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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

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Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader Theseus is dead. You’re escorting the Minotaur, more beast than a man, out of the Labyrinth. The problem is, he seems to be more interested in what’s between your legs than in his mission of killing the notorious king of Crete… (12 k. Minotaur is not an actual hybrid in this fic. Reader is Hecate’s initiate. Part 1 here.) Tags/warnings: Shameless smut mdni, dubious consent, extremely possessive behaviour, abduction, first time (König & reader are both virgins), hugs & cuddles, washing blood off your monster boyfriend, awkward flirting, semi-rough sex, shifting power dynamics, sexist insults & slurs (the citizens of Crete do not approve of your choices), implied cannibalism, fluffy ending. Mythical AU.

The candle goes out before you reach the surface.

To someone else, it would be the end of the world: to you, it’s only a hindrance, a nuisance, mostly.

You’re not easily distressed. If you were, you wouldn’t be in the service of the greatest goddess of the Underworld. And you’re not mourning losing the sight of your warmly illuminated beast... You’re only worried about what he will do once the darkness descends. Whether he will forget about his vow, whether the baser instincts take over him once the darkness falls.

And darkness is not capable of making you lost: you can always follow the string in your hand. But without light, it’s difficult to predict the Bull’s moves: whether he decides to maim or fuck you against the wall, you can never tell. He hasn’t lived in the real world among people; he doesn’t know what’s right or wrong and what’s expected of him. Even the best of men can succumb to the demands of the flesh, so what power would a Bull Man have against his animal wants? No one ever taught him to respect the gods, let alone the maidens who serve them...

Then again, if a simple candle was the only thing that kept you alive, then what’s the point of lamenting the loss of it? Your life was already forfeit when you chose to descend here.

So you let it go: as always, the greatest lesson in life is to simply let go. Of control, of judgment, of fear, of hope.

He doesn’t say a thing when the light flickers, then fades. The candle goes out in silence, and you let it drop before the remaining wax burns your palm.

And it’s not the absence of light, but strength, that forces you on your knees before even an hour has passed. There’s still a long way to go, and the yarn is like a thin string of hope in your hand, but you’re too exhausted, too worn out, too hungry and too tired to go on.

The Bull Man doesn’t object to your suggestion to lay down and sleep for a while. He has walked behind you in silence the whole day. Or night… You can’t tell the difference; you lost count somewhere along the way down here. The air is stale and humid, and there’s no torch, not a single candle anywhere and even if there were, you wouldn’t do anything with them without a flint.

The horror is kept at bay only through your numerous exercises with the goddess who introduced you to darkness many, many moons ago. You were initiated during the dark Moon, the new Moon, the blood Moon, introduced to the mysteries of the maiden, mother and crone, to the secrets of both the living and the dead. You’re not afraid, but your body still warns you of danger: you just don’t know if it’s a memory from childhood or a reaction to the Bull, panting behind you – out of lust or exertion, you don’t even know. Someone who wasn’t a maiden probably could tell… At times, you curse the fact that there hasn’t been a single phallus inside you because men too possess knowledge. Taking a man into your bed would have initiated you to a different set of mysteries, but now, you are poking blind.

The Bull Man is an animal, you remind yourself. The longer you stay in his company, the more he starts to resemble a human, even if he is a man of few words. How he even remembers them is another mystery: you thought he was sent down here as a young boy. He speaks oddly but eloquently, a remnant of his noble descent, perhaps. Or perhaps he has listened to the people speaking in the Labyrinth, eavesdropped his victims an hour or two before killing them. Whatever the reason, you have to constantly tie your tongue because there’s simply no point in talking to a beast. The less you know about him and his past, the better.

You ready yourself for sleep, but the cursed cold of the tunnels keeps your body awake. Your flesh is human even if your mind is forged to withstand hunger, thirst and pain. Endurance against cold was never your strong suit, and you miss the heat of the sun, the warmth of it on your skin, even the ample light it gives. You, a lover of the moon, missing the heat of Apollo… It’s a joke, surely.

On the stone floor, it’s even colder, the rough, damp ground making your very bones ache. How on Hecate’s name has the beast survived this place?

“Bull Man,” you speak into the darkness, thick like an impenetrable wall and thin like a virgin’s veil.

“Maiden,” he echoes with a dark, low growl, slightly amused by the name you’ve selected for him.

“Are you cold?” You whisper.

Perhaps he doesn’t quite understand the question or why you asked it. It doesn’t matter: you have to swallow your pride and ask for his help if you’re going to survive this dark prison.

“I don’t get cold,” he finally responds.

“Good. I need your heat.”

The silence drags on, and you fear he has misunderstood you again, but then he speaks again, with the same slightly amused tone as before.

“Come take it.”

You’re not sure if you’ve completely lost your mind, crawling to him through the uneven floor of the Labyrinth. Who knows what he will do to you once he gets those arms of iron around you? You’re placing your maidenhood, your whole body at his mercy. And you’re not even sure if it’s a he, if this thing is human at all.

Human or animal, your hand meets the bull’s head on the way to him. He has taken it off, then... It’s not a part of him, just like you suspected. Maybe he is just a giant, daunting man, born from whatever forbidden desire Pasiphae had. Who knows if she only went to a foreign lover’s arms when her husband was at war? Who knows if King Minos has trouble getting his phallus up… These things happen: women get pregnant from their lovers, they do desperate things to pacify their husbands. And you don’t need a bull to get yourself an heir...

You feel his heat before you feel his skin: the Minotaur is verily blazing. He has gotten used to the cold, it seems, his body like a small bonfire in the clammy tunnel.

“Cold little female,” he comments when you snuggle towards him shyly, thoroughly aware of the uninviting chill of your body.

You settle next to him, every muscle in your body tight like a bowstring, your breaths shallow when he gives you a welcoming rumble. Goosebumps prickle across your skin and your throat goes dry, the thick swallow in the tunnel echoing around you like a thief.

Arms like iron go around you, and his body is taut, just like yours, but for a whole different reason entirely. He’s not afraid or nervous; he’s just… big. Pure muscle, his whole body thick, the stock and heat of him remind you of the sun. A miniature sun down here in these dark tunnels, but while you start to slowly soften in his arms, a different threat is already emerging. It doesn’t take long before his cock stiffens against you, and with the scarce clothing you both have, you can feel its every excited twitch.

Artemis… Protect me from this beast. Turn him into a dog if he tries to penetrate me. Let him rip my throat instead…

You’ve never prayed to the Virgin Goddess; you don’t know if she can even hear you from down here. But Hecate would only laugh if this Bull decided to breed you. No mercy would arrive from that direction: she would either send a disease of blisters upon the Minotaur for touching her chosen or then she would cackle like an old woman, thousand times raped.

“Thank you,” you whisper, hoping your kindness will distract him from what’s happening downstairs.

“My pleasure,” he grumbles, mimicking the words he probably heard as a child in his father’s great hall.

It sends a chill down your spine and butterflies into your heart to hear him speak like a polite man of court. And again, you think of asking him about his childhood... His mother, his father, the things he remembers from the surface. How he survived here without water, if there are underground springs here somewhere. Whether he eats humans like they say... If he ever embraced the dead women he killed.

“Can you do it again,” he rumbles against you, cutting you away from your grotesque thoughts.

“...Do what again?”

“Touch me… With your hand.”

His words are blunt now, his speech clumsy. But the way he says it is not an order. It’s an odd beg, more like. Laced with hope and wishes far away from greed. This Bull is never greedy, per se… He’s just lacking. Starved, for so many things that you fear there’s not enough time nor kindness to give him what he needs.

Your pulse flutters when you slowly lift your hand and caress the strong cords of muscle that make his neck. The rumbling returns; it turns into a low purr as the beast relaxes under your touch. Something softens inside you when he sighs from relief. His unbridled happiness tugs at your heart, trying to yank open something forbidden. It’s the softest violation you’ve ever felt: to be held by a giant killer having a roaring erection, while the said killer clearly enjoys your caress like it’s the touch of Aphrodite herself…

You even stroke his face. His jaw, unclenching under your touch; his cheek, covered with what you suppose is simply a wild, overgrown beard.

“Your hand,” he groans softly, “makes me sleepy and warm…”

The cold, uncaring goddess recedes. The burdens of past, present and future dissolve. Softness takes place in your heart; the iron locks give in like brittle brass. A smile plays on your lips as you continue to pet him softly, lulling you both to sleep with your voice.

“Then sleep, Bull of Crete...”

…

You wake up to his cock pressing against you.

Not against your stomach like when you went to sleep – that you could do with – but against your cunt, barely veiled by the thin linen of your dress.

The panic is soon wrestled down with reason: you tell yourself it’s just a cock. It’s just him. You’re simply in the Minotaur’s arms, and he’s sound asleep still; there’s no reason to buck and jerk and scream.

The darkness feels like a safe womb now, but with nothing to lock your gaze to, you have to take a moment to ground yourself into reality. And the first thing you ground into is a thick cockhead, pressing fast into your nether lips. He’s practically at the gates, and you’re lucky he’s still asleep.

It’s perhaps your fault this happened in the first place: you notice you’ve dragged your thigh over his hip; as if wanting him to fuck you in your sleep… You embrace him like Helen of Troy, and he holds you through his sleep like a man in love, perfectly content with napping on the cold ground with you.

“Mm…” The beast stirs, probably noticing how the female in his arms is tense as a rod. “You smell like you want to fuck…”

“No I don’t,” you hurry to whisper.

Gods curse this man’s ability to smell everything from miles away. Blood and humans and, apparently, a woman at her most receptive.

What if he can actually smell the wetness between your legs?

“We need to go,” you slowly remove your leg from on top of his waist, hoping it would go unnoticed that you were clutching him like a lover. You have no such luck: he grabs your thigh and draws it back, sets it safe and snug around his waist while adjusting his grip on you, now hugging you entirely like a lover would.

“I want to mate with you,” he says softly. “You want to mate too. Why go?”

He sounds so adorable when he’s still in the process of waking up to a new day. Drowsy and sweet, voice husky from sleep, body warm as can be, the hard-on between his legs happy and stiff.

“I thought you wanted to kill the king,” you try to point out.

“This is more important,” he gruffs. “Urgent.”

The cock pushes further up and against you, now spreading your folds under the dress, trying to penetrate into your heat. Your eyes go wide as thick need pools down to meet his greed. His body, his cock makes your head go dull for a moment; you feel like you’re not even capable of thinking actual thoughts.

“No, it’s not. We need to get up.”

You stiffen in his arms, push yourself away, and to your surprise, he actually lets you go. Reluctantly and with a hollow grunt, but he lets you go.

You rise with a wobble, and adjust your dress, your head spinning from his advances. You swear he becomes more man-like every day, every passing hour, even. Or is it just you who’s changing…?

The Bull Man is up before you get to ponder on that thought for too long. Your heart and head struggle to find their footing for a moment, your legs are so weak you feel like fainting. He catches you before you fall, the warm, thick arms closing around you with stout affection.

“You need more heat?” He asks softly.

You look up out of habit, even if you can't see his eyes, covered by the carcass again because his voice is muffled.

“No… I’m hungry.”

He’s silent for a moment, probably thinking what he could do to help the situation. You fear he will suggest you go back to visit his “pantry” and eat whatever horrible, half-rotten man-flesh he might have in store there, but he only holds you close to prevent you from sliding back to the ground.

“Hmm. No mice up here,” he ponders.

“You eat mice…?”

“Sometimes.”

You leave it at that: you don’t want to know what he’s had to do to sustain himself down here. You don’t even have a fire to cook the vermin, even if you would be ready to eat even those after another day or two without food.

“Not a long way up,” he says. “We will reach the sun soon. Then I’ll find you something to eat.”

“How do you know that…?”

“The air smells different.”

You sigh and search for the string, your lifeline to the outside world. You can’t wait to get out of here, and with both hurry and an odd dread, you hike for what seems like another whole day. Tension, hunger and thirst distort your thoughts, and you’re sure by now that the time flows differently here in the Underworld. With no small amount of pride, you feel accomplished to have survived this place so far. Even gods have had to do some tricks to escape the nether worlds: it is no small feat to charm the Minotaur and then walk out of here unharmed.

To your knowledge, you’re the only one who has ever escaped the Labyrinth. You haven’t even had time to think about what you will unleash with you… The demon that walks on your heels will take his revenge, not only on the king but on the city who threw him here.

