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kneelingshadowsalome · 8 months

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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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dduane · 5 months

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Hi Diane!

I promise this will end in an ask, but I have a story to share first, if you have the time.

I’m very new to Tumblr, in fact, I was moved to finally create an account to send you this message, but I’ve been casually poking around for a bit. A quick google last summer told me that Tumblr is the best place to get Good Omens news from Neil himself, but it didn’t do the courtesy of warning me just how magnetic this particular bastion of chaotic creative internet mayhem can be. This story is one example. Fun note, when I was composing this message my husband looked over my shoulder at the literal essay I’d typed out and suggested that I maybe, perhaps, might consider shortening it to the length of a conversation that could take place in an elevator. Or in line at the coffee shop. However, i’m not one sacrifice enormity for brevity.

Your post the other day regarding the cover for your novel, Stealing the Elf King’s Roses, got me thinking. First, that it was a very genuine thing to share, second, that I wasn’t entirely sure why I wasn’t immediately familiar with your work, and third, what a fun visual challenge. I was still thinking about it when I should have been sleeping, so I decided to dig in. I almost stopped reading your bio at the ‘blah blah blah’ because I was feeling quite bad about my media literacy at that point, but then I saw that you’re well-known for the Young Wizard series.

The Young Wizard series.

I said I’d try to keep it brief and this is my best attempt. I read books 1-5 of that series during the hardest, strangest, most heartbreaking time in my childhood when I desperately needed a different reality than my own. What I found in your novels was so much better than that. Your stories, your characters, your vision, helped teach me to ground myself in my strengths, frame my reality with hope and purpose, and how to build the spaces I needed within myself to find the compassion, forgiveness, joy and peace I so desperately needed. One of the things I built within myself on my healing journey was a beautiful jeweled box. It resides in my mind just off of I-335 in Topeka, Kansas. I was driving through the flint hills on a road trip from Milwaukee to Wichita when I finally finished the long process of constructing it, so that is where it stays, shining in the sun and twinkling under the stars. This box contains everything I experienced that couldn’t come with me as I grew. Crafting it was a lengthy, emotional, wrenching process, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever done to allow me to become the person I am today. I used visit it every now and again, to make sure the jewels are still bright, but I’m very careful to not jostle the lid.

I’m recounting all of this to you because two nights ago I quite suddenly found myself standing beside my box for the first time in almost a decade. I could feel the gravel under my slipper socks as I gently opened the lid to see my copies of your books resting at the very top. I wasn’t immediately familiar with your work when I saw your name because it is so inextricable from the very fabric of how healed myself, that I accidentally let your words fall under the closed lid of the very box they helped enable me to make. Nothing else clamored to be released as I carefully pulled them out, and once more closed the lid.

So, the ask. I will be brief here - I’m an artist. Not currently working professionally as I’m exploring a different career path, but I’m usually working on a personal project or two. I needed a new one and was still intrigued by the post that started this all, so to help me process the emotions described above I made a version of a cover for STEKR and wanted to ask if I could share it with you. It looks like I can’t attach here, but I’d love to post it on my new, very empty page. It truly might not be your style, but I once again found solace in a space you opened the door to and this time I have the opportunity to share it!

Also, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

You're so very welcome! And I'm really glad the books were there for you when you needed them. (And plainly are there with you still.) 😊

And absolutely, post that cover! I'll be delighted to see it.

#Stealing the Elf-King's Roses

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bountydroid · 5 months

Text

Darlin' pt 2

pt 1 / pt3

Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x f!reader (right now there is nothing romantic, maybe in the future I am undecided.)

Description: Where the reader arguably makes the stupidest decision of her life, following a ghoul who obviously doesn't want her there.

TW: Talk of physical abuse and bad parenting

I stayed there on my knees in the mud for some time. Stunned at the events that just transpired. I had nowhere to go, my wrists were still bound, and I had no weapon. I was truly fucked. I slowly rose to my feet as I looked around. The ghoul took one of the men's guns and Slim's was far too heavy for me to carry. I stumbled my way to the grave to look down inside. Honcho wasn't moving, and if I crawled down in there to get his gun there was no way I was getting out again. I sighed. I thought back to the ghoul. He was my only chance, but he didn't want my help.

I sighed again as I looked down at the chicken before untying her and setting her free. "At least one of us can be free," I said smiling to her before she ran off.

I stood there in the dark weighing my options when my eyes fell to the tracks in the mud. Maybe if I stick close to him, I'll be okay? At least until we reach a town. I would stay out of his way. Ideally, he wouldn't even know I was there.

"You are insane," I said to myself before I started following the tracks in front of me, grabbing Slim's bag on my way past him.

After about a day I was exhausted. I had no idea if I was going in the right direction anymore, I was no tracker and I lost his prints a long time ago. I stopped and bent over, pressing my palms to my knees while trying to catch my breath when I heard a gun cock behind me.

"Now why would you be following me?" The ghoul said behind me. "You must be a special kind of stupid."

I couldn't help the exhausted laugh that bubbled in my throat as I slowly stood up. "I must be. If you killed me right now, it wouldn't make a difference. I'll die on my own anyway." I said still facing away from him, feeling defeated.

There was a long moment of silence before I finally looked behind me. There was no hint of emotion on the ghoul's face.

"Let me follow you until we reach a settlement. I'll stay out of your way. I won't ask you for anything. Please." I begged.

At this, he looked down at my still bound wrists and then back up at my sad face. He sighed as he holstered his gun. "Come here then girl," he said, waving me over.

I tripped over my feet hurrying over to the man, raising my wrists as he took out his knife and cut me free. "Thank you, sir."

At this, it was his turn to laugh. "Sir? Well I'll be damned you are probably the only person left on this godforsaken planet with some manners."

I smiled up at him, I thought maybe he wasn't so scary after all.

"You will be completely silent. No complaining. If you annoy me, I will turn that pretty ass into jerky. Got it?" He said with a serious look on his face.

"Right. I can do that." I whispered looking down at my feet, feeling stupid.

We walked until it was far too dark to continue. I silently collected firewood as he put his bag down on the ground. As I made my way to our makeshift camp I stood in front of him with my arms full of sticks.

"What?" He barked out, obviously annoyed.

"Nothin'" I responded quickly before shuffling away from him embarrassed.

I tried my best to arrange the wood before pulling the flint out of the bag I took off of Slim. A small fire started and I smiled. I was cold from all the mud plastered to the front of me and was relieved to feel the warmth of the fire. I looked over at the ghoul to see him leaning up against a tree with his hat covering his face. I hummed happily as I thought about the arrangement we came up with, although I couldn't help but want to talk to him, the walk has been incredibly boring.

After a while of warming up by the fire, I got comfortable and drifted off to sleep.

I woke with a start. I looked around confused before I realized there was a boot in my side. I looked up at the ghoul hovering above me. "Get up darlin'." He said before walking away. "Time to move."

I quickly jumped up and grabbed my bag before running after him. This was the routine for days. I had honestly lost track of how long I had been following the ghoul. The silent marches from sun up to sun down were starting to get to me. I felt like I was going crazy.

"If my memory serves me well. I can be rid of you by tomorrow morning." He said with a sour tone.

"Okay," I responded quickly. I wanted to say as little as possible so he doesn't make true to his threat.

He looked back at me for a second as he continued to walk. "How did you get yourself into this mess anyway?"

I hesitated to answer, remembering he told me to stay silent. I looked up at him to see him scoff and turn away again.

"I ran away from home. Was on my own for a while before I ran into those idiots. They found me while I was sleeping, I had no chance to escape until you killed them."

"Ran away from home?" He repeated back at me. "That was stupid."

"Well, I'd rather be eaten by a ghoul than continue to be beaten by my father," I responded curtly.

He laughed at this. "Getting feisty aren't we darlin'?"

"Sorry," I responded. "I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you shouldn't have." He said with a tone that I couldn't quite figure out.

