.
It’s Bi-Polar.
I’m caught before I even got started.
Lover gives a screech and charges at the guard, shouting, “Run, Val!”
That definitely earns him chivalry points.
Lover slams into the Bi-Polar and pins him to the wall for a second, before the guard turns his deep blue, kohl-lined eyes to me. “I will help you.”
My eyes widen.
Lover chuckles and slams the guard harder into the stone wall. I can’t help how my eyes slip to see how well-defined Lover’s ass is. There’s no embroidery blocking the rear view and his muscled ass cheeks flex as he holds the full god against the wall.
“Yeah, right. Why would you help us escape? I’ve been here for centuries, Khepri,” Lover snarls.
I look back at the full god, whose eyes flare with heat.
“I’ve been planning a break out for centuries.”