Well. It’s their problem now. Minos and Pasiphae simply have to deal with their successor. The world will simply have to deal with the Underworld’s wrath.

And oh, how Hecate would laugh if she saw this monster prince of Crete escape his prison because of you – the feared Minotaur set free, only because he’s mesmerized by a woman. You suspect he would have his cock jumping for any girl, though. It's not because you're an exceptional sorceress that he follows you: it's your cunt he's after. And it shouldn’t make you feel jealous that he probably gets distracted the moment he sees a better offer walk by.

But it does. In your darkest wishes, you would keep the Bull Man all to yourself. Get him a leash, perhaps... Feed him with your own hands and let him grope you in the dark, watch him go wild from lust when you finally give him access to your cunt.

Many would hardly think you’re a virgin if they took a peek inside your head. But the things you’ve seen and done, the white bulls you’ve slaughtered for the dark Goddess, adorning them with cypress wreaths before slashing their throats open, would turn any woman bleak and twisted like this. For once, you would like to save the bull from slaughter.

When you see the first evidence of light, your body lets out a sigh it has been holding ever since you arrived here. Seeing the sun gives you more strength than any food or meal, and you pick up your pace while the Minotaur behind you begins to hesitate.

“It’s too bright,” he says before you’ve even walked out of the tunnel, now turning into a vast cave, the entrance to the Labyrinth.

You turn around to look and stop in your tracks when you see the fear in his eyes is acute. It’s mixed with wonder, the curiosity wrestling away doubt slowly but surely. He only needs a little nudge, a gentle pull, an enticing little smile and eyes that he can trust.

“You’ll get used to it soon,” you extend your hand.

He takes a step, then another, then another, until he reaches your outstretched fingers, and hand in hand you walk out of the Labyrinth and into the bright morning sun, burning over the kingdom of Crete.

He’s only a breath away from panicking, but covers it well. You wonder if it’s truly the light that’s too bright or if the feeling of being so exposed is what makes him so afraid. Clearly, the vast space opening up before him is intimidating.

There are grassy plains as far as the eye can see, little hills that dot the horizon, and skies so expansive and bright it must hurt his eyes. Goats are grazing under the sun, trees are bending in the wind, the rustling of leaves and the sound of birds calling him to look in all directions as he tries to make some sense of his surroundings.

“It’s alright,” you give his palm a soft squeeze, and the way he looks there under the sun, so big and powerful and able, and still so utterly lost, is giving you heartache you haven’t known since you were a child.

“There’s… so many colours,” he says, looking at the blue summer sky, the deep olive greens, the dirty whiteness of the goats, the flowers upon the grass. A butterfly, flying past, yellow like the citrus that people harvest from a few miles from here. A big blackbird with an orange beak, swooping down to catch a cricket, the slate grey pigeons flying so close to the sun that he has to shield his eyes even if they’re already safe and sheltered under the bull head.

Seeing his wonder and awe makes you look at the scenery so differently that it burns, it actually hurts: there’s so much beauty in the world, and you have always taken it for granted. Cursed the rain and the storms, cursed the droughts, cursed the gods for sending down another famine, when in truth, the world was filled with abundance, of colours, of life and joy… And all you’ve done is worship darkness. Now the darkness is out: it’s standing next to you, watching the view of your mundane everyday life like it’s nothing short of a miracle.

And when you turn back to look at him again, his eyes are upon you.

“What?” You ask, freshly caught in your moment of weakness.

“You are pretty,” he says, eyes wrinkling with delight under the mask.

Gods damn him…

He doesn’t know that human men don’t act like this, talk like this, or if they do, there’s usually something vile involved behind it all. He doesn’t know how to play games, he was never introduced to the lies and deceit of the world.

The Bull of Crete only looks at you with soft fondness in his stare – he doesn’t understand that he should cover that softness as well if he intends to win. Any woman could put a leash on him before another moon has passed, but he doesn’t seem to care. And it’s not even heat or hunger that makes you weak this time... It’s those eyes, looking at you with more and more warmth.

“Nonsense,” you huff without a voice, and turn towards the old road with an adoring bull on your heels.

The cold sigh of the underworld is quickly left behind you as you walk up the old carriage road, nearly grown in with weeds. The Labyrinth is located miles away from civilization, but the people living in these hills are used to the cold cave by now. They trust that the Minotaur will never escape and only turn away their heads and close the doors of their huts when the screaming, crying human sacrifices are delivered to the mouth of the cave. Little do they know that the monster is now looking at their little hills and goats with delight, not bloodlust.

For the Minotaur is fascinated with your world: he has to touch every leaf, every tree, every blade of grass, it seems. The goats are afraid of him, but one small nanny is bold enough to come and sniff his hand. Perhaps it remembers that beings walking on two feet give her apples sometimes, and the giant studies this small white animal with gentle curiosity, allows the goat to smell his hand, only chuckles when the goat gives out a little scoff when she notices there are no treats to be found there.

The vision is more adorable than when you’ve seen children play with kittens, and no matter what you do, you can’t turn your heart into ice anymore. You were taught that the Minotaur is a monster who enjoys torturing his victims, creatures far more helpless than him. Now you see him watching the she-goat with warm curiosity, rumbling softly inside his helm, far from the ravaging beast that approached you in that tunnel what seems like months ago.

You watch him with tender sadness as he marvels at the sky and remembers how he used to sit in the shade of an olive tree when he was a child. He goes to sit there now and examines how the sun filters through the massive branches of the tree as if trying to recall the memory.

He asks questions like: “How can you humans stand this heat?” or “Why is there only one road?” and listens to your answers carefully.

He says he can smell the sea, even if the salty water is miles and miles away, and gets curious about what’s behind that hill, or that one, what about that one… You wonder if he’s even interested in killing the king anymore and suggest that he could just forget about this cruel place and buy himself a sea voyage with that expensive sword. He could get rid of his helmet and ask if anyone needs a goat herd or an able-bodied man to help at construction sites or stables; he could get work from the docks any day, sail to Athens or some other big city, forge himself a new life.

But he doesn’t want to.

He says he has to avenge his mother who always cried when he was little.

More wretched tugs pull at your heart as you approach the city. The lovely summer’s day turns into a nightmare once people see who’s on his way to the heart of Crete.

You don’t understand their screams, not anymore, while only a few days ago you knew they preceded death. The Minotaur doesn’t kill anyone, mainly because he doesn’t have to. Everyone flees before his wake, people rush to their homes and bar the doors, even soldiers slip away to be with their loved ones or run to warn the king if they have any loyalty left.

You’re left to walk through the marketplace in settling dust and tense silence as the Bull Man explores the abundant samples of food on display. He has to have a taste of everything from all stands, but only after he has offered figs, olives, grain, grapes, grilled meat and fish to you first.

“Eat,” he says and shoves a handful of pine seeds your way. “You were hungry?”

“This is not the way to–” you ignore the food only through sheer willpower. “This is not right. People own these things. They sell them at the market, you need to pay for these.”

“Pay? With what?”

He looks at you for a moment, unable to recall what money is and how these things are supposed to work. He probably had his mother’s servants bring him everything he needed as a child anyway, so how could he know?

“They will take your hands for stealing,” you try to explain with softly building despair.

“I will take their heads before that.”

“The next king will hunt you down and punish you,” you rush after him, and when he won’t listen, you seize his hand and finally get him to halt. He looks down at the weak palm around his wrist, then raises his gaze to you.

“Bulls don’t have kings.”

Your attempts to tame him are futile. The things they’ve taught him to be are now being used as a way to escape responsibility, and while it’s none of your business, you refuse to let him believe that he is nothing more than an animal.

“You are not a bull,” you wail in frustration. “You’re a man.”

He hesitates, only for a moment; the gentle, loving gaze makes your legs weak.

“You’re the first to think that.”

Then he rips himself away from you, softly but sternly.

He doesn’t need directions to the palace: he knows he has to head for the most prominent building in the city to reach the king. The grandiose heart of Crete, white-chalked and beautiful under the burning midday sun is the pride of every citizen, even if it houses another monster.

You sigh as you watch him go: the Bull Man, the demon of the underworld, the one you thought would rape you bloody before you get to crawl out of the Labyrinth. The fact that he wanted to kill his father more than he wanted to be born again into a new life wasn’t a surprise, but that he chose to bloody his sword rather than his cock is somehow... insulting, almost.

What actually haunts you is how your insides coil and turn when you rush back to your temple. It’s not like you thought the Minotaur would take you with him. Board some trade ship bound for distant shores, and ravage you ever so softly in the belly of the creaking hull. It’s not like you dreamed of petting him to sleep while you two embark on a new life. But the way your heart twists and wails inside your chest makes it clear that losing him is even more painful than losing Theseus and the life he promised you.

You never even wanted Theseus; you only wanted him to take you away from here. His affection would have been the result of ample witchcraft at best.

He’s practically already dead, and your heart turns to stone far more slowly than you would prefer. It’s just your luck to first have the golden hero of Greece look down on you in disdain, and then witness even the Bull Man walk away from you like you never meant anything to him. Men killing each other is the oldest story in the world, and you want no part in it, but something in this beast has stirred you awake from a long, cold slumber. It’s infuriating that you can’t dispel a simple animal from your heart. Oldest story in the book, that one, too…

But oh, how you now yearn after some cruel, lowly, dirty beast… The Minotaur already owns you, and he never even had to plunge his sword inside you to prove that. Besides, you would’ve been perfectly willing had he decided to take you on the green grass, under the vast sky, while some noisy goats graze around you. You realize that that’s what you expected to happen, and when it didn’t, you’re left more than disappointed: you're left completely hollow. You always find out these things a little too late, it seems… The Bull is headed for the palace and will likely get killed after he slaughters his cruel father. There’s at least thirty spears in that building, and more will arrive when called.

You arrive at the temple, panting and with your body flushed and weak. The maidens at the entrance share a quick glance with each other before turning their fearful gazes back to you. They’re the youngest arrivals, not even initiates yet; one of them hardly even bleeds.

“The King is dead,” you announce without bothering to even greet them, and the girls huddle up together like they’re a bunch of slaves about to get slapped.

You realize you must look like an animal with your dirty robes, dishevelled hair and your wild, alive stare. No wonder they look like they’ve seen a ghost... You basically are one, coming back from the dead like this.

“What?”

A priestess arrives at the threshold like an image of Hecate herself, dressed in robes as black as the midnight sky, but you don’t shy away from her like you used to.

“Or he will be. Soon. The Minotaur is here.”

“How did you… How did it...”

You’ve never seen the priestess in disarray. She’s always composed, cold and distant, but seeing you like the wraith that you are, freshly escaped from the Labyrinth, spat back from the bowels of the earth like the dark gods didn’t even want you there, makes even the greatest of Hecate’s servants a little uneasy.

She gathers what’s left of her dignity and finds her most commanding voice. Sadly, it doesn’t have the power to shake the ground anymore.

“Where is Theseus of Athens?”

“Disemboweled… is my best guess,” you say in a listless voice, then turn your head toward the smell of fresh fruit.

Normally, you would walk these halls with dignity, but now, you simply barge in and grab the first piece of food you find. You ought to get whipped for your insolence, but no one dares to raise a hand against you. The maids and priestesses stare in shock as you eat and drink like a starved prisoner. You’re a living Hecate in certain aspects, your arrival the first toll of the bell of doom as the palace guards sound the alarm.

So…

The Minotaur has reached the king.

…

The priestesses deem it only logical that the King finally pays for his sins: the gods have been offended by the number of human sacrifices sent to the Labyrinth, and this is their way of exacting revenge. You were only an instrument of their will.

After a quick wash and some more food, you begin to feel like a human again. The maids bring you a new chiton, flowing and white: your old clothes are burned in a brazier as if that would help you forget.

And this might be the only place you don’t get blamed for unleashing a monster. You were at a crossroads with the Minotaur, and anyone would have done the same: try to talk him out of his killing spree, calm him down, entice him with a gift. No one expected that the beast could even speak, so your approach was unusual, perhaps, but it worked. Hecate guided you through the tunnels, even when the candle went out, she stilled the Bull’s loins until you reached the sunlight where the beast got distracted with other things. You leave out the Minotaur's attraction to birds, bees and butterflies because your story is unbelievable enough as it is.