We walked in silence for what felt like forever, I tried to keep track of time by looking up at the sun but it was a cloudy, cold day. I couldn't help but start to shiver. My feet started to ache terribly, I wanted to ask for a break but I bit my tongue. No complaining had been one of his rules. I didn't want to push my luck with him.

"Stop." He said abruptly, pulling me from my thoughts.

"Wha-" I asked confused.

"Quiet." He interrupted as his hand slowly wrapped around his gun and turned towards me.

Before I had a chance to react the barrel of his gun was next to my face and he shot a round off.

I cried out as my ears rang painfully and I fell to the ground in shock. He said something to me, but I couldn't hear a thing. I held my head as I watched him walk behind me towards a man, dead on the ground. He rummaged through the dead man's pockets, pulling out a couple of caps before walking back towards me.

"A fiend." I thought to myself.

Instead of saying anything he offered me his gloved hand. I hesitantly took it and let him pull me back to my feet. He mumbled something but I couldn't hear it. Not long after this, we made camp again.

The next day, I slowed down a lot, but we were very close to town. I was beyond exhausted and barely had any will to keep going. The distance was growing between us before he finally stopped and whipped around, visibly annoyed.

"Walk faster. Remember what I said about annoying me darlin'." He barked at me.

I stared at him quietly before saying. "Why not just leave me behind, then?"

"Don't tempt me." He grumbled as he roughly grabbed my arm and started dragging me along.

A few minutes later we reached a small settlement. We got a couple of strange looks as he continued to drag me by my arm before finally letting go as soon as he set eyes on a "doctors" office. I just stood there. Unsure what to do now. I was in town, albeit a small one. There were only three buildings and a couple of food stalls. I could do whatever I wanted. I couldn't follow him anymore, that was for certain. I heard a commotion from inside the office, but it wasn't my problem anymore. I slowly wandered away eyeing up the food stands. Dog meat wasn't appetizing, but I hadn't had real food in days. I rummaged around Slim's pack before I found enough caps to buy myself a meal.

I hummed happily as I finished my food, I hadn't realized how hungry I was.

"Well, aren't you a pretty thing?" A man slurred behind me. "How much for your time?"

"I am not a prostitute." I scoffed as I turned around to face him.

"Free then?" He smiled menacingly as he grabbed ahold of me. His grip was so tight that I could feel my arm bruising.

Without thinking I drove the empty skewer in my hand into the man's eye and ran. I heard yelling behind me, but I kept running mindlessly. Before I realized what I was doing, I ran right into the arms of the ghoul as he was exiting the doctor's office.

"What in the hell?" He exclaimed, shocked by my actions before he looked up to see the man following me with blood running down his face.

"That bitch belongs to you? She must be some kind of freak to be with a ghoul." He growled angrily.

I buried my face into the ghoul's chest, afraid to look at his face. I desperately hoped he would take mercy on me once again.

"Well, darlin' you do have some bite to ya." The ghoul laughed while eyeing up the man standing in front of him.

"Give me the girl and get gone." The man spit out.

"Well, that just won't do." The ghoul responded while smirking, obviously amused. "Get behind me darlin'," he whispered quietly as he stared down the thug.

I quickly did as I was told before I heard some more shots ring off, before I knew it, the whole town turned into a shoot-off. I dropped to the ground and crawled into the doctor's office hiding behind the counter next to a very dead doctor.

"What the hell?" I mumbled to myself looking over at him, wondering what had transpired between him and the ghoul.

I stayed there until I heard a familiar voice yell out. "Anyone else wanna try me? That was fun, but I am itching for a REAL challenge." Only to get silence in return.

I peeked my head around the counter before finally getting up to my feet and shuffling to the doorway. Before I could stick my head out, the ghoul appeared in front of me.

"Thank you," I said smiling shyly up at him.

He stared down at me for a moment before saying, "Come on then. I need to get going if I am going to catch that bounty and Filly ain't far."

"I am coming with you?" I questioned, trying to hide the relief on my face.

"Well, you obviously can't be trusted on your own. Can ya darlin'?" He responded slyly.

"Oh thank you so much. You won't regret this!" I said to him as I grabbed ahold of his sleeve.

He stared down at my fist before looking back up into my eyes. I could see the hesitation on his face. Little did I know, this was the most human contact he had had in a long time, and it stirred something deep within him.

An odd friendship had formed between us, and neither of us knew how to feel about it.

tag list: @msrawog

#cooper howard x reader #cooper howard #the ghoul fallout #fallout #fallout tv series #the ghoul x reader

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the-badger-mole · 5 months

Text

Father of the Bride

Hakoda swallowed hard against a lump in his throat. He had imagined this day so many times since Katara's birth. The details were different, though. She wasn't marrying a proven warrior from among their people. That was fine. She had spent so much time traveling the world, expanding her horizons, creating her own paths. Hakoda didn't think there were one in a thousand men at home who could keep up with the woman his daughter had become, and he had resigned himself to the fact that she might not end up with a Southern Tribe man years ago.

But he hadn't considered that her marriage might take her so permanently from home. A foolish oversight on his part, he admitted. And at least she would have the means to visit her family a few times a year. Still, he felt a pang. Same one he felt when he left his children behind with Kanna to go fight a war too big for him. Now that pang was tempered with bittersweet happiness as he watched the final preparations being made on Katara's wedding gown-a stunning piece of art even to Hakoda's untrained eye. All silks and linens in shades of blue and silver that recalled the bridal outfits of her homeland. Furs and leathers would be too hot for the climate, but Katara wanted to tell everyone up front how she would bring her own culture to merge with her new people. Her groom-to-be not only supported this decision, but had come to Hakoda and Sokka to ask them how he, too, could incorporate the Southern Water Tribe into the wedding on his end. That had been a long night, with strong drinks and stronger emotions, but at the end of it, Hakoda had decided that despite his initial misgivings about the marriage, he couldn't have picked a better son-in-law than Zuko.

Fire Lord Zuko. Fire Lord Zuko was going to be his son-in-law. Sometimes the thought made Hakoda chuckle. Sometimes it sent a chill down his spine. Not that he was worried about Zuko himself, but Katara's proximity to his throne. The crown. She would be coronated the next night in a ceremony as lavish as the wedding. She would become the Fire Lady. Co-ruler of the country that had spent a hundred years ruining countless lives with a war over something as silly as imperialist pride. Hakoda didn't think they deserved his daughter. If Zuko had earned his trust and respect, the rest of the Fire Nation certainly haven't. Not the nobles, anyway. When he brought them up to Katara, she laughed, though it didn't reach her eyes, which were flint hard and grimly determined. She told him no matter where she went in the world, she would have to fight for any respect she got. At least here she would have Zuko fighting beside her. Hakoda wasn't sure he agreed that was a worthy trade off, but he knew better than to try to talk his daughter out of it.

The Fire Nation had already benefited from her presence. As a foreign advisor, she had fostered trade and exchange agreements between the Fire Nation and all of the Water Tribes, Omashu and Gaoling. As an ambassador, she'd helped negotiate reparation packages that have helped the parts of the world hit hardest by the war recover. As one of Zuko's most trusted counselors, she'd helped him work the Fire Nation's budget so the government could provide for education, health and services for returning soldiers. The same kinds of programs she'd helped Hakoda and Sokka build in the Southern Water Tribe. It suddenly struck Hakoda that she had been acting as Fire Lady for a long time. Before she and Zuko had even realized they were in love, maybe. Today and tomorrow would just make it official. Hakoda still didn't think the Fire Nation deserved a Katara, but any chance he had of talking her out of it had long since slipped by him. And he now he wasn't sure he would talk her out of it, even if he did have the chance.