But the Minotaur will be slain after he has done his deed: Minos is the one who should be punished, not the city of Crete. And it is only just to put down this beast, a mercy.

So when he appears between the pillars of temple, this time wholly covered in blood, people are bound to scream. Even the priestesses who are used to seeing blood, shriek like widows when the Minotaur steps inside the holy shrine of Hecate.

“Where is the maiden of the crossroads?”

He came back for you, after all…

The boom of his voice is familiar, and yet, you cower on the bench when you hear it. The Minotaur sounds like he’s an envoy of Hades himself, and while you’re not among those who scream and yell, it still sends shivers down your spine to hear him speak like that.

Or is it the excitement, a tiny flame of hope that makes you quiver like this?

“We all belong to the goddess,” someone peeps, the Minotaur now descending down the stairs.

The massive head turns, gaze like razor sweeping across the marbled shrine. You’re so far back that he can’t catch you, sitting behind many bodies and faces, and before you can force yourself to rise, the main priestess, the oldest, most crooked of the crones, steps forth to meet this beast.

“This is a House of Hecate,” she speaks. “No man is allowed to enter unless they are Death.”

The black carcass turns, but the priestess doesn’t waver. If anything, her spine turns into unbreakable metal before this man’s gaze.

“I am Death,” he says, far more gently than anyone would expect. Then he walks past the crone like she’s just a harmless elder. No one does a thing, because even the head of your temple is powerless now.

“She had a red string and a candle. Where is she?”

He grabs the first woman he sees, and you rise up before he decides it’s time to thrust his blade into someone to loosen the tongues of these women.

“Please,” you take a hesitant step towards your Bull. “I’m here... I’m the one you’re looking for.”

The Minotaur lets go of the frightened initiate the instant he sees you. She’s shoved aside with little interest, the blue eyes behind the corpse now solely fixed on you. The way they soften into hazy ice makes your knees weak – that’s the stare of someone who recognizes their loved one among a thick, dull crowd…

“Come with me,” he extends a hand when he reaches you, strong legs swallowing tiles like he’s in a hurry to get back to you. You open your mouth, close it, and look at his hand, the rough, enormous palm held out for you to place your own little hand in.

“You belong to me,” he says with great weight when you don’t speak. It should spark the ire of the goddess for him to dare to talk to you like this… But mostly, your body sings. It tells you to take a step and take his hand: to let him have you, once and for all.

“My place is here,” you utter, all power gone from your voice. All your dreams, all your fears are offering their hand to you with his, and the maidens, mothers and crones of this hall look upon your exchange with the Bull Man in stupefied silence.

“You were sent down to me,” he presses on. “You are mine now. You belong to me.”

Your body is singing, singing, singing.

It’s not a request… Or a proposal.

It’s a god, taking what’s his.

…

You swallow with nothing in your throat and look at the head priestess with helpless misery: she looks back with the eyes of a noxious Medusa, wholly dispassionate to the problems you brought upon yourself. And what could she even do? She’s unarmed against the claims of Hades: Death is now in love with you, and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it.

He doesn’t want to stay in the city, as enchanting as it is, saying that it stinks and that he’s tired of the screams. No one wants him here; he already knows that, and the task he was meant to do is done. He doesn’t seem to be much moved by it either, only asking you if there is a place where he can wash the blood off himself.

People become more bold when they see you walk out of the city. Not even the sight of a crimson demigod makes them watch their tongues. Insults and slurs follow you through the streets, shouts such as “Kingslayer!” and “Beast!” are accompanied with curses such as “You are an abomination!” and “Go back to your lair!”

No one treats him as their prince and savior, no one sees him as the man he truly is. And because hatred thickens in crowds, you get your share of the insults as well.

What kind of a woman would follow a beast like him? Have you sold your soul to the demons of the desert, or has Hades himself forced you to be with this monster? Are you behind the murder of their king?

“Must I remind you?” You turn on your heels, standing tall and proud with the posture of a queen. “According to the old laws, the one who slays the king is the next to rule.”

“You led him out of the Labyrinth, didn’t you?” the voices ask.

“Gave him your cunt, too,” they sneer.

“You’re worse than the bloody Gorgon,” they mock, but you have a thick skin: if anything, you take it as a compliment to be referred to the mighty slayers of men.

What cuts through your heart is the filth and hate they spit at him, the man who has known nothing but loath since he was born.

“Hecate’s whore… I should kill you first,” one soldier shouts with spit running down his chin.

The citizens of Crete would never hail the Minotaur as their king, but none can say the deed didn’t prove great strength. Some would even call it justice. He is the queen’s son, after all: he’s more royal than any of these dung-stinking peasants will ever be. He should never have been sent down to those tunnels in the first place.

Before you know it, the Minotaur swoops past you in haste, diving towards the screaming crowd with hunched shoulders and a fiery breath.

“Stop,” you say, and he halts immediately, gaze still directed to the one who called you a whore. The soldiers back away along with the peasants and tradesmen, these poor, humble Cretes who act like they never meant to be so mean.

“Let us go in peace,” you command, voice unwavering and stern. “Or I will curse you all. You and your families, down to the seventh son and seventh daughter.”

That manages to shut them up. The threat of a curse frightens these poor beasts even more than the enraged Minotaur breathing fire through his helm. No one wants rot and puke to follow them wherever they go; no one wants to doom their offspring with illness, death and sorrow. They disperse in all directions and only hiss and whisper as they go.

You spit on the ground as your last gift to these people, leaving the city of Crete with the ever-adoring Bull at your heels.

“You’re even prettier when you’re angry,” he says while walking next to you, voice thick with genuine passion and awe.

You roll your eyes: any man would cower before Hecate’s curse, but this one? This one only gets more horny.

“Perhaps you are part bull after all,” you retort dryly.

“It takes more than one spear to kill me,” he boasts, but you don’t need more proof of his prowess. Surely, people have tried to kill him in the Labyrinth, but he’s survived every single attempt on his life – for that alone, he should be a decorated hero.

The only thing that makes you annoyed, however, is this childish need to prove he could’ve taken the whole city by himself just because some man happened to call you a slut.

“Mother said I’m a monster instead of a man,” he says, completely unaware that your snap wasn't meant as a compliment. He says it like he’s partly proud of it, and you finally sigh and turn.

“Your mother was heartless. And wrong.”

The Minotaur only looks at you with a building passion that goes straight to your loins.

“But you’re not.”

“...What?”

“Heartless.”

You feel stripped naked before him, the way his eyes seem to burn away your poor dress. But the fact that he unearths your most guarded secret, just like that, is a catastrophe of a far wider scale.

You’re not sure who’s tied to whom anymore… Or if you’re tied to each other, the gods now laughing in their wine as they look down at you two: a fierce and bloodied giant following the maiden he stole like it’s you who took him and not the other way around.

You reach the roaring waters of a waterfall in silence, the night wrapping the lands inside a dark blue veil. Stars will be visible soon, and with the moon creeping up to the sky, you won’t be needing candles tonight. The silver mistress gives plenty of light for you to admire your beast, and compared to the thick darkness of the tunnels you emerged from this morning, it feels like a generous blessing.

You sit on the banks of the small, clear pond, utterly exquisite at nightfall. The sun’s heat has turned into a warm, caressing breeze, and you submerge your feet into the water, giving out a satisfied sigh as the cool pond embraces your travel worn feet. The Bull sinks to a crouch some distance away from you, curious about your obvious moment of pleasure.

“Did you meet her…? Your mother?” You ask from the cool water lapping at your feet – how can a simple man make you feel so restless and shy?

“Did you… kill her?”

“She cursed me,” he says, sullen and wholly unsurprised. Time and time again, you are shocked by the hatred his own kin shows him. How can a mother be so cruel?

“How could I kill my own maker?”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “For everything.”

You swallow before such unwavering love. The same man who cursed the gods yesterday honours the womb he came from so much that he won’t raise a hand against it, not even when his own mother spits curses at him. You don’t know if it’s his greatest strength or biggest weakness, but sometimes you wonder if he’s more human than humans, this beast.

“I’m not,” he retorts immediately. “The king is dead. Mother is safe. I have you... This is the best day of my life.”

You turn to look at him. Time and again, the lack of lies and deceit in this man catches you off guard. It’s more painful than any wound, to see how the Minotaur has no protective skin against the corrupted human nature, that he is human nature before it was defiled.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you falter.

The chiton pools around your ankles, and you wonder if the man even breathes anymore. You know your skin is glowing with the last rays of the setting sun, you’re aware that the water and moonlight play upon your skin and make you look like an illusion, powerful in its own way.

When have you ever faltered…? Back when you were a little girl, you reckon, the notion euphoric and eerie in your bones.

You rise up and undress before him nonchalantly, trying to ignore the fervid stare of your admirer. Unclasping the brooches holding up your white linen dress, you let it fall down and set you free, secretly reveling in the downright carnal stare now glued to your skin.

Ripe for plucking, you think while stepping out of the pile of cloth and into the thin evening air. His gaze feasts on you: the plump breasts no one ever loved, the vulnerable navel down below, the dark triangle between your legs, the secret power it holds.

Heat pools into your core as you watch him: everything in your body turns warm and soft when you take in the utter heftiness of him. The mean, swelling phallus between his legs, the near inhuman strength those shoulders and chest possess. Your body is the complete opposite of him, ethereal, almost, compared to the absolute brute strength before you.

His eyes linger there the longest until he rises too, stiff and dreamy, a beast entirely taken by a thrall. The loincloth is practically torn away, as if it’s only a nuisance he must get rid of immediately. His eyes never leave your shape while he bares himself, and the phallus, you notice, belongs to a human. It’s thick and wondrous, fully erect, adorned with dark curls and accompanied by a set of balls you’ve mainly seen on horses. Big, full and round but unlike animals, they’re covered in dark fur, almost black here in the evening light. Thick seed beads through the slit of his cock from simply seeing you, and the way his chest heaves makes it clear that this man is ready to mate as soon as he’s allowed to do so.

“You need to take off your helm,” you lift your chin, thoroughly aware of your power over him, even if it’s laughable, a miracle that he doesn’t fuck you on the spot like the animal he is. “You’re a man, not a bull.”

His eyes don’t betray any kind of hesitation. He doesn’t seem to be interested in whether he wears his mask or not. He just blinks as if he’s indeed under a spell and nods.

“If you say so.”

The broad muscles flex as he takes it off, and what is revealed to you from underneath the head is both a surprise and a disappointment. There’s not a monster under there, only a man, a stoic, boorish, shaggy male who’s in desperate need of a wash and a comb. He’s somewhat handsome under all that facial hair and knots, actually, not bad at all – if you like your men rugged and wild.

He lets the head drop to the ground with a thud as if it was never a part of him at all, and follows you into the pool like you’re his mother and he’s your cub about to get scrubbed clean.

He seems to dwarf you, even when half submerged in the pond, leaning back with a sigh not unlike yours. If you’re afraid, your body has a peculiar way of showing it: even in the clear, glossy water, you can feel yourself get wet. Never have you seen such strength, not in any man: in horror and awe, you realize he could be a descendant of Zeus himself. As if providing proof to these claims, he looks up to the sky, mesmerized by the myriad stars dotting the vast, unattainable blue.

Using this momentary distraction to your advantage, you reach to pluck a handful of moss from the bank. With this soft little sponge in your hand, you hope to make it clear that this is indeed a bath, not foreplay.

“They’re stars,” you say softly while slinking closer to him. “Have you ever seen them...?”

“Yes,” he rasps with his head lolled back, throat completely exposed. It always hurts your heart to see that he trusts you so fully. You are no threat to him – even if the gods changed the moss in your hand into a weapon of some sort, you wouldn’t pose any kind of challenge. And still, the way he allows you to creep towards him and wipe his rough hide with the makeshift sponge without so much as flinching is heartbreaking.

“I have forgotten…” his voice drifts off as he examines the night sky, eyes filled with distant, glass-like delight.

“Beautiful, aren’t they...?”

“Your world is pretty,” he brings his gaze back to earth and to you. “But you’re the loveliest thing I’ve seen so far.”

You almost freeze upon hearing that. His compliments always catch you off guard, but this time, something forbidden and long forgotten comes undone: a lost want, no, a need to hear such simple words of shallow praise.

“You do not scream... You do not run. Why?”

Your eyes are liquid, glass about to break as you set yourself on the task of scrubbing him clean. You refuse to get emotional in front of him: an initiate of the dark goddess, shedding tears when a horny man calls her pretty? What utter nonsense.

But then he grabs your wrist: not to seize back power, but to prevent you from escaping this fragile moment.

“You are different,” he agrees calmly, then releases you, but you reckon it’s mostly because he misses the soft rubs you were giving him.

“Perhaps I’m crazy,” you breathe while looking at the damp curls on his chest.

Yes… That’s the only explanation for this madness. It has to be.

“Is that why you took me?”

“I took you because you’re mine. I want you.”

“You can’t just take what you want,” you warn softly.

“Why not?” His head tilts a little to the side as he’s trying to make sense of you and the manners of your world. “Don’t you want to be mine?”

You lift your gaze and risk a look into his eyes, stripped from all facades as always. You even catch a passing wave of worry there: he had counted on you being as fascinated with him as he is with you. The hunger behind that want, the need to be something special to you, is a whole another issue that must wait until your head is more clear. Way more clear…

“Perhaps,” you confess.

“I have nothing to give you,” he shrugs, eyes looking slightly past you this time, out of shame or anxiety. It takes a while for you to understand he’s liking you to the goods at the market and thinks he’s expected to have money to be able to keep you.

“You don’t need to pay for me,” you smile, trying your best to disguise the soft amusement in your voice. His brows only furrow as he tries to calculate and think.

“I don’t understand the rules of this world,” he finally shakes his head.

“I’ll teach you.”

For a while, he only looks on with fascination how you rub his arms and belly, basically massaging him with the wet moss. His eyes drift closed when you scrub the back of his neck, the stout erection only getting thicker under the cool water. You’re careful with his legs, not because you’re afraid he’s ticklish but because you try to avoid touching the huge cock already jutting up from happiness. It gives a few excited bounces when you wash his inner thighs, hopeful to get its needs satiated soon.

“I can hunt for you,” he suggests. “Bring you food… Protect you.”

He’s visibly excited when figuring out a way to give you something in return. He wants to provide offerings for your company, your lore, and eventually, your cunt, too. You might be a virgin, but you’re not stupid: of course he wants the soft, wet prize between your legs. A pair of lovely tits to squeeze at night... Ears to groan hushed confessions into, thighs to nibble, bite and suck until you cry...

“What do you think?” He asks, breath heavy from the bliss you’re already granting him by simply giving him a bath. “I could give you my heat. Please you...”

“You know how to please women?”

“No. But you could teach me.”

The way he says it is not shy. Only tentative. A bear, walking on ice and hoping it would carry his weight. One wrong step and the ice will swallow him, spitting out his bones only in spring.

And then…

“Do you know how to fuck?”

The ice holds, mainly because you’re too shocked to even slap or ridicule this man. His eyes bore into you with such unbridled greed that you have trouble keeping your precious pride intact.

“Of course,” you hear yourself whisper like it would be an insult to your intellect if you didn’t.

“Teach me,” he says, ever more greedily.

“I…”

Your jaw is left open, but not a word comes out. A strong palm closes around your wrist again, this time to bring you flush against him. The water laps at your skin, a distant crow cackles somewhere. Your hand is brought to his phallus, but he doesn’t have to wrap your fingers around it: you do it all by yourself, breath locked in your throat as you feel how hard and blazing he is.

“You want my cock,” he says, mouth only an inch from yours. “Don’t you...?”

You wet your lips – a mistake, because his half-lidded gaze darts to your mouth the instant your pink tongue lashes out. You’re in a predicament, but on the other hand, what else did you expect, taking your clothes off in front of a touch-starved bull?

“I’d give it to you happily,” he insists. “No female ever wanted to spread her legs for me.”

Or a leash.

Your fingers tighten on their own, they mould around him. Like a bond…

“Really?” You breathe. “What fools they were...”

The cock gives a full throb inside your palm, exalted to be yours. But only a moment later, the dreaded Minotaur moves.

You find yourself under him before you can even gasp for air: the soaked, hot body of a giant now pinning you on the grass and crushing you under it with ease. The weight of your error is fully pressed against you: he was never tamed, and you were a fool to think you could put him in chains.

The raw scent of earth and musk fills your nostrils, making the stars above you spin. His cock is trapped between your bodies, giving another rich pulse against your thigh. Gods, if he were throbbing like that inside you…

“You make my skin burn,” he growls into your ear, the heat of his skin now unbearable, the coarse hair prickling your skin from neck to thigh. “My loins, ache…”

“Are you a witch?” He asks, and you finally allow yourself to breathe.

If he only knew… But hexes and charms are of no use for you now: the only thing you can do is moan, apparently, as he dives for your neck, planting barbarous kisses on your skin.

Down, down, down he goes, pure avarice driving him to feast on every part of you. You’re too weak to stop him when he searches for the source of your intoxicating scent. Discovering it between your thighs, he dives nose-first into your sex, meeting your core with a hungry grunt.

Your back arcs with pleasure, your nails sink into his back: a funny thing to do when he’s already as close as can be. The trail of crude kisses leads him to your breasts, and you try to keep your whimpers in control, but a gasp erupts when he drags a hot tongue across your nipple. Massive palms close around your tits while you squirm in his hold: he doesn’t seem to be driven by the need to please you; rather, he wishes to study you first, examine how your body reacts to his groping. He leaves your breasts aching and sore, every bite and suck managing to make you wetter and wetter, your cunt screaming for attention by now.

“Gods...” you wriggle on the soft earthen bed, not expecting him to take you with his mouth first.

He withdraws, only a little, but his voice is surprisingly soft.

“Do I hurt you...?”

“No… But this is not mating…”

“Even I know that much,” he says darkly, and grabs you by the waist, moves you around like a doll until you find yourself on your belly.

He looks at you from between your thighs, demonic and keen. The broad shoulders force your legs wide apart when he’s seated there, waist-deep in the water, with you hauled to the shore like a siren.

Not a moment is wasted as he pulls you back to him by the hips: you’re drawn to all fours, a hot streak of cum dragging on the inside of your thigh from the cock that meets your skin. He grabs and steadies it with an annoyed grunt, and the fat tip is shoved straight into your folds, your nether lips parted with brute force almost.

“Guide me.”

His voice is demanding, impatient as he drags the fat head up and down the entrance of your hole, coating his cock with your slick in the process. You wonder if it’s instinctual, if he knows that this is where he should poke and that it will hurt you less if he’s well-oiled. He’s about to rut you into oblivion the instant you tell him where to shove his cock, and the prospect only sends more sap flowing down your thigh.

“There…” you stutter when he finds it, the aching spot that’s leaking profusely. He pushes the head in, not by teasing but by bullying, almost forcing it inside from how tight and unreceptive you are.

“Tighter than my fist,” is his only comment, and it makes you shudder. “I will not last long…”

You wince from the burn, but the rest of it glides in like a dream, and suddenly you’re filled, to the capacity, one could say. He grunts just from the way your womanhood is hugging him, not sure what this foreign object inside you is – is it a good thing or a threat?

“Easy then,” you breathe a huff into the sweet night air, filled with fireflies and night birds who know nothing about the fucking you’re about to go through.

He doesn’t move – inside you, that is. Outside, he crawls forward until he moulds around you, heavy body enveloping you completely. The hairs on his thighs tickle the back of your legs, his chest scrapes your back just so as he demonstrates how you belong to him in every way. But when your cunt starts to squeeze him again, he swallows thickly.

“Does this feel good to you too…?”

You catch faint confusion and concern in his voice, astonished that such a soft, frail body like yours can take his cock just like that. Little does he know you’re still adjusting to his size, thanking all the gods that he doesn’t move yet.

“Yes,” you confess because it does feel good: his thickness inside you, stretching you both gently and violently, studying how it feels to be inside a loving, wet heat.

“Then I will fuck you every day,” his lips come to brush your ear. “Many times...”

You hear yourself whimper, more humble now than ever. No man would dare to take you on all fours, but here you are, like a bought bride about to get stuffed…

He withdraws a little, asks, “Like this?” when he returns with a rough, nasty thrust. The balls meet your mound, heavy on the tender nub you’ve flicked when you’re lonely, covering your mouth while you do it. Both your hands are planted on the ground now, your legs spread before this beast, cunt filled to the brim with his cock.

“Not so rough,” you warn, and he heeds your instructions to the letter until he’s moving in and out with a slow, delicious pace that allows you to feel every thick bump of him. Soaked now down to your thighs, the sounds of your mating is utterly sloppy and slick, and of course he’s curious.

“Are you always like this…?”

“Like… what,” you huff in between the slow, torturous thrusts.

“Soft,” he rasps. “Tight… Wet like rain.”

“No. It’s just when…”

“When you want to fuck?”

You whimper for an answer, mostly because he starts to slip from the agreed sluggish pace. His cock invades you with more urgency, chasing the eruption that must be generous from those thick balls that should belong to a horse.

“I knew it…” he says dreamily behind you. “Some women want to mate with bulls...”

He punctuates his newfound pride with a full, deep thrust, and you wince.

“You’re not a–”

“Keep telling yourself that, little maiden.”

He exhales a hot smile next to your ear, and you’re neck deep in love. Your mouth hangs open, your lids half closed and fluttering from the way he pounds into your poor, abused cunt. Heavy balls slap your swollen nub with careless abandon, making you squeeze his thickness every time he hits the end of you. His grunts become more animalistic with every thrust, and your cunt is a wild thing, leaking and weeping and throbbing until you fear there’s something wrong with you – no woman is supposed to be this needy for a beast…

I’m going to come… You realize in horror as the slick sounds of fucking overthrow even the coursing roar of the waterfall. The knowledge shoots your body full of dark, hot ink; it explodes inside your core like a liquid star, throbbing through your cunt currently being ploughed like you’re nothing but a needy, sloppy hole for him. You’re swimming in so much pleasure that it’s almost painful, the revelation some secret of the gods, no doubt.

He growls when you moan, heavy arm snaking its way around your middle to keep you in place for him. The purr is eager and low, the rumble erupts from his chest like a thick, loving volcano, a statement of how perfect you are. He nuzzles his nose into your neck and rubs his scent all over you while fucking you through it, the divine rapture that leaves your throat dry from moans.

He doesn’t need to be told what it means when you’re crying like that: he doesn’t need to be explained that his cock is giving you ample pleasure. It’s so desperate, how much he wants to both fuck and please you, just own you and fulfill you, that you start to shake, your frail body not capable of handling the orgasm he just gave you.

Your strength fails, and you find yourself on your elbows, cunt even more exposed to him now, the cock pistoning into you with a relentless pace. He’s like a titan upon you, taking pleasure from your quivering, weak frame and the tight wet hole that belongs to it. You’re still in rapture when he starts to sound like broken, wounded man.

“You were made for me,” he huffs. “You were made...for me…”

His voice evaporates along with your thin, adoring mewls, just before he fucks himself over the edge. You can feel the hot, thick spurts, filling you as he roars into your hair, balls pressed flush against your sex, thighs meeting yours in a moment frozen in time.

They can probably hear him all the way to the city, hear what a cunt like yours does to an invincible beast like him… But his cries are only met with silence; the night sky looks back with disinterest, the birds continue their songs when they notice it was only the roar of a mighty beast that filled the land. Before long, he’s groaning above you, using your hole more softly; loving it until the last drop is milked.

When he stops, his whole body is trembling from release, but you’re not given a moment of reprieve. He forces you to the ground with him on your back, the rough, thick body never leaving yours. Coarse beard chafes your neck, his body trapping you completely under him, he even opens his jaw to take your shoulder between his teeth and bites you while his cock is still pulsing fat inside you.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he pants into your ear, angry, almost.

“Good,” you breathe a smile, but he’s not satisfied.

“You couldn’t get enough of me too… I noticed.”

“You gave me pleasure,” you agree. “Lots of it.”

“That was a lot of seed… I haven’t spilled in days.”

He huffs into your ear, astonished and proud that he could do such a thing. You feel him shift to take a better look at you, fingers arrive to graze your temple as if to make sure you’re real, as if having his cock inside you wasn’t enough proof of that. They’re a little shaky, a little uncouth, but the touch is gentle enough, and sweet.