The final touches were done. The maids stepped back in a flurry of excited chatter. Kanna stepped forward, moving stiffly in her old age, smiling up at her granddaughter through tears. She had had this moment with Kya years ago, and Kya should be standing in her place now. Kanna reached out and ran her fingertips over the necklace she had passed to her daughter, and her daughter had passed on to Katara. Kya was here, Kanna assured herself. And Kya would be here with Katara as she made these next steps, first as a wife, then as a queen, then someday as a mother and grandmother herself.

"She would be so proud," Kanna told Katara. The two women embraced. Then Katara stood up, head high and looking as regal as any queen in any nation ever had, and turned to Hakoda.

"Are you ready, Dad?" she asked. Hakoda shook his head.

"I was never going to be ready for this," he confessed. "But it doesn't matter. You are ready."

#atla #zutara #fire lady katara #hakoda #father of the bride has a moment

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howcouldmuffin · 2 months

Text

Drought.

In a relationship with him feels like being in hell, so you shouldn’t ever go back there again.

PAIRING : Modern!Gwayne Hightower x Fem!Reader

WARNING : NSFW, Modern AU, Toxic Relationships, Open Relationships, Mentions about the use of alcohol and drugs, Sex Content

AN : I had a lot of fun writing drama for these characters, and as always, I hope you enjoy this piece. Love.

please be kind to me English is not my first language.

You glance at your watch again. It’s 8:14 PM, and there’s still no sign of your boyfriend. Not even a shadow. How many times has he been late like this? You feel like crying right here in the middle of the café, but it would be pointless.

After sitting a while longer, you see the person you’ve been waiting for rush into the café. There’s a red mark on his neck, clearly a kiss, and he smiles at you without the slightest hint of guilt. You’re furious at his attitude, as if he has no idea how much you want to scream at him.

“Sorry I’m late, babe.” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kiera wanted help picking out her outfit for the party tonight.”

Seriously? He’s using the new friend he met just a month ago as an excuse, when you’ve been telling him about this movie for half a year. Heaven help you, you’ve never felt so invisible.

“I told you not to be late, but you still managed to do it.” you say sternly. “I should have never expected anything better from someone like you, Gwayne.”

“I’m sorry.” he replies. “Why don’t you go see the movie alone? You should’ve known I’d be late anyway.”

“The tickets are with you, idiot.” you snap, gathering your things from the table and standing up to leave.

“Oh, and Alicent asked me to remind you about dinner with her family tomorrow. Make sure to pick her up before you go.” With that, you walk out of the café, fuming that he can’t even manage his time between his friends properly. Prioritizing is clearly not his strong suit.

Before long, you realize that tears are streaming down your face. You didn’t want to cry over this again. Realizing that you might not be important to him hurts deeply, and lately, your conversations with him have dwindled. You barely even talk on the phone anymore. Are you two still even together?

"Really? I can't believe he's late all the time, but when it comes to family dinners, he's always punctual." Alicent, says.

"For heaven's sake, was he late again?" Rhaenyra adds.

"And what am I supposed to do? He's just like that." you grumble. "It would be nice if he could show up on time more often." As you finish speaking, you notice your classmate walking into the cafeteria, and since there are a few things you need to discuss with him, you quickly get up and walk over.

"Theo, do you have a minute? I wanted to talk about Professor Flint's assignment." you say. You've been paired with him for group work several times, and besides Rhaenyra's group, he's probably the person you're closest to.

"Sure! But let me grab a coffee first, then we can head to the library to chat."

"Sounds good, I need to return a book there anyway." you reply. "I'll be right back, I just need to grab my bag." Theo nods in agreement, and you quickly head back to your table to get your bag. You find your boyfriend sitting there, chatting with your friends. Ignoring him might not be the best move, but you're not in the mood to talk to him right now.

"Where are you going?" Gwayne asks.

"I'm working with a friend." you reply, reaching for your bag, but he grabs it first. "Gwayne, give it back, my friend's waiting."

"The guy with glasses?" He holds your bag behind him, refusing to give it back.

"Yes. Now, can you return my bag?"

"I'll give it back if you agree to have dinner with my family tonight." he says, clearly more concerned with getting his way than with your schedule. You can't believe you agreed to date this guy.

"I have work to do this evening." you say, trying to grab your bag from behind him, but he doesn't let go easily. "Gwayne!"

"Come on, there's still time to finish Professor Flint's assignment. You should come with us." Alicent chimes in, trying to persuade you on her brother's behalf. You sigh deeply before finally agreeing to go with the two siblings. At last, you get your bag back.

"If you're late to pick me up, you're not getting away with it."

It's another time you find yourself waiting for him at this restaurant. Today is your birthday. You’re hoping he’s just caught up with something or stuck in traffic. You don’t want to think that he might have forgotten this important day. You glance at the watch on your wrist again.

There’s less than an hour before the restaurant closes, but the person you’re longing to see is still nowhere to be found. Maybe waiting a bit longer won’t hurt. Maybe he’s just busy and is on his way to you.

“Excuse me, our restaurant is about to close. Would you like to take the remaining food home?” a waiter asks, noticing that the food on your table has barely been touched.

“No, thank you.” You nod, stand up, and leave the restaurant, unsure of what to say or do next. Just as you step outside, you see your boyfriend approaching the restaurant, and you decide to walk away before he can see you—but unfortunately, he catches sight of you.

“Don’t go, babe! Wait!” He hurries over to you. “I’m so sorry, I forgot about our date.” he says, stopping right in front of you.

“Do you even remember what day it is today?”

“What day?”

You take a deep breath. “It’s my birthday.”

His face immediately falls. Damn it. Tears well up in your eyes, and finally, they start to spill over. Seeing this, he reaches out to wipe your tears, but you push his hand away.

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, babe. I messed up, I know.”

“Is that all you can say, Gwayne?” you cry.

“I just thought you usually celebrate with your family or your friends—”

“So is it wrong that I wanted to celebrate my birthday with my boyfriend? Is it wrong that sometimes I can do things on my own, but I just wanted to do it with my boyfriend? I’m your girlfriend, Gwayne. Am I still your girlfriend?” you sob, your voice trembling as the tears run down your cheeks.

“Maybe the importance I give to you, I just thought that—” you hiccup.

“No, babe, no. Don’t say that,” he says, stepping closer and trying to hold your face to make you look at him.

“I just thought… maybe we should go back to being just friends. That would match the level of importance I seem to have for you.”

He tries to hug you, but you push him away. He starts to say all sorts of things, but you’re not ready to listen to any of it. You’ve cared about his feelings too much, to the point of neglecting your own. You’ve prioritized him too much, more than yourself. You just need a break. You just want to stop this for a while.

It's been weeks since you last replied to any of his messages. You avoid him every time you see him in the hallway, and you've been hiding out in your room, not going out with friends. You know this isn't the right way to handle things, but you just don't want to face him or anyone else who might ask you about him.

You find it incredibly difficult to accept that you no longer have any status with Gwayne. It's hard to pretend that you don’t care about him anymore, even though you still love him deeply. But you're hurt by the way he treated you, hurt by the lack of importance he placed on you. It feels like you're dying a little inside every time you see his face.

“Do you really think avoiding him is a good way to deal with this?” Rhaenyra asks, as she listens to the professor's lecture in class. “Alicent told me he’s been going out every night, coming back drunk and smelling like women’s perfume every time.”

“What are you trying to say, Nyra?” you turn to her. “If he can forget about me quickly and finally live the life he wants, then that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you know? He calls out your name every time he comes home, and he asks about you whenever he sees us.”

“Why don’t you just answer his questions for your friend?” you reply. “Just tell him whatever. He’ll be fine without me, even if he’s not sleeping with me anymore.”

“But—”

“The professor is going to ask a question, Nyra, if you don’t stop.” you cut her off. She goes quiet, turning her attention back to the lecture, just as you said.

After class ends, you rush to pack up your things and wait for the right moment, when everyone is leaving the room, to sneak out and avoid your ex, who is waiting for you outside.

“Get dressed. I’m picking you up tonight.” Rhaenyra says suddenly. “You can’t miss the party tonight.”

“But—”

“If you don’t come, I’m not talking to you again, ever.” Then she walks away, leaving you with no room to argue.

You glance at the mirror in your room. You're wearing a fitted grey mini dress under a thick black jacket, paired with patterned black tights and black high-heeled boots. Your hair is beautifully curled, but you still decide to bring along a red hat.

Rhaenyra was right. Hiding away and staying in your room forever isn't the right way to handle things. So, you decide to take a step forward, an important one. But before you can think too much about it, your phone buzzes with an incoming call from Rhaenyra. She must be outside your house by now. You answer the call and tell her you're coming down. After one last check in the mirror, you wish yourself good luck.

When you arrive at the party, the music is overwhelming, mingling with the voices of countless people indulging in drinks or something else to escape into their imagination. Nyra leads you to a sofa in the middle of the party, where people are already waiting, including Gwayne.

"You're late." Alicent says. "And once again, you're the most stunning person here." She looks at you and invites you to sit beside her on the sofa. Your ex has been staring at you non-stop since you walked into the room, making you more than a little nervous.

"I'll go get us some drinks." Alicent says, getting up and walking away. You silently hope that Rhaenyra won't leave you alone too, but fate always has a way of testing you.

"Well, I'm going to grab something to eat." your friend says. "I'll bring something back for you." And with that, she walks off.

Now, it's just you and Gwayne left sitting there, exactly as you'd feared. He moves over to sit next to you, and you slide away until you're at the edge of the sofa, but he just moves closer. You eventually stop trying to get away.

"You look amazing tonight." he compliments you. "So stunning that I'm completely blown away."

"Thanks!" you reply curtly, picking up your phone and pretending to do something, though you have no idea what app to open. It’s hard to think straight when someone is staring at you so intently.

"Can you please stop staring? I don't like it."

"Okay, okay." he nods and looks away. "Want to dance to a song?" He turns back to you. Seriously? Can't he take a hint that you’re not in the mood to talk?

"No, and don't follow me." You stand up and walk around the party, receiving smiles from some people who then turn back to their conversations. What's so interesting about your relationship anyway? You wander around but don’t see any sign of your friend.

You decide to grab a drink and something to eat. The party is still in full swing, with everyone riding high on hormones. Some are even close to throwing up, but thankfully, you dodge them in time. Eventually, you find a quiet spot where you can use your phone without being disturbed.

After a few hours, you notice that the crowd is thinning out, and you start spotting your friends. You decide to step out onto the balcony for some fresh air. Looking down, you see the pool area filled with intoxicated people, some of them passionately making out.

You hear someone walk up beside you. At first, you don’t pay attention until you notice the eyes watching you.

“Nice night, isn’t it?” Gwayne says, pulling something out of his pocket.

“You smoke?” you ask. “Since when did you start smoking again?” Your concern slips out before you can stop yourself.

“For a while now.” he replies.

“You quit before. Why start again?” you turn to him, not understanding why he’d want to hurt himself like that.

“No one’s around to stop me.”

“Then stop yourself.”

“Why don’t you come back and stop me?” He leans in closer, and closer still. You don’t move away like your mind tells you to, but you don’t respond to him either. When his lips meet yours, your body responds instantly, craving the familiar taste. You can't deny how much you want him too.

Not sure what kind of new beginning you want, you lean in and kiss him passionately on the bed. As you settle around him, you hold his face gently, ensuring he remains close to you. Slowly, you grind against him, feeling the firm pressure beneath your hips, your movements deliberate and intoxicating.

Gwayne squeezes your hips, it makes you cry out, seals with his mars on your buttocks, you gently rub his neck to the abdomen tightly with his muscles and stiffness under your hips.

He took his hand off your butt to the area of your chest. “No bra?” He rubbed his finger around your nipple. It made you moan a little. You slowly move yourself from him and move down to the bottom.

“It's very hard” you stroking the center of his torso, touching it slowly and knowing the suffering caused by yourself.

“It's just like this with you.”

“Lie” you swipe down his pants, his cock almost bounces off your face.

Even if you see it often, it's not used to its size.You slowly use your hand to rub it up and down slowly, his voice moans a little before kissing it around the head and using your tongue to lick at that point over and over again, using your hand to rub it up and down faster than the same rhythm before you suck it a little and use your tongue to play with it again.

“That's it, baby.” You speed up your hand more and more and more of your ton to lick around it. He finally cums out in your mouth. He took a tissue paper by the bed to support it for you to spit it out.

“Good girl.” as you're dealing with yourself, he kisses your neck and then chases after your collarbone, and makes a kiss mark on your body as if it were a work of art.

Gwayne slowly pushes you to lie down on the bed. He pulls your dress up to your waist. He plays with the crevice in the middle of your body. You open your mouth. He knows your body too well.

He finally pulls out your panties and tights slowly and it makes you very horny, he uses his hands to separate your legs and lick to your cunt, fingering your clit, your moaning is loud all over the room.

He starts to fuck you by inserting his finger, from the first finger to the second finger, you feel the pressure, but it also feels really good, he starts to move his finger in and out more quickly, and his tongue licks your clit, you grab his head, expressing your feelings.

He makes you like going to heaven, your hips are slowly rising along his mouth and fingers, you finally twitch and orgasm, he licks every drop that comes out.

“You're so sweet.” he said. “next to start entering the real game, beautiful.”

He took off your dress and squeezed your chest slowly and licked it to your nipples intently, you could feel the hardness dragging along your crevices, it almost lost your mind, you opened your mouth and moaned to the heaven he gave.

He slowly put it in. "It's very tight." Your moaning is both coordinated. His cock went deep in the point that will definitely make you can’t walk. Your legs are shaking and losing control. But your consciousness is almost no longer left. It's all white in your opinion.

His hips hit your hips and it's getting faster and faster. Your eyes meet, and with a shared, unspoken desire, you both lean in and kiss deeply once more.

The lewd sound is loud all over the room. Your legs are intertwined. Hold the one above you tightly. He broke the kiss and moved down to leave a mark on your neck, one that everyone will definitely notice tomorrow.

"Gods! Gwayne-" His speed was faster, he grabbed it to your waist and grabbed it, slamming fearlessly in pain.

“Together” you nodded in response to him, he finally cums, he pushed his hips even deeper and his seeds flowed into you, you and he kissed again, a fiery and intoxicating embrace that left both of you breathless.

You get up, your legs visibly trembling. You slowly adjust your outfit and head to the bathroom for a personal moment. Before long, you come out and put your underwear back on where it belongs.

“You should stay here.” Gwayne says as he puts on his shirt. “I really want to hold you.”

“No, we’re not anything.” you reply.

“Do you want me to show you again?”

“Gross, Gwayne.” You decide to lie back down on the bed.

“What’s better than falling asleep with sweet dreams and holding my girlfriend?” He lies down beside you and hugs you tightly.

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Then forgive me, and we can get back together.”

“I’ll never forgive you until you change, Gwayne.”

“As you command, princess.” He kisses your cheek, and you both fall asleep.

#‧⁺◟ lyn writing table *•#gwayne hightower #gwayne hightower x reader

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almostfoxglove · 17 days

Text

GOING DOWN

an I'LL CARRY YOU one shot

written for @burntheedges Roll-A-Trope challenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Javier Peña x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.3k TROPE: #14 Trapped in an elevator CW: Claustrophobia, description of a panic attack, excessive alcohol consumption, characters kiss while very drunk but they're in love and desperately down, so much yearning.

SUMMARY: You and Javier get stuck in an elevator after a New Years party.

Takes place within the timeline of part II (characters are 25) - I recommend reading the first and second installments for these characters to make sense (so sorry).