He's boasting again perhaps, you don’t know, but you give him a soft laugh, notice how he stops breathing momentarily when hearing the bright sound.

“I am filled to the brim with you, yes… It will take a while before I can take more.”

“...You have other holes in you,” he offers after a while, quite seriously, in fact.

“Get off me, you beast,” you huff and squirm to get out from under him, but there’s a luscious grin on your face, a smile that tells him you would more than approve of his obscene ideas later.

“This feels good,” he murmurs into your hair. “This feels right...”

He allows you to leave from under him, only whines when his cock gets exiled from your cunt. He misses the wet heat like a newborn child misses the womb, but you need to recover from the recent invasion. Seed gushes out from your hole, making a mess on the ground as he pulls you against him, wanting to cuddle you next.

You wonder if he even knows what cuddling means as you lie there with a sticky mess between your legs and the heat of an entire sun on your cheeks. You smile into the coarse, sweaty body hair tickling your nose, deciding it doesn’t matter whether he knows or not: the most important thing is that he wants to hold you like this.

“Yes,” you smile. “This feels right…”

Something blooms in your chest. An odd flower, persistent and sweet.

The stars above are cold but motherly as they look down on you two: born again into a world that doesn’t want either of you. The only things that accept you now are flowers, birds, the wind and the rain, bees and salty sea, but that’s aplenty. That’s more than the whole of Crete could ever give you.

“Are you thinking about your hero,” he asks above you.

“What? No…”

“Good,” he rasps, so softly now that you start to fear he’s about to cry.

You are more than capable of lying, but Theseus hasn’t crossed your mind in hours: the last time it did, the memory was received with loath and disdain. Thinking about Theseus while you’re draped all over your Bull, his seed flowing out of your womb... What a ridiculous idea.

The reason for his hardly disguised anger is laid out plain before you: he's just jealous like any other man. Somehow, it makes you feel even more glowy inside.You’re my hero, you want to say, but have no courage to spill out the words. He was balls deep inside you mere moments ago, but telling him this intimate truth seems to be too much.

It never occurred to him, then, that you would enjoy copulating with him. He fucked you with the impression that you needed thoughts of another man to make you wet… That perhaps with the help of the image of Theseus in your mind, you were able to come with his cock inside you.

“My Bull,” you whisper. “Tell me your name. You must have a name…?”

His breath stops only for a moment, the heart in his chest gives an arduous beat before he answers.

“Asterion.”

Starry one…

Of course.

All monsters have names, usually the opposite of what they’re claimed to be. His birth is in heaven, in the stars; he belongs to the company of heroes and gods.

“Asterion,” you whisper it out into the night air while the animal an man both find their new home in your arms. “Your birth is written in the stars. Did you even know…?”

“Does that make me a hero?” He snorts, more old wounds torn open right before your eyes.

You wriggle yourself out of his hold, but he avoids your stare. You lift a hand to bring those beautiful Olympian eyes back to you.

“It makes you immortal.”

Perhaps you should’ve known he would be enticed with an apple instead of tethers and deals. Or with a palm, held out with no intent to strike…

It’s lovely, how he blinks every time he’s confused. You’ve yet to see him shy, but if he ever is, this might be the moment… You even catch him swallowing under that wild facial hair, an awkward blob right after that blink when his birthright is acknowledged.

But even more dumbfounded he becomes when he realizes you’re truly and veritably admiring him. When you whisper it to him – you’re my hero – and watch something shatter in him that was supposed to wrench itself free, that’s when he’s truly granted divinity.

Perhaps it was all about becoming animal again, allowing the other to have a sniff. Baring your throat and embracing the instinct to trust. Marrying your wild soul… The deepest magic of all.

#könig x reader #könig cod #könig x you #konig x reader #könig mw2 #konig x you #könig smut #könig fanfiction #konig smut #cod könig

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novelistwriter · 4 months ago

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Freedom brought from an accident

DP x DC Prompt

I've seen a few fics where Danny BECOMES disabled, so I decided to make a prompt where he is ALREADY disabled for someone to make a fic out of.

Danny had been born without the ability to move his legs too much. He could lift them up a few millimeters for some exercise for his legs to keep them healthy. He's been in a wheelchair since he started school, as his dad usually carried him before he was in school. When he got the wheelchair, his parents had modified Fentonworks to allow him to move around with it without much problems.

And because of his disability, he hasn't really been bullied too much. Tucker still became his first best friend when they were kids. Sam had taken a little longer to become his other best friend because of her parents doing all they could to keep her away from him. It was only through Ida that Sam was allowed to be with Danny when she scolded Jeremy and Pam for trying to control her granddaughters life.

When the accident in the portal happened, Danny could walk normally in his Ghost Half, but his human half still needed the wheelchair to move around. Danny enjoys being able to walk around like others in his Ghost form, but the things Vlad says to him about his disability are hurtful, not even Dash or the other A-listers go that far. And with those emotions in him from Vlad's hurtful words, he was able to beat Pariah Dark all by himself because those emotions gave him a boost in power because Realms Ghosts are emotional beings.

And then Danny's identity is revealed to his parents, and they attack him. Without his friends or sister to help him, he flees to Gotham.

And when he arrives in Gotham, it is through crash landing in a warehouse that's near the Batfam busting a big case that needed all hands on deck.

#danny phantom #dp x dc #dpxdc #dcu #dp crossover #ghost king danny #dp x dc prompt #batman

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cursedyuri · 10 months ago

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a blurb in which ellie’s a sex shop worker you’re becoming very, very well-acquainted with <3

18+ mdni! shoo!

you’re on the verge of what would be your most earth-shattering orgasm to date when your vibrator betrays you.

your naked body, painted with a thin layer of sweat, sprawls over the wrinkled sheets of your bed, the damp fabric clinging to your skin as you gasp for breath. you’re working the vibrator over your slick folds, through the creamy spend of your previous orgasm, and every sensation below your waist is pure ecstasy. it hasn’t taken long to bring you right back to the edge - your back arches of its own accord, your eyes squeezing shut as a flurry of daydreams passes through your head.

all of them, it turns out, involve the very person who’d sold you the vibrator buzzing between your legs. ellie.

her hands on your hips, your ass, your throat. her mouth on your neck, her tongue on your clit. you can almost feel the warm puffs of breath she’d huff down at you as she fucked you, splitting you open with her strap and leaving you empty-headed and spent.

the mental images alone are enough to send you reeling, and right as you’re about to pass the threshold into the white-hot, blinding pleasure of another orgasm, the persistent hum of your vibrator abruptly cuts off.

you could throw up. you could cry. you could exercise sound logic and just charge the damn thing, but instead of any of the above, you find yourself rummaging through your drawers for whatever clothes you can find. sweats and a band tee, a mismatched pair of socks. nothing else.

ellie’s behind the counter again when you pull the door open. the shrill chirp of the entrance sensors draws her eyes to you, and you’re unsurprised to find her smoking a cigarette, body huddled over the edge of the counter. her brows lift in surprise when she sees you.

“back already?” she asks, putting out her cig leisurely. “must’ve gone really well. or maybe really poorly?“

you don’t miss the way her eyes roam over your figure, lingering on your chest; you’re not wearing a bra, and the peaks of your nipples are visible beneath the thin fabric. your back straightens.

“it died.”

“oh,” ellie says. “did you… charge it?”

“no, i wanted to—i thought maybe i could try something else.” you chew at your lower lip, casting a glance at the wall of toys from which ellie had plucked your vibrating bullet the first time you’d come here. you turn back to ellie just in time to see something dark glimmer in her eyes. she nods.

“yeah, of course. think you’re ready for something more intense? c’mon.” she nods her head towards the toy section, her auburn hair cascading over her shoulder. you follow her and watch as she surveys the wall of toys, the sheer volume of packages just as overwhelming as last time. ellie reaches out for a hot pink box, shiny lettering spelling out Boss Lady across the top. you grimace.

“what kind of name is that for a sex toy?” you quip, reaching for the package. ellie snatches it out of reach.

“ah-ah, sweetheart, don’t doubt the Boss Lady. she packs quite the punch.”

“really, now?” you ask, cocking a brow. “you know from experience?”

ellie just smiles, dimples in her cheeks. “if the name is just too cringy for you, we can find something else. but i recommend her—i think you’ll have lots of fun with her.”

“okay, fine. you pulled my leg.” you reach for the box again, and ellie lets you grab it this time, her gaze on you as you flip the package over and read through some of the metallic pink text adorning the back. the only rabbit vibrator you’ll ever need, it reads. powerful dual stimulation will keep you satisfied!

it occurs to you then, as you follow ellie to the register and dig in your pockets for some cash, that you should probably be embarrassed. here you are, a week after your first ever vibrator purchase, ready to fork over some hard-earned cash for a second one—one with a questionable name, no less. your cheeks warm as ellie regards you from the other side of the register, the heels of her hands pressed to the counter. there’s a knowing look on her face, her lips curled into the faintest hint of a smirk, that dark look from earlier still dancing in her eyes.

god, she probably thinks you’re a sex addict. she totally thinks you’re a sex addict.

“is it weird that i’m back so soon?” you ask, before you can think to filter yourself. ellie’s brows knit together in confusion.

“huh? no, no, not at all—we have plenty of regulars, you know.” she types something into the register, eyes still fixed on you. “i’d say it’s weirder that you’re here at two in the morning.”

you blink. “two?”

“two twenty-one, to be precise.” ellie nods at the clock on the wall, the hour, minute, and second hands made of three different flesh-toned penis cutouts. “but hey, i get it. your vibrator died.”

you clear your throat. “how much do i owe you?”

“hm. well…” ellie drums her fingers on the cash wrap’s countertop. “i’m feeling generous tonight. answer one question for me, and Boss Lady is yours for free.”

“i’m awful at trivia,” you confess.

“trivia? jesus.” ellie barks a surprised laugh. “i’m not—it’s not trivia.”

narrowing your eyes, you shuffle up to the counter and nod. “okay, fine. ask away.”

ellie moves in closer, too, head dipping ever so slightly to allow her to peer down at you. it takes everything in you to keep your eyes from lingering over her frame and drinking in every inch of her: the bold lines of her forearm tattoo, the burn-holes in the collar of her shirt, the faint kiss of freckles on the bridge of her nose. but while you attempt to reign in your wandering gaze, ellie doesn’t hold back. she takes her time looking you over. bites the plush, pink swell of her lower lip.

then: “what were you thinking about?”

“huh?”

“earlier, when you were touching yourself. before the vibrator died. what were you thinking about?”

“that’s your question?” you chew on the inside of your cheek. embarrassment roils in your stomach; she has to know that, while your body writhed in the center of your mattress, cunt twitching and gushing, you’d been thinking of her.

ellie smirks. “you don’t need to answer if you don’t want to.”

“no, it’s… it’s okay,” you murmur. your palms are clammy and you force your gaze to Boss Lady, waiting patiently on the counter for her chance to help you see god. “i was thinking about, um… you, actually.”

you’re still staring at the gaudy pink package on the counter, hands squeezed into fists at your side. you can feel the half-moon indents of your nails digging into your palms, and just as the silence stretches a bit too long for your comfort, ellie laughs.

it’s a wicked thing, a biting sound. all self-satisfaction and enthrallment. you dare to steal a glance at her, and she’s grinning like a maniac, her cheeks tinged the prettiest shade of red.

“can i tell you something?” she asks, stuffing a hand into her pocket and pulling out a wad of cash. her fingers glide over the cash register, clicking at a few buttons, and she slides the money into each respective slot before pushing the drawer closed with a satisfying click. “i’ve been touching myself to the thought of you, too.”

mouth going dry, you gawk at ellie like she’s got four heads; she simply beams at you like she didn’t just admit that she’s thought about you with her hand between her legs. she leans over the counter, one strong hand reaching towards you to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“you seem nervous,” she says.

“i’m—i don’t…” you trail off, cheeks positively flaming.

“tell you what,” ellie begins, retracting her hand. she moves back from the counter and crosses her arms over her chest. your eyes flicker over the whorls of ink that decorate her skin, biceps flexed just so; your cunt throbs. “you can go now, if you want. i won’t stop you.”

“or,” she says, voice dipping low, husky, “you can lock that front door, and i can show you how much fun you can have with your new toy.”

she reaches a hand out and taps the box for emphasis, and you’re struck by how at ease she seems. how comfortable she is with your mutual attraction and the opportunity to act on it. it lights a fire in you, one that engulfs every last trace of doubt.

you lock the front door, of course.

#ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #ellie williams smut #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams #ellie smut #ellie tlou #ellie x you #ellie x y/n #ellie williams drabble #ellie williams fanfiction #ellie williams tlou #ellie fanfic #ellie x fem reader #ellie willams x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams fic #my writing

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malebodytf · 3 months ago

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“Ugh. Not again” said Nolan.

Every day, Nolan passed the chair, that one machine in the corner of the gym. And every day, it was there: a consistent shadow of sweat, like someone had sat there marinating in their own funk. And the culprit? Standing just a few feet away, near the pool of sweat, vacant eyes and jaw hanging like a brute, with a cocky smirk as he searched for his next chair victim. A massive, obnoxious, grunting slab of a man. A meathead in every sense of the word.

Nolan was never someone who sweat much. And even then, he was the clean type. A towel for every seat. Wipes before and after. Crisp. Respectful. He couldn’t understand how someone could treat a public space like that and still live so carefree.

All the other times, he refused to use any machine the gym gorilla had touched. But this time? This time, he’d had enough.

There it was in front of him. Damp. Glossy. Disgusting.

Nolan sighed. He pulled a handful of sanitized wipes and started scrubbing. The man’s scent was in the chair, like it had soaked into the very texture. Some of the droplets splashed onto his skin. He winced, wrinkling his nose.

But he needed this. He couldn’t let himself be overrun by that man’s dominance.

He sat. The faux leather was still warm. He shuddered but leaned into the exercise anyway. Basic dumbbells. Slow and controlled. Breathe in, exhale. Again.

Strangely, the movement felt good today. Maybe it was the rush of overcoming his disgust. Maybe something else. The reps felt easier. He was feeling the pump. His arms flexed just a bit fuller. Triceps popping. Abs feeling tight. His shirt clung a little tighter. And was that… sweat? Real drops on his forehead?

He stopped to drink water. Damn, he was sweating. And it felt... good. He felt big.

He continued. More sweat dripped, off his head, down his chest, soaking his shirt. Muscles pumped, biceps swelling. The dumbbells now heavier. His chest bloomed into two defined mounds, his shoulders broadening, shirt stretching tighter across his back. His breathing shifted, deeper, rougher. His voice dropped an octave.

He felt taller. Stronger. Powerful.

By the fourth set, his legs had thickened, quads like balloons, calves sculpted and solid. His glutes, rounded and tight. His breathing had shifted to deep, rhythmic grunts. He was a beast now, almost as massive as that original meathead. No... maybe more.

His shirt clung to his drenched body. He raised his arm, now covered in a dense patch of hair, and took a sniff.

Once, he would have never, not in public, not anywhere. But now? He sniffed again. Proudly.

His head felt foggy. Thoughts slowed, melted. But damn, bro, his smell? Delicious. Rank in the best way. Entrancing. A real man’s scent. He chuckled “huhuhu” deep and dumb, a laugh with no thought behind it.

For a flicker of a second, something inside him flinched. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t... Nolan.

But then, he flexed, and caught his reflection.

“Fuck…”

Veins pulsed, threatening to burst. His arms looked unreal. Sculpted. Huge. He grinned. Flexed harder. He looked swole.

He dropped the dumbbells with a satisfying clang. Heads turned. Yeah, let them think he was some rude, sweaty meathead. He didn’t care. In fact, he liked it.

He felt the final beads of sweat run down his body, the last traces of the man he used to be.

He slung a towel over his shoulder. Not to clean. Of course not. That was for massaging his biceps later.

Behind him, the chair remained, drenched. Wet. Stinky. Damp. Absolutely soaked in his sweat.

Nolan lifted his arms, stretched wide, took a deep breath of his own musk, and smirked. Anyone would be lucky to get a whiff of that manly essence.

#himbo #male tf #jockification #male transformation #mental change #dumber tf #reality change #sweaty muscle #muscle transformation

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toxicanonymity · 3 months ago

Note

hii angel!! i hope you’re doing well 💕

would it be okay if you made a drabble about going in for your yearly check up and pervy doctor!joel miller very shamelessly stares at ur cleavage and suggests (more like insists) he performs a breast exam?! hehehe

-🍰 anon

Bad Doctor, 18+

“Hey, not a lot of doctors will tell ya this, but cock is one of the best things you can put in your body.” He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head forward like he’d just let you in on a secret.

(dark) Dr. Joel Miller x f!reader | 2.1k Joel Masterlist | About my ask NOTES: ty for the ask, cake! Post-outbreak, doesn't have to worry about losing his license 😼 ✨️ WARNINGS: 18+ dubcon - power imbalance, inappropriate dirty talk touching sucking and arousal, drug use, shotgunning, pet names, praise, titty pronouns, discussion/misuse of women's health concerns for manipulation, medical disinformation, mention of future pregnancy & lactation PLEASE CHECK YOUR BREASTS and support cancer research. Gustave Rossy Cancer Campus Foundation Paris 💗

Part 2 / Part 3

“You practice safe smokin’?” Dr. Miller asked as he was about to light up the joint he rolled from the weed you provided as payment.

“Safe smoking?” You asked.

He shifted his weight onto one foot and held up the joint. “Only one way you should be smokin’, darlin’.”

He lit the joint, then walked over to the exam table where you sat with your legs over the edge, fully clothed. When he was almost up against you, he took your jaw in his hand. He brought his face nearly to yours. He let the cooled smoke out of his mouth slowly and you breathed in to accept it. He looked at your mouth with a little smile when he finished, then shamelessly eyed your cleavage. “Alright, let’s finish goin’ through these questions then get you outta here.”

He put out the joint, then sat back down on his rolling chair. He was manspreading broadly, with his crotch on full display. His scrubs left nothing to the imagination either. They were tight and he clearly had a big package. Big balls, too. His hands dwarfed your medical chart.

He looked up at you from above his glasses and asked, “Have you been taking a multivitamin?”

“Not as much as I should,” you answered.

“That's okay, baby. Just put it on your counter and take it when ya think about it, okay?” The pet name tickled your cheeks. “Okay, let's see,” he continued. “How ‘bout exercise? You movin’ around?”

“Yeah,” you said. “I'm pretty good about that.”

“Good girl,” he commended you. “Okay now, women’s health….Hows your period? You regular?”

“Regular enough.”

“Alright,” he chuckled. “Remember the last one?”

“Around the first of the month.”

“Good,” he muttered. “Sexual activity?”

“Uh, what about it?” you asked.

“Well, are ya havin’ enough sex, and how's it feelin’?”

“I guess it’s been a bit of a dry spell,” you said.

“Damn, no stories for me, then?”

You laughed.

“That’s a shame. I like hearin’ about that shit. Findin’ out who spits and who swallows. Which guys got a big dick or not.” He chuckled, then saw you didn’t know how to respond and added, “I’m kiddin’, darlin’. But really... good lookin’ girl like you? A dry spell?” He paused to look you over, before commiserating, “That is a real shame.”

Your upper body heated.

“Take care of yourself at least? Make yourself cum?”

When you hesitated to respond, he said, “Don't gotta answer that, but it's important, okay? Make sure ya do that.”

“How often?” you asked.

“Oh, once or twice a day should do ya… And if you're havin' trouble, sometimes direct contact can be too much. Try somethin’ else. Different angle, different pressure. Every woman's beautiful and different.”

“Thanks,” you said, feeling like his words were heartfelt.

“Bet you're beautiful when ya cum,” he muttered, then held his hand up in mock defense, with a smile. “Sorry, that won't go in your chart. Okay, still in the women's health section here.” He lifted up one page and looked at the next. “You do your monthly breast exam?”

“Um…. yyyeah, I try, I try to check regularly.” You answered.

“When's the last time ya did it?”

“Um…”

“Ain’t sure? You oughta be trackin’ that, baby. Tell ya what….”

He closed the chart and took off his glasses. “Let's take care of that while you're here. How's that?”

“Oh, um, you know, I could just do it when I get home,” you offered, feeling shy. Maybe if he wasn’t so hot, maybe if you weren’t so aware of his big dick in those tight scrubs, then it wouldn’t be so embarrassing.

“Well, I hate to say it, but I really should take care of this for ya…. Ya know, now that I'm aware, it wouldn't be right for me to send ya home when I coulda done this in five minutes. Alright, shirt off, sweetheart," and cracked a little side smile with a wink. "Let's see the girls."

Still manspreading on his rolling chair, he watched with his elbow on the counter and a pen in his mouth, looking you up and down as you took off your top.

“Alright,” his deep voice took on a softer, more intimate volume.

After dimming the lights, he approached slowly. “That's a little better, ain't it?” He asked, looking up at the fluorescent overhead light he had turned off. He laid his massive hands one on each knee and said, “spread’em, sweetheart. I need to get a little closer.” He helped you spread your legs, then reached around you and mumbled, “You know, a bra comin' off is one of the most beautiful sights.” He unhooked it and nudged the straps off your shoulder.

“There we go. Good girl,” he said, and admired them with an audible, “Mmm.”

“Well, they look healthy,” he said. “You got a real pretty pair here, baby. You can tell a lot about a woman by the shape of her breasts, by her nipples.”

“Really” you asked?

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “And by the way they feel, their density. It's all connected. Your whole–all your anatomy, your whole reproductive system, it's all connected….. Just from lookin’ at ya I can tell you’re real fertile. If you're looking to get knocked up, you’re in luck,” he chuckled. “And your milk supply will probably come in pretty quick, too.”

As he spoke, he began the breast exam with his fingers on the outside of each breast, cupping each one at the same time. “All right, good,” he said. I'm gonna check each one.”

For your first breast, he moved so one of his legs was on the outside of yours to get closer to that side. He caressed your hair and asked, “this okay?” As his other hand lifted your breast.

“Yeah,” you agreed, heart beating faster. Your chest buzzed with the weed.

He took in a long breath through his nose as he felt you. "She's got real nice milk ducts." He lifted your breast, pressed it up against your body, kneaded it, and kept glancing at your eyes. You were tingling between the legs already. He wet his lips, then used both hands in more of a clinical approach to feel around your breast, looking for any abnormalities.

“Okay, good,” he said to himself. “Shoulders back for me, sugar.”

You complied, making your breasts jut out a little more.

“Good girl,” he said. He caressed your breast from each side, then palmed it. “Mmm.. Now I'm gonna check your reflexes.”

He put your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, gently caressed it with his thumb, then squeezed a little. “Hmm,” he hummed as if unsure.

“What?” you asked.

Your nipple fully hardened and you got goosebumps. “A little slow, but that's okay,” he said. “Let's come back to that. It’s a real important indicator. Important for all kinds of stuff.”

When he moved to your other side, his package grazed your knee. Then he pressed his hips forward, and you felt the warm bulge in his scrubs. Your knee jerked away. “Oh, it’s alright. It's okay, baby," He said. "Don’t worry, you ain’t gonna hurt me….unless ya get feisty with me,” he chuckled. “All right, now let's see if she's sleepy like her sister.”

Your nipples were both relatively firm. He flattened his palm against it, let out a nearly silent grunt. His pupils were dilated. He caressed around the curve of your breast, then grabbed a handful, holding the weight in his hand, before dropping it.

“You got a real nice pair, sweetheart. Real healthy.” As he kneaded your breast, his manhood hardened against your knee. “Shit, I bet you drive the fellas crazy,” he said. “Pretty girl, pair of jugs like this. Mm-mm, mm-mm-mm.”

“Thanks,” you said.

“So what's stoppin’ ya?” he asked.

“From what?” you replied, already knowing what he meant.

“Keepin' that kitty nice and stuffed,” he chuckled.. “Hey, not a lot of doctors will tell you this, but cock is one of the best things you can put in your body.” He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head forward like he’d just let you in on a secret. He began to massage your breast idly as he spoke.

“Now, with your legs spread like that, I can tell you're turned on.”

Your face got hotter than it had ever been.

“I can smell it,” he explained.

You moved to close your legs, and he kept them open.

“No, that's a good thing, sugar. Means everything's workin’. Everything's workin’ fine…. We think… so far.

Alright,” he said as he stimulated your nipple. “Well, she's a little sleepy too. Tell ya what, we'll try a different stimulation.”