READ GOING DOWN ON AO3.

part I & II | series masterlist | series on ao3 | main masterlist

Tonight the moon hangs like a cardboard set piece painted in icy blues. The whole sky awash with strange and opaque cover, giving the streets of Laredo a backdrop befitting the theatrics of one year’s death and another year’s birth. Probably won’t see the fireworks with all these clouds, but you don’t mind. Not when you’re already three shots deep—still yet to make it to the party—with Javier leaning against you on the sidewalk. “Should wear sequins more often,” he smirks, his breath sparkling against your cheek, carbonating the air. “Suits you.”

You roll your eyes, knock your elbow into his ribs, and send him stumbling a few steps back as you stride ahead, hands quickly skirting down the front of your dress. Hopeless, really. Even if the breeze were to settle, there’s no way you don’t accidentally flash someone tonight. No way you haven’t flashed half the people the two of you have wandered past already, staring up at each brooding apartment tower trying to make sense of the shadowed building numbers in the dark.

You’re getting closer now, you think. Just a block or so to go.

“Cabrón,” you chide, as Javier jogs up to fall into step with you again. Those long legs—always agile, strutting around like some loose-hipped wildcat. You can huff and speed-walk all you like, but there’s no world in which he doesn’t catch up with that smirk haunting the corner of your eye. That flint that hisses in his gaze, the spark before a fire. Twenty-five, the new year looming. Dressed up for some party neither of you care enough about to show up on time for, forget trying to remember the name of who’s hosting. Someone from college. Who knows. All that matters is the glimmer of it all: a whole night of liquor and music and clothes you’d never wear anyplace else and Javier—Javier, right here, choosing you all night.

A frog for a heart, you croak at the thought. One part guilt and another terror: how glad you are that Lorraine is off in Houston for the holidays, leaving him with no one to celebrate with but you.

But the real trouble isn’t guilt or fear—the trouble is that he doesn’t look troubled. He doesn’t look like his girlfriend isn’t here, like he’s missing anyone. Doesn’t look the slightest bit disappointed to be wandering around the city all night with you.

Sighing, Javier exhumes two cigarettes from his jacket pocket—a blazer you found at a thrift store together that fits him villainously, so snug in the shoulders—and pinches both filters between his lips to light from the cup of his hand and his wheezing lighter. You cross your arms, feigning that your attention is pinned solely on the passing buildings that slap down the long shadows through which you stride, and wait for him to hold one out to you.

He smirks as you take it, his smooth cheeks hollowing with a drag. He’s started to grow a mustache and it still looks silly to you, that dark slash across his cupid’s bow that seven years ago he let you kiss. It’ll suit him in a matter of weeks. In a matter of months, you’ll no longer remember what his face was like without it. Or you will, but you wouldn’t ever choose to go back.

“Told you we went too far, baby,” Javier says now, watching as you take your first long breath, kissing lipstick to the filter graced first by his mouth.

You shake your head, slip the cigarette to your hand, and point it at the crosswalk up ahead. “S’that one,” you tell him, blowing smoke from the corner of your mouth.

Without needing to say, you fall into make-believe—some echo of being children together, a habit neither of you care to kick—and at the stoop of the apartment building Javier swoops around you, cigarette clinging to his bottom lip, and yanks open the glassy front door with a little bow. “After you,” he smirks, his dark eyes slinking to your bare legs as you pass.

“Qué caballero,” you reply.

Gold light in the lobby, a doorman standing guard behind a matte black desk. The elevator slips down to greet you with a graceful whoosh.

Javier whistles as you thumb the topmost button. Penthouse. “Fancy,” he says.

“Parents must be rich,” you agree.

He’s beautiful, like always. Cheeks blushing from the brisk night air. An eternity of him reflects in the glossy elevator mirrors as you rise—a long queue of his blazered shoulders, his throat bobbing as he swallows, his wide hand passing the cigarette back to his lips. Between you, fronds of smoke rise like the spines of ferns. A forest of your indulgence, the way you pretend. It’s not invisible, how he watches you with interest, hardly bothering to hide the glimpses he claims of your hips, your collarbones, the straps balanced on your shoulders. The pain of your friendship is not that Javier doesn’t see you—it’s that he does. Always has, from the very first day.

It’s that he sees you, and doesn’t want you.

You aren’t Lorraine.

Now his brows pinch together, forming that worried bracket above his nose. It feels as if you’ve been rising for hours, but that could be the liquor sponging things, making them blur. Minutes and hours that too easily appear the same. “Tell me,” he says, reading you. Around him, the mermaid-color of your dress sparkles, drags out in the infinite reflections, but you can never see your own face—the angle is wrong—so you don’t know what you look like to him. How worried, how afraid, how convincing.

A grin for him alone, the private kind. Your lips pulling at one corner as you drink down smoke with a nod. “Don’t think I’m drunk enough,” you admit, and Javier huffs softly, shaking his head in disbelief.

Just as the elevator pings, its silver door sweeping open in welcome, he glides up to hang one long arm around your neck, pulling you against his chest as you walk out into the party. There’s that hearth, that home which you’d know in any dark: a smell that has over the years imprinted itself onto your very bones—cigarette smoke and skin, the bergamot in his cologne. Javier nudges his lips against your temple, the still sharp prickle of his mustache scraping your skin, and mumbles, “We’ll fix it.”

He almost never lies to you and this is no exception. The party—already knee-deep into raucous chaos in your absence—is electric inside, a hive of buzzing streamers and proud balloons doomed to wilt by morning. Everywhere are dresses like yours, sequins and sparkles and slashes at the leg, but no one looks like Javier. There’s no competition, never has been. Every other man here in a nice shirt is just some guy you forget between shots and glasses of champagne.

Several of which you and Javier drink, always from just one glass. The mark of his lips melding with the mark of yours on a plastic flute. Not once all night does he wander off and leave you on your own; there is always something of his somewhere on you. A hand brushing stray locks behind your ear, his bicep settling against yours as you rest against the kitchen island, a palm laid over your spine when he leans in to hear you over the party’s din. Briefly he’ll entertain conversation with someone if they approach—the host of the party with glitter on her cheeks; someone’s cousin who’s heard all about him, somehow; a pretty thing from his psychology class—but never with his full attention and never for long.

Soon the drinks shimmer in your bodies—and yes, you feel it too in his. Like you share just one sometimes, like a cigarette.

“Come, cariño,” Javier says, two songs from midnight.

Fixed like he promised, you feel just drunk enough to let him whirl you into the crowded living room where two walls open onto balconies that look out over the wintered city. There’s that blue moon again, no less barren than usual at its outpost in the sky but somehow painted, you think, dressed up for the occasion. Then Javier pulls you against him, hips already swaying, his forehead damp against yours as you start to dance, and all thoughts of the world beyond him evaporate.

Though you’re a terrible dancer—every bit as left-footed as he is lithe—it feels as if the parquet floor is a sheet of ice on which you skate, never faltering nor in danger of falling so long as you can feel his hands. “See?” comes his voice, the press of his lips to your ear over the caw of music pulsing from the walls. “You’re not so bad.”

His eyes crinkling at the corners when the hand at your back presses you closer, presses you against him: a change in choreography he makes no announcement for, but you don’t mind. You can press your cheek against his collarbone like this, nose notched against his throat, and breathe him in. Imagining he’s yours as the crowd chants its countdown—riotous in its build and yet you’d swear that you’re alone. That it’s just you and him, this body you know so well.

“Must be drunker than you look, baby,” you reply, grinning mostly to his chest, one hand drawing lazy patterns over the nape of his neck and the other planted over his speeding heart, beneath his. Your voice sluggish, drowsy. You’re drunker than you look, too.

Why else would you touch him like this, where people can see. People that for all you know, know Lorraine.

Javier’s chest shakes with a laugh you can’t quite hear over the sudden thunder of fireworks disrupting the sky. Neither of you look up for midnight; you don’t kiss. You just sway and sway and pretend until he ghosts his lips over the top of your head, mumbling let’s go home into your hair.

Something he’s said a thousand times before, somehow transformed. To your champagne-stained ears, it sounds brand new.

A thief in those sinful slacks, thighs rigid beneath their taper, Javier takes your hand and winds you between strangers, snatching an opened bottle of champagne off a table without breaking his easy stride. Somehow the elevator appears in an instant, as if it’s waited all night for the two of you to slip out early. Javier smacks the lobby button and the door slinks closed, muffling the cries for a newborn year as he tips the champagne bottle to his lips. A slug of liquid crystal slipping from the corner of his mouth, over the curve of his chin, down the slope of his neck.

How you long to lick it from his skin. To redo that night in your dorm room seven years ago, show him how much better you are now. How much more you want him.

But you’ll compromise; you always do. You settle for taking the bottle and swigging your share of the gold. As you swallow, chin tilted to watch the floor number shrink above the buttoned panel, the light in the elevator flickers, but you write it off as a long, drunken blink.

Javier bristles beside you. “Did you feel—” he starts to say, cut off by a groan in the walls, a sudden stutter.

The glossy elevator buckets in an instant. Your stomach flips like you’re going to be sick. You’re not sure exactly how it happens, but your eyes slam shut and the heat of his body clamps over yours like a shield in the darkness, one hand holding your head in the safe hollow of his neck as you plummet.

You think you might scream.

Then with a jolt the world comes to a screeching halt. The elevator stills and you open your eyes, lashes fluttering against Javier’s skin. The moment he feels you move, both his hands cradle your face, his pupils blown black by fear. “Are you—shit, are you okay?” he asks, his voice scrubbed hoarse. Maybe he was the one who screamed. Maybe you’re not sure whose body you felt that in.

Nodding, you swallow. “Are you?”

He nods. “Think—” voice gone again as he cranes over one shoulder, refusing to let go of your face. “Think we’re stuck.”

Your eyes round, owlish in their panic. Not panic for you, though.

Panic for him.

Already his hands have begun to stutter on your cheeks. Not pulling away, only trembling—the first shivers before a quake. “Hey, hey, baby,” you say quickly, letting the champagne bottle drop from your hand to pull his face back to yours until you’re mirrors of each other: two sets of hands framing two sets of cheeks. “Just look at me. It’s gonna—gonna move soon.”

You have no idea if the bottle shattered when it hit the floor, but neither of you dare look down.

Because Javier is a child again, regressing years in a second, terror black and leaking in his eyes. You know what he’s thinking about, what he’s remembering: sixth grade, brand new to your elementary hallways. How you once found him shut away in someone’s locker at recess—screaming his throat raw and bloody while everyone played outside, fists pummeling the inside of the metal door—still new enough at school to draw attention. You’d had to kick the lock to break him free, and he’d collapsed in a wheeze of panic at your feet, one hand coming out to grab your ankle in sheer desperation, his body curled tiny and terrified.

That might as well have been yesterday. That’s how clearly you remember what it felt like to fall to the hallway floor and drag him into your arms until he could breathe. No one ever messed with him again, and you still don’t know who did it. Javier’s never been a snitch unless it does someone good, and telling you wouldn’t have done him anything.

Was it that moment that started everything? This thing that you have that you can’t replicate.

You can’t really say.

Now you feel Javier’s heart slamming against his ribs as if it’s slamming against yours. You’ve wondered if anyone else ever feels this connected to someone—so entwined that their fear can poison your veins. That their heart can beat in your chest.

You’ve wondered if you’ll ever feel it with anyone else.

You’ve wondered if he feels it with Lorraine.

“Just look at me,” you say again, as Javier’s chest begins to rabbit. Thumbs softly stroking his cheeks as he stands against you, looking down with his lips dropped open in his daze. The railing on the elevator wall biting into the small of your back. “Just look at me, it’s okay.”

His next inhale comes in a gasp, shattered and glassy. Letting his forehead drop against yours, Javier blinks and blinks and blinks with no brown left in his eyes. The champagne is making this harder—the act of being steady—but you do your best to claw back his swelling alarm. This little box, however glossy and infinite in its reflections, must feel like a coffin to him, like a locker. Something smaller than a tomb.

“Baby, it’s gonna move, okay? Gonna move soon I promise, just breathe, Javi baby, just breathe—”

Every shudder in him rips a chasm through you.

Is this even helping, you wonder, or is this hurting.

Maybe you aren’t the comfort to him that he is to you.

Meanwhile the elevator stays exactly where it is, suspended somewhere between two floors. Who knows how long he’s gonna have to wait for someone to kick you both free. How hideous a thing it is to watch his once warm eyes go timorous and cold, his grip tightening on your face.

You’re drunk. You don’t know the right thing to do, so you do the first thing that comes to you—the thing you hope might make him hold his breath long enough to snare it—and bull your mouth against his. A crash of lips and teeth punched between two gasps in which you scramble to wind your arms around his shoulders, pressing the whole of your body against him in some desperate, besotted ploy for his salvation.

You’re breaking a promise. One time—that’s what he’d said in freshman year, but here you are kissing him again.

The way he takes to you would bowl you over if this were any other place, any other time. If you were sober. Instead it comes heaven-sent and unquestioned, a whole-body relief: the way Javier’s arms snap around your ribs and waist and crush you to him, pinning you to the wall.

It is a fever dream, a plague—the touch of death. How seven years gone it is still, amidst his panic, the best anyone has ever kissed you. All champagne and his sweet mouth, the shudder of his breath as he matches it to yours.

“It’s okay,” you mumble to him, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes that are—in the dim light of the elevator—still two tunnels into child-like dread.

You thumb his cheeks, his chin, his stupid mustache, and Javier shakes his head. “M’drunk,” he says, closing his eyes.

“I know, baby. Me too.”

“M’not gonna—” a short gasp, the kindling building again. “Don’t think m’gonna remember this.”

What else is there to do but nod? He’s right, after all—that’s the feeling you have. That when the elevator moves and you’re back on earth again, stumbled or taxied back to his or your apartment, that daylight will swallow this away. The new sun will rise and this will vanish. You won’t remember kissing. He won’t remember the panic, the elevator stopping. It’ll just be hangovers the way you’ve always done them—cheap coffee and greasy hashbrowns and cigarettes, Javier’s head on your lap or on your chest all day in bed, your hand in his unruly, bed-swept hair. All of this forgotten.

Or you will forget, at least.

Javier will remember—though not at first. Not for a while. It’ll take him a whole year, in fact, to recall this moment. Next New Year’s Eve, he’ll be in The Last Man Standing with Lorraine on his arm and she’ll look up at him just before the sweaty patrons cry HAPPY NEW YEAR— all Texas sunshine and everything he oughta want in the palm of his hand.

And in the last moment before she leans in, Javier will look out beyond her shoulder and catch your eye across the bar by what he’ll tell himself is an accident. You’ll be working, handing tequila sours to some dumbfuck who doesn’t have a shot in hell with you but is gonna slip his number to you anyway, and like you can feel him watching you’ll look up and stop Javier’s heart. It’ll come back in fragments, sure. But there’ll be no fighting it. You in that sequinned dress that made Javier feel like the whole world fucking flipped the second he saw it, scratching your fingernails through his hair and saying,

“It’s okay, I know, just kiss me, baby. Just breathe with me, and it’s gonna move soon. It’s okay.”

And kissing you in an instant, his whole body stammering until your tongue tastes his—then the elevator that just moments ago was pinching in triples in size. Everything, even the shake of his lungs falls quiet, and all that matters in the whole world is you kissing him like you’re saving his life.

You were. Saving him, that is. He’ll recall too a glance at his watch when you at last stepped out onto the barren street at twenty three past midnight. That’s how long you kissed him—twenty-three minutes—without break or pause or falter, without asking for a breath. Just because he needed it, and you knew. Because you saw.