“Okay,” you agreed.

“And a little education never hurt either. You know what your nipples are for, darlin’? Two things. Pleasure and breastfeeding.

“So it's real important they react to a mouth and tongue.”

You looked at his mouth, and he wet his lips. “Cause pleasure’s important to help ya cum–and again, that’s real important, baby. And breastfeeding’s real important too, once ya have a baby.”

You sat silently awaiting his next move.

“Okay, so I'm just gonna make sure they're as reactive as they need to be…. get up on your knees for me, sweetheart.”

You complied, which put your breasts closer to his face.

“Good girl,” he said. “God damn, you look real good.” He palmed himself over his pants, then let out a low whistle. He lifted your breast and approached it with his face, making contact tongue first, then closing his lips around it.

He closed his lips, swirled his tongue, and sucked gently. You inhaled sharply and he looked up with a mischievous glint in his eye. He suckled at your tit until your nipples were painfully hard, then let go of it and cleared his throat. “Oh yeah, that's better….oh yeah.” He used his wrist to rub a visible erection through his obscene pants again. “Now let me get the other one real quick. It's already hard, but i just gotta make sure it's the same. Down the line, don’t wanna get in a situation where your milk supply is imbalanced– you know, once you have a baby.” He framed your nipple in the crook of his thumb. “And baby I’d kill to see you pregnant. Damn. You lemme know if you ever need help with that.”

You were throbbing wildly. He lifted your breast slightly before giving it a gentle kiss, looking up and making eye contact as he did it, then swirling his tongue around your already hard nipple, sucking it into his mouth. His tongue lapped just below your nipple, and he hummed, “Mmmn,” into your breast as he sucked.

After taking it out of his mouth, he said, “Good, real good.” He rested a hand on each of your thighs. “Now, you gotta promise me you're gonna do your breast check every month.”

“That whole thing?” you asked.

“Well, grab a partner, sweetheart. It can be one of your girlfriends. All else fails, you know where to find me, don’t ya?”

“Yeah,” you agreed.

“Anything else I can do before ya go?” he asked and ran his hands up your thighs, then squeezed them. .

“I think I’'m okay,” you said.

“You sure?” he asked and brought one of his hands between your legs. He two knucklesto ghost your cunt through your yoga pants, one on each side of your wet spot. Then he ghosted your clit with his thumb. “Don't be shy now,” his chest expanded with deeper breaths.

“I should really get going,” you said.

“Fair enough.” He put his glasses back on, stepped back, and said, “you can stop spreadin’ your legs now.” He squeezed the thick shape of his cock before telling you, “Make sure you come back in a year, okay?”

It felt abrupt.

“Wait,” you said as he turned to leave, with his silhouette sporting a significant bulge. You asked, “What if I need help or something? Just come back?”

“Yep. Sure thing, sweetheart.”

He came back to the bedside and cupped your cheek. “You're a beautiful girl, real healthy. Just make sure ya do what I said, okay? Take care of that sweet little pussy for me.”

“Okay, Dr. Miller.”

“Alright, take care now.”

Thank you for reading! 💕

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #dr. joel miller #doctor!joel miller #toxicanonymity ☠️#cw dubcon #🍰 anon #dark!joel miller

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sapphicandgraphic · 2 months ago

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Sick As A Dog—Chapter 4

Summary: You’re a dog walker. When your favorite clients notice you’re not feeling well, they insist on taking care of you.

Chapter: 4/? In which we discover the healing powers of Dr. Strange and finally get some clarity on where we stand with WandaNat.

Warnings: Mostly still fluff and sick!fic hurt/comfort with growing sexual tension and KISSING. That’s right. Also some allusions to parental abuse, family trauma, runaway experiences. Reader continues to struggle with accepting help, relying on others, and accepting self-worth.

A/N: Thank you to everyone for reading and commenting and getting in touch to request the next chapter! I’m planning to continue this story since it’s striking a chord with people. If you want to show me some love, please subscribe to my Patreon channel — you can vote on what happens next, and get early access to future chapter updates!

You woke in a warm tangle of flushed skin and heavy limbs. Sunshine was streaming in through the window, casting a bright, buttery column of light across the ceiling. The storm had passed, and you could hear a faint rumble of traffic outside. Horns honking, engines backfiring. For a few delicious, dumbfounded seconds you had no idea where you were—and you didn’t care.

You stretched, trying to shake off the tendrils of feverish discomfort. But as soon as you moved, you felt something tighten around your waist. You frowned in confusion, blinking sleepily as everything came into sharper focus. The blankets. The pillows. The toned arm flung across your stomach. Oh.

“Noooo,” the owner of the arm grumbled. “Too early.”

Lifting the corner of the blanket carefully, you discovered Natasha wedged beside you in the bed. Her face was half-buried in a pillow and she scrunched her nose in displeasure as light streamed into her carefully constructed cave.

“Too bright,” she whined. You felt a crooked smile working its way across your face.

“Someone’s not a morning person,” you said, voice scratchy and low.

On your other side was Wanda, looking composed and elegant and impossibly pretty even in her sleep. Her head was draped protectively across your chest, one leg slotted over your hips like a seatbelt holding you in place.

Most mornings you woke up alone, before the first rays of dawn stretched along the avenues. You had a ritual of sorts, moving through the shadows swiftly, mechanically—rolling out of bed, making coffee, exercising. Your routine had been your lifeline for the last decade, providing structure and stability and refuge. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d slept in so late. It was…really nice. Dangerously nice. Waking up with them felt like coming home.

Before you could examine that thought too deeply, a voice in your head issued an automatic, familiar warning: Don’t get used to it. This was just a one-time thing, you reminded yourself. The lazy grin slipped off your face, the warm, dreamy feeling in your chest fizzling.

Wanda’s eyes fluttered open. Her hand automatically reached up, touching your cheek, your clammy brow. The sensation of her fingers made you shiver. You couldn’t resist leaning in. You turned your head to face her in the same moment that she lifted hers, bringing you close enough to kiss. You froze, locked in the position.

“Morning,” you rasped.

Wanda shifted, bringing her knee up between your legs. Your hips jerked forward at the pressure and you inhaled sharply. Wanda glanced down at your mouth, exercising great restraint as she finally tore her gaze away.

“You’re awake,” she said, giving you a sleepy, sexy smile.

You swallowed thickly.

“When did we decide to have a slumber party?” You asked, trying to ignore the sensation of Wanda’s warm breath on your neck, her hairs tickling your cheek. “Not that I’m complaining...”

Wanda sat up. “You don’t remember?”

Her words made you go completely still, and a low-grade anxiety blossomed in your throat. Wanda noticed the shift in your body language—the tension that took root in your muscles, the way a shadow of doubt flickered across your face.

“Relax,” Wanda instructed gently. She laid the palm of her hand against your chest. Your heartbeat hammered beneath her touch, flighty and too fast. “Deep breath for me.”

You instantly complied, feeling the tightness ease a bit.

“Did I…” you trailed off, not sure how to ask the question. “Shit, did I embarrass myself? Or make you and Nat uncomfortable? I should have just gone back to my place last night. I’m so sorry—“

Sensing your agitation, Nat’s grip on your waist loosened. She finally emerged from the blankets, hair tousled and eyes narrowed in concern. “What’s wrong?”

Wanda sat up straighter, shifting slightly to give you some breathing room.

“You fell asleep downstairs,” she explained. “We put you to bed in here. I decided to…watch you sleep.”

She rushed through that last sentence, becoming a bit flustered. You noticed an adorable pink tint to her cheeks.

“You watched me sleep?” You repeated, unable to resist teasing her just a little bit.

Natasha chuckled, yawning. “Told you it was creepy.”

“It was not creepy!” Wanda insisted, voice a bit higher than normal as she attempted to characterize her actions in the proper light. She buried her face in her hands. “I was just worried about you.”

You softened, reaching out to pull her hands away. “Hey,” you said, smiling as she finally glanced at you. “I’m sure it was creepy in a cute way.”

She glared at you.

“Anyway,” she continued. “Then your fever got worse in the middle of the night.”

You squinted, struggling to follow her version of events.

Natasha reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “What do you remember?”

You frowned, realizing the previous night was rather hazy.

“I remember the movie,” you said. “And then…”

You concentrated. There were vague outlines of other memories: Natasha cradling you against her chest, carrying you up the stairs. Wanda tucking you in.

You felt your breath catch.

“Nat…took me upstairs,” you mumbled, feeling shy. “You tucked me in.”

Wanda smiled. “And then?”

You swallowed. There were a few vivid flashes of horrible dreams intermingled with snatches of real life….everything blended together so seamlessly that you struggled to differentiate what had really happened and what had been a figment of your imagination.

“Nightmares,” you admitted softly, eyes going wide and glassy. A shiver worked its way up your frame.

Natasha scooted closer to you, pulling you halfway into her lap and draping the covers over your shoulders.

“It’s ok,” she murmured, feeling protective.

“Do you remember what they were about?” Wanda asked, careful to keep her voice neutral. She didn’t want to pry, but seeing you so frightened had unsettled her. “They sounded…scary.”

You dipped your head against Nat’s chest, accepting the comfort she was offering. Her heartbeat was steady, soothing.

You had been in your dad’s house, running down the hall. You could hear the heavy fall of his footsteps thundering up the stairs behind you. He was drunk, furious. You had hidden in the closet, cowering behind cardboard boxes—a favored refuge of yours when you were younger. He had appeared in the doorway, shadowy and terrifying.

And then…Wanda’s voice, soft and anchoring, calling you back to the present moment. Wanda’s hands curling around the back of your neck, her forehead pressed against yours, murmured whispers. You’re safe. We’ve got you.

Your cheeks flamed with a mix of humiliation and desperation. It had felt so good to wake up in her arms, to be held like that, to be watched and cared for. But knowing they’d both seen you in such an unguarded state—so pathetic, so weak—made your stomach roil unpleasantly. You disentangled yourself from Natasha, fighting for some semblance of control.

“No,” you lied, hating the way your voice shook slightly. You cleared your throat, grimacing at the sharp pain when you swallowed. “Can’t remember.”

Wanda glanced at her wife, clearly concerned and thoroughly unconvinced. Before she could press the issue, you were peeling back the covers and crawling toward the edge of the bed.

“Sorry you had to deal with that.” Every instinct in your body was telling you to retreat. “I better get dressed. It’s almost noon. I’m sure you have —“

Natasha realized you were shutting down, running way. So she did the only thing she could think to do, and clapped her hands together. “Who wants pancakes?”

The abrupt question caught you off guard. You blinked at her slowly, foggy brain trying to catch up to the shift in conversation.

“Oh, how silly of me,” she said, slapping her palm against her forehead. “Little wolves don’t eat pancakes, do they? Cinnamon rolls, then? Or maybe…French toast?”

You ducked your head, trying to hide the reluctant smile that was fighting its way onto your face.

“Nooooo,” you moaned, glancing at the ceiling. “You don’t have to make me breakfast.”

Oscar raised his head from the foot of the bed, wagging his tail at the sound of his favorite word. You reached out instantly, scratching his ear. Natasha took advantage of your distraction, snaking a hand out to tickle your ribs playfully.

“But it would be cruel and unusual, sending a little starving wolf out into the world on an empty stomach!”

You laughed, squirming away from her and collapsing onto your side. The mattress bounced and Oscar barked happily, entering the fray and licking your face.

“Mercy!” You pled, laughing so hard that you started coughing. “Have mercy!”

In a matter of seconds you were wheezing, struggling to catch your breath. Even that minor exertion tired you out. Wanda intervened.

“Enough, Nat,” she said, wrapping her arms around your waist and pulling you upright, away from the other woman. “No rough-housing! I swear, you’re like a teenager sometimes.”

“I’m fine,” you said as soon as you could speak, hating the matching looks of concern on their faces. Wanda handed you a glass of water from the bedside table, and you took a few grateful sips.

“You’re not fine,” she said. “But you will be.”

Wanda insisted you take a hot shower while Nat got busy in the kitchen. The redhead clapped her hands together again, waggling her eyebrows at you.

“Waffles for the little wolf!” She howled quietly before padding out of sight.

Wanda watched her disappear with an expression halfway between exasperated and besotted. Then she extended a hand, pulling you gently out of the bed.

“Come on, detka,” she murmured. “The steam will make you feel better.”

She was right. You stepped out of the bathroom about ten minutes later feeling marginally refreshed, the pressure in your head and chest lessened. Wanda watched as you toweled off, laying out a fresh set of clothes. Oscar started barking downstairs and the doorbell rang.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, giving you one last lingering look before she disappeared into the hallway. The heat from her gaze made your skin tingle. It almost looked like she wanted to eat you alive.

Whoa, where did that come from? A furious blush worked its way up your chest and neck. You buried your face in the damp towel with a groan, trying to forget the feeling of her leg pressed between yours, the traitorous way your hips had bucked against her firm thigh.

Once you were dressed, you hung your towel up on the hook in the bathroom and then sank onto the edge of the bed. This was partially out of obedience (Wanda had told you to wait here) and partially out of exhaustion. The shower had wiped you out again.

Downstairs you could hear Wanda speaking faintly, and then an unfamiliar voice—a deep baritone. A few moments later, there were footsteps on the stairs. The sound reminded you of your dream, and you pushed down an anxious shudder as the door to the bedroom swung open.

Wanda reappeared. She smiled gently, happy to find you right where she’d left you. A tall pale man with a dark beard lingered in the doorway. A stethoscope was draped around his shoulders.

“This must be the patient?” His eyes glittered with curiosity. Wanda nodded.

“This is Dr. Strange,” Wanda told you. “He’s a friend of mine and Nat’s, and an excellent physician.”

You raised a weary hand in greeting. The man in the doorway regarded you for a long moment, like his diagnosis was already underway, then closed the distance between you in a few efficient strides.

He knelt, opening a small leather medical bag, and retrieved a thermometer. As he started his exam, Natasha wandered back into the bedroom. She leaned against the far wall, watching the doctor silently.

“Symptoms?”

“I’m fine,” you said, wincing as he placed the thermometer in your ear. “Just feeling a little under the weather.”

Wanda rolled her eyes. “She has a fever, a cough, muscle aches, sore throat, and that’s just the symptoms I’ve been able to observe so far.”

Strange snorted. “That explains why you look like death warmed over.”

Your legs and arms pulsed dully with a persistent ache, and a throbbing pain had started to manifest again at the base of your skull. Still, you shot the man a weak glare.

“Nice bedside manner,” you growled.

“Thanks.” His lips quirked upward, clearly delighted at the barb. “It’s taken me years to perfect.”

The thermometer beeped and he glanced at the readout. “102.6,” he said, frowning. “Quite high.”

He reached toward you, palpating his fingers gently against your throat. You flinched. He noticed. “Does that hurt?”

You glanced at Wanda, hating to see worry shining in her eyes, then Natasha, who gave you an encouraging smile.

“Don’t look at them,” Strange said bluntly. “Be honest.”

You pressed your lips into a stubborn line, not wanting to cause more problems. But then you relented, nodding once.

He donned the stethoscope and pressed the diaphragm against your chest. “Breathe in,” he instructed. “And out.”

You did as you were told. In the silence, you watched Wanda. You noticed the little crease in the middle of her forehead, the way she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying the soft pink flesh. You gave her a lopsided smile, and even mouthed the words totally fine.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation at your antics, and you realized it was a look eerily similar to the one she’d given Nat earlier. The thought sparked a warm, pleasant feeling in your chest.

Finally, Strange rocked back on his heels, giving you an appraising look. “You’re fighting off a pretty nasty viral infection,” he said. “Something’s going around the city right now. Fever, muscle aches, cough, it all tracks. But I’m worried about your chest—there’s a rattle in your lungs, a shortness of breath. Could get worse if you’re not careful.“

You opened your mouth—to disagree, to argue, you weren’t sure—but Strange lifted his hand, silencing you. “I’m not finished.”

Your mouth snapped closed. The doctor quirked an eyebrow, clearly relishing the dramatic pause.

“You’re also,” he added, jabbing an accusatory finger against your chest. “Very dehydrated.”

“Ouch,” you muttered resentfully, rubbing the spot on your sternum.

Wanda crossed her arms, clearly disliking this news. “What can we do?”

Strange sighed as he considered the options. “I can give her an IV,” he said. “Replenish her fluids and her electrolytes.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Wanda was nodding her head. “Do it.”

He bowed sarcastically. “Yes, ma’am.”

Wanda smiled. “Sorry,” she said, reaching out and fiddling with the hood of your sweater. “Is that alright with you? I just hate seeing you like this.”

You felt that familiar tug in your chest as the other woman stared at you, eyes brimming with an enormous unspoken affection. You couldn’t help but feel unworthy, undeserving of such kindness.

“‘Course,” you said.

Strange glanced from Wanda to Natasha and then back to you, an unnerving expression on his face. “How did you say you knew each other?”

“I’m their…dog walker,” you said, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment lick its way up your throat.

Nat watched you carefully, noticing the way you swayed toward Wanda, like a flower seeking the sunshine. Only to freeze up at Strange’s question, relegating yourself to something small and unimportant. The second you started to retreat, to withdraw, she intervened.

“She’s more than that,” Natasha corrected, fixing you with a stern look that dared you to contradict this clarification.

You ducked your head.

“Fascinating,” Strange said, closing his medical bag with a snap. “Let me run out to my car and get my equipment. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he was gone, Wanda joined you on the bed. You leaned against her shoulder instinctively, gazing across the room at Natasha. For a beat, the three of you regarded one another silently. Then…

“Do you really believe that?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. Being ill had worn you down, shredded your normally strong defenses. “I’m more?”

Wanda turned to face you. Her hands covered yours, her fingers drawing random shapes over your palms. You realized she was nervous.

“You’re so much more.”

You felt an impossible swell of hope and longing in your chest. It was almost painful.

“You’re just saying that because we slept together last night.” You meant it as a joke, hoping to cut the tension. But the air seemed to thicken even more. Wanda settled her hand on your thigh.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Wanda asked, voice soft. “How we feel about you?”

You drew in a shaky breath, refusing to let yourself believe they could possibly be interested in you like that.

“You feel sorry for me,” you guessed, dreading the confirmation that would shatter the fragile magic of the past 24 hours. You didn’t belong, you never belonged.

Then you felt soft fingers under your chin and you braced yourself for the terrible kindness that would no doubt be painted across Wanda’s pretty face as she let you down easy. But when you looked up, it wasn’t Wanda. It was Nat. She had crossed the room and crouched between your legs, staring at you with something fierce, something furious in her expression.

“How could you think that?” She asked, her voice a low, loving growl. You blinked hard, suddenly fighting back tears.

You shrugged, breath hitching at the raw confession. “I’m not used to…”

You trailed off, gesturing at the air between you. Not used to what, Natasha wondered, half-afraid to hear the answer. Kindness? Love? Comfort? Each possibility broke her heart more than the last.

But Wanda nodded, sensing you were close to articulating something important. She squeezed your hand, encouraging you to keep going.

“But I love being here,” you whispered, terrified at how true the words rang. “When I woke up this morning, I felt so safe, like I was right where I’m supposed to be.”

“What if you are?” Natasha traced her thumb over your jawline, hanging on your every word. “What are you so afraid of, little wolf?

Now that you had started to talk, your true feelings came rushing to the surface, spilling out in a flood of honesty and desperate surrender.

“I’m scared of how good I feel when we’re together,” you said. “Scared of wanting too much, getting greedy, and then…having it taken away.“

“You deserve to be greedy,” Wanda sighed, threading her fingers through your hair. “You deserve to feel safe, to be taken care of, to feel like you belong.”

“And you do belong,” Natasha added, gripping your chin firmly between her fingers. “Right here. With us.”

Your eyes fluttered shut at the claim, the possessive touch. Your head was spinning.

“What if you change your mind, realize I’m not worth it?” Your voice was barely a whisper now, eyes still closed like you couldn’t bear the answer. “That I’m too much, too messy, too broken—?”

“Impossible,” Natasha said, cutting you off firmly.

“You’re not broken, milaya,” Wanda breathed, leaning forward and resting her forehead against yours. “Whoever told you that was…sorely mistaken.”

You cast around for another argument, another evasion. But you found it harder and harder to resist what they were offering, the acceptance in their expressions so open and honest. Gradually, the stiffness receded from your shoulders.

“Okay,” you sighed, curling closer to them both. “Okay.”

Natasha smiled, feeling the tension seep out of you. “Good girl,” she breathed, relief flooding her chest.

And in an instant, something shifted. Wanda’s eyes fluttered open, catching yours. All that vulnerability was still pooled around you like gasoline, and those two words were a match, catalyzing the dynamic, igniting your attraction. You could tell they both sensed it in the way they shifted closer to you, gripped you just a little bit tighter.

You licked your lips, entranced by the feeling of Wanda’s warm breath against your cheek, Nat’s gentle touch on your jaw.

“So good,” Wanda sighed in agreement with her wife, eyes darting down to your mouth. Your breath caught in your throat as those words washed over you again, the praise lighting up something desperate and beautiful in the very core of your being. They both watched, transfixed, as their claim stoked the fire, heating you up from the inside out.

Then, moving slow, giving her plenty of time to pull away, you brushed your lips against hers. The kiss was impossibly soft and inquisitive, like you were figuring out how to ask the ultimate question. Is it ok to want this too? At first she didn’t move, afraid to shatter the moment. Then she turned her head slightly, giving you better access. She sighed.

“Been wanting to do that all day,” she whispered. You could feel the shy curve of her smile where your lips met.

Wanda wanted to lean in even closer, but she paused, fighting to keep her own desires in check, needing to make sure you were ok. Natasha watched, hardly daring to breathe as her wife swayed back just a fraction, searching your face, saying your name softly. You didn’t respond, and her eyebrows knitted together in concern.

“Are you—“

You rocked forward, claiming Wanda’s lips again, interrupting whatever question she had been about to ask. The only thing you cared about was this feeling, and making sure it never ended. You felt Natasha’s hand drop away from your face, moving to the back of your neck, guiding you, supporting you.

“Our perfect girl,” she said softly, the edges of her voice roughened by desire. “So fucking pretty when you let us take care of you.”

You whined, tearing yourself away from Wanda and gripping Natasha’s shirt. You were desperate to feel them both, to soothe the awful ache in your chest, the emptiness that suddenly seemed like it could only be filled by being with them, belonging to them. You pulled her onto the bed. She didn’t resist, pushing you backward, her strong arms bracketing either side of your head.

This kiss was different, messier. Where Wanda was tender and careful, Natasha crashed into you. She licked against your lips, seeking entry into the warm cavern of your mouth. You opened for her immediately, arching your back, melting into the hot, wet feeling. Her hand skated up along your ribs, your chest, your neck. You moaned in surprise when she bit you, pain blooming along your lower lip.

“Nat,” Wanda warned, pushing her wife off you like she was a wild animal. She muttered something in Russian. “Be gentle, she doesn’t feel good.”

“Yes, please be careful with my patient,” Dr. Strange said dryly. He had reappeared in the doorway holding an IV and a needle kit. “She requires rest and rehydration, not…whatever this is.”

Natasha blushed, pulling away from you and standing up in one smooth motion. You missed her instantly, craving the warm, rough feel of her hands on your body. She reached out, tangling her fingers in your hair before giving you a wink.

“I’m going to check on the waffles,” she announced, wiping her mouth delicately and then shoving her hands in her pockets.

Wanda helped settle you back in the bed, arranging the pillows and pulling the blanket up over your legs. You leaned against the headboard, sinking down into the soft sheets.

In a few swift motions, Strange had set up the IV drip and inserted the needle in your arm. He was surprisingly gentle. You barely felt a thing. Wanda hovered nearby, watching the entire process hawkishly.

“This should help her rest,” he explained. “And I’ll write her a script, something to bring down the fever.”

“Thanks,” Wanda said. “Stay for breakfast? Natasha’s —“

“Making waffles,” he interrupted drily. “Yes, I heard. Sounds lovely.”

She swatted him on the shoulder and he ducked out of the room, heading downstairs to interrogate Natasha.

“Wanda?” You mumbled blearily. “Gonna fall asleep.”

She smiled. “I’ll be right here.”

“Creepy,” you sighed, eyes drifting shut. “But cute.”

She rolled her eyes, running a hand over your forehead. “Brat.”

“Yours,” you added softly just before drifting off. And you had never meant anything more in your life.

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