Yes, he’ll remember just before Lorraine kisses him at the last tear of the calendar, and you’ll just smile behind your bar in that black apron, already busy serving up your next half-mixed cocktail, clueless to the year before.

And Javier will lie to you, just this once, when he takes it to his grave.

dividers by @thecutestgrotto - tag list & some mutuals!

@pedritosgfreal @thundermartini @guiltyasdave @jolapeno @reluctanthalfwayoptimism

@myownwholewildworld @sunnytuliptime @indiegirlunited @anoverwhelmingdin @beezusvreeland

@perotovar @pedgito @harriedandharassed @casssiopeia @sweetpascal

@noisynightmarepoetry @pedritosgfreal @theoraekenslover @luxurychristmaspudding @kyberblade

@itsokbbygrl @wannab-urs @milla-frenchy @yopossum @encasedinobsidian

#javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena narcos #javier pena x you #javier peña x reader #javier pena fanfic #narcos fanfiction #narcos fic #roll a trope challenge #almostfoxglove #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #myfics #series: illcarryyou #fic: goingdown

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aangelinakii · 3 months

Text

I DON'T SMOKE.

— if you need to be mean, be mean to me.

summary : after another inevitable argument, jason picks up the pack of cigarettes he hates to pick up. seems like he's been seeing it more than usual recently.

TRIGGER WARNING BEFORE YOU READ : mention of smoking / possible addiction to nicotine, and a very toxic unhealthy relationship

jason wasn't a smoker before he met you. in fact, he had been quite healthy; always eating well, didn't drink often, exercised an hour every day. but now he always kept a pack of camels in his bag.

they tasted shit, which made it hurt just that much more.

for some reason, you seemed to bring the worst out in him, and he for you. but he couldn't seem to let you go. it was as if you were the nicotine he brought into his lungs; he wanted more, needed more, craved more.

spend too long apart and his body physically missed your presence, as unhealthy as it were.

each time you fought – always about something stupid, something small – he took a puff or two. or until his fingers were blistered and burnt, and there was barely any tobacco left. the correlation became uncanny. you were a cigarette to him; better than any camel he'd had. but you were deteriorating him, bit by bit.

his friends and family had noticed long ago, but any time they tried to talk to him about it, jason was quick to lash out and deny. inside he knew, but outwardly admitting any of the pain you gave him caused his heart to ache.

no matter what you did, he would forgive you, almost straight away. sometimes it was bad and it took him a few days, but he'd always come running back, you knew that. he knew that.

part of him even expected things to get better, after a hug and a kiss. "i'm so sorry for hurting you, my love," you would say every time. "i will do better, i promise."

both of you knew full well not to trust anything that came out of your mouth.

alas, the two of you had broke out into a full-on fight during dinner. neither of you could remember what it was about by now; it was always something dumb, anyway. the walls shook as you wailed, screamed, shouted and cried at one another.

as you ended in tears and a shaking embrace, everything came to a close, but that itch in the back of jason's mind had ticked off. he needed a smoke.

he'd waited until you were asleep. you weren't supposed to know that he smoked, but you did, and he knew that you did; he wasn't good at hiding it, and it was impossible to ignore the stench of smoke on his breath and on his jackets.

in the pale moonlight, jason sat on the edge of your shared bed, knee jiggling anxiously. his eyes flicked towards the nightstand, and he reached out towards it, carefully pulling on the knob so as to not wake you.

there it was: his pack.

he slid open the window, peering behind him to make sure your back was still turned to him, and your frame was still snoring softly. a nicotine stick hung from his lips, and his lighter had been tucked into one of his hands.

with the window open, the gotham fumes began to waft into the room; an average scent of gasoline and tires. down below, cars still roamed the roads, despite the time. but gotham was a city that didn't sleep, and accompanied those who shared the same habit of staying up.

that's why he loved living in gotham. well... define love.

sparks flew as flint hit steel, and the end of his cigarette sizzled as the lighter gave flame.

jason's anxiety finally began to settle as he inhaled through his mouth, clouds forming in his lungs. and he breathed out, the fog he'd taken in releasing into the gotham air.

something shuffled behind him, and the man flinched as a pair of arms wrapped around his waist, his flesh instinctively retracted.

"come back to bed..." your fatigued voice thrummed against his back, muted by the fabric of his shirt.

he lowered his arm out the window, in an attempt to redirect the smoke steaming from the end of his cigarette – but he knew you weren't stupid.

"yeah, just a minute," he grumbled, thumb stroking against your forearm for a moment before softly pushing you away.

as you tumbled back to the sheets behind him, he took one more quick inhale before pressing the ashes of the cigarette against the brick wall outside, and flicking away the remnants of addiction.

#aangelinakii #dc #dc comics #dc reactions #dc imagines #dc headcanons #dc universe #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd reactions #jason todd angst #jason todd imagines #Spotify

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grandlinedreams · 7 months

Text

|| Archeron sibling!reader || last installment [here] || [series/setting masterlist]

|| warnings: angst, little bit of PTSD for reader because they're definitely not as okay as everyone thought, comfort, Azriel's a good bub

"Are you sure about this?"

Cassian is watching you as you pace yourself a few feet away, neatly combed sand shifting beneath your feet.

"I'm sure," you say, meeting hazel eyes that are so familiar and yet not ㅡ the one you know best is standing further away, adamant on keeping a watchful eye on you. "I want to learn."

"Okay," Cassian relents. "We'll need to figure out where the bottom of your power is, but we'll start small. Try summoning it to just your hand."

You nod, then lift both of your hands, willing that crawl of warmth to rise beneath your skin. At first, nothing happens ㅡ and then the barest, faint sputter of light sparks at your fingertips, no brighter than the guttering flicker of a candleflame.

"A good first attempt," Cassian soothes. "Sometimes a power can be attached to a strong emotion, or at least it helps invoke it." You can tell he wants to bring up what happened a few days ago, that first show of what the Cauldron had done to you ㅡ but he doesn't.

It doesn't matter, because you're thinking about it anyways ㅡ the unbroken skin of your knuckles and knees now, no sign of what had happened. What could have happened, if you hadn't had that burst of power ㅡ and light sparks again, stronger.

(Those fingers around your wrist, in your hair ㅡ dragging you back, refusing to let you go ㅡ)

Cassian is saying something, but you're staring at the light at your fingers, the blaze of it.

(If it hadn't been you, it could have been Elain that it happened to. Or Nesta, or Feyreㅡ)

Heat thrums under your skin. It throbs with your pulse, the forced steady rhythm of your breathing as that warmth rises, crawls up your spine, licks in your veins.

(It's not a hand around your wrist now. It's hands on your arms, pulling and pushing, forcing you to that ancient thing, the pulse of nameless power it radiates ㅡ tossing you into the abyss it contains, shoving you down, down, downㅡ)

Your pulse throbs in your ears. You can hear it, the roar of your blood, the body that's changed so much against your wishes, the things you never wanted for yourself ㅡ

Your bones crack like flint, catching as you ignite. The world fractures into that dizzying glow again, the taste of ancient power you'd felt digging into you the other day ㅡ rougher now, demanding.

A conduit, that's all you are ㅡ you no longer belong to your body, spinning amongst the cosmos, the sticky cling of it that wants to drag you under, make you submit ㅡ

You're drowning. Leaden, you sink down, down without an end ㅡ you don't want this. You never have ㅡ you've never wanted any of this. You burn, struggling against the way you want to dismantle from the shape of that dutiful daughter you've aways been, unremarkable sister ㅡ why shouldn't you have what is rightfully yours when you've had so much ripped from you without permission?

(You can't.)

You slam back into your body with all the grace of a stone, sinking into the unending dark that rushes to greet you.

ㅡ

You wake to the weight of blankets over you, something cool on your forehead ㅡ a cloth, damp against your fingers as you reach to pull it away.

"You're awake."

You turn to find Azriel watching you from where he's sitting in a chair, one leg crossed over the other as he studies you. You realize that you're in your room at the same time that he speaks again. "You've been asleep for two days."

Alarm sparks in your veins, makes you jolt upright despite the leaden ache of your head in protest. "What happened?"

Azriel doesn't answer for a long moment. "What do you remember?"

You blink, then turn to stare at your hands, folded in your lap. You can feel his gaze on you, studying you as memories rise to the surface, thick and syrupy. "...I lost control, didn't I."

Perhaps the wrong thing to say, given that you'd never had control to begin with ㅡ and even now, you can feel the fizzy warmth of it in your veins, vibrating in your bones.

"It happens," Azriel soothes. "It's okay."

It'd been the very point of that exercise, to see where the bottom of that power was, how best to help teach you to wield it ㅡ but you exhale a shuddering breath, and Azriel's chest aches at the shimmer of tears in your eyes.

"No it isn't," you mumble. "It's not okay, none of this is okay."

It hadn't been okay to lose your younger sister in that catalyst that'd jumpstarted all of this ㅡ and it hadn't been okay when she'd showed back up, now immortal beauty and explaining things you'd never thought you'd be involved in. That you'd been taken with Nesta and Elain, forced into the life of a being you'd been perfectly content pretending didn't exist.

You're crying openly now, the warm slide of tears over your cheeks, tracks cooling as you hiccup. Azriel shifts, and you don't bother to look at him but then the bed is dipping under his weight, the faint shift of wings ㅡ and then he's pulling you to him.

His touch is gentle as he coaxes you to his chest, lets you press into him as you choke on a sob. One hand nestles into your hair, fingertips against your scalp, the other at your back ㅡ rubbing in gentle circles as you shudder.

Azriel's chest aches as you cry, familiar scent lost to the saltiness of tears and your ragged breathing. Even though you're rightfully upset, he hates that there's nothing he can do beyond what he already is.

He keeps you against him even as you begin to calm, adjusts so that you're in his lap, legs carefully adjusted as he moves to lean against the headboard of your bed. "Breathe," he murmurs into your hair when you hiccup again, "just breathe."

You struggle to do just that, your own heartbeat erratic compared to the steady thump of his own. "Got your shirt wet."

"It'll dry."

You press your face into his chest, let your senses flood with the scent that's become such a comfort as of late. "I'm sorry for crying."

His grip tightens on you, just a little bit. "Don't be."

You sniffle. "You can leave if you want to."

Azriel stares down at you, fingers tentatively sorting out the tangle of your hair, mindful of your ears. Tears clump dark lashes together, and he's struck by how tempting it is to want to kiss them away. He doesn't, however, but he doesn't push you out of his lap either. "I'll stay."

Part of you wonders how long he'd been sitting in that chair, aware that he undoubtedly has things he should be doing that isn't this ㅡ but you let yourself be selfish for once, let yourself need him a little more than what you should.

#ㅡmine.#acotar x reader #azriel shadowsinger x reader #az x reader #azriel x reader

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spdrvyn · 7 months

Text

mr. spider and his journalist

you and miguel are rivals on the surface, but there's an irrevocable bond that exists between the two of you when you read between the lines.

injuries. implied wound patching. fluff. hurt/comfort. suggestive. happy valentines, folks!

The fast-paced and riveting action, joint with the simple adrenaline of describing an intense scene was what drew you to this job in the first place. Journaling wasn't easy, while you were no superhero, you were still somewhat putting your safety on the line to witness two adults in skin tight suits and superpowers throw hands at each other.

In spite of everything, you loved your job.

Your name had reached every single article that average Nueva York citizen could even think to get their hands on, your name befell the mouth of every employee in your building whether it was in praise or malice. You didn't care, all that mattered to you was that you were truly out there.

Although, your workplace wasn't the only area of your life where you were severely disliked. Even as you went out and about to record and detail on the spectacles and heroic gestures in this city, its top vigilante still glared at you with ire through his mask.

He was a spider, you were a pest.

Spider-Man had fought many impeccable foes over the years, battled by a villainous organization that was out for his blood in an almost literal sense. Not to mention that he was hurtling fate's delegated task of protecting a multiverse which each had a different version of this maddening, web-weaving hero.

It wasn't like he could bring himself to actually express his distaste towards you, but it was hard to mask his annoyance when you immediately came flocking to him with borderline intrusive questions about his life outside of his work.

After the precipice of disaster subsided once each fight had concluded, the snippiness of your tone as you wrung out questions brought the crowd of clamoring reporters to a halt.

Miguel had to swallow his intrigue time and time again, he'd tried to acknowledge a long time ago that surely you were just another journalist seeking out to actually making something of yourself. But your passion was the flint that sparked his curiosity about you, it was a weakness. He couldn't allow his poise to be wavered by someone like you.

Someone so eloquent and composed, someone so witty and humorous, letting himself get bested by you would be the biggest blow to his massive ego. It would be nightmarish to even approximate the possibility of Miguel having some sort of interest towards you.

You'd already come to your senses a long time ago.

It was silly, really. Obviously you'd discover these underlying feelings for him, why else would you practically be clinging to his side post-mission? Why else would you publish so many stories and reports about his daily miscreancy? A 5th grader could figure it out.

There was so much you knew, that you really shouldn't have. There were details about his life that have retained in your mind, but you didn't even know his full name.

"No further anomalies, Miguel. I'd suggest checking diagnostics though, anomaly activity in this dimension has been active as of late."

Miguel groans, running a hand across his face despite his mask. "Uh huh, right." He doesn't need anymore on his plate right now, for all he could care, you were probably hiding around in a little corner somewhere.

"So it's Miguel?"

Fuck, he really hated being right. And not having a spider sense, that too. "Ay, mierda!" He jolted, you bit on your lip to conceal your giggles. Seeing someone as big as Miguel get startled out of his mind was a little funny. "Do not keep that detail in your little article."

"What kind of person do you think I am, Miguel?" Ugh, he hated the way you say his name even more. "Tu secreto es mi secreto, no need to worry about it. But if I could get a last name too, that would be-"

"Alright, get away from me."

He still remembered the way you chased after him as he approached the edge of the battered rooftop, clutching at his forearm. You'd pester him for details, the most intricate ones, even when he knew that he could just zip right out of there, you always found a way to make him stay. Every single time.

The stirring way that you were always able to show up after nearly every mission he's had, your very presence emanating even when deep into the crowds of people surrounding the scene.

But you didn't show up this time.

Don't call for backup, he'd insisted. A stupid, moronic decision that was because now he was crawling his way, bloody and bruised, throughout a sopping wet alleyway that definitely wasn't only soaking with just the rainwater.

There was no crowd this time, there was no you to be found. He would have noticed a hundred miles away otherwise, his watch had damaged in the aftermath. Narrowly escaping by a hair, he growled frustratedly as the furious taps of his fingers against the small screen didn't register. His talons took the rear, scratching against the tiny panes of glass and only breaking it further.

At that point, there was no more reason to be angry. What's done is done, he fought his battle, he didn't lose, but he wouldn't consider this a win either.

The nano-fabric, originally designed to be as comfortable as can be for your regular vigilante activities, now felt like it clung uncomfortable to Miguel's skin. Sticky, grimy, and bloody. His chest heaved with the effort to just keep breathing, his large frame now so small as he slumped against the rough wall of the alley.

He wondered what you'd say right now, if he hadn't been caught in this blunder. You'd be asking him, what the anomaly looked like, if they were from a different era, their powers, how did he defeat them? So on and so forth, but your absence was more than enough of a bad omen for his failure.

The sound of your voice wasn't something he thought he'd miss, your annoying comments, your inquisitive glances, that sparkle in your eyes whenever he started talking. All those lovely details he'd lost to snide replies and swift conversation enders, he closed his eyes, it was childish to hold onto hope, but maybe thinking about what you'd say, what you'd do, would motivate him to get up. Get away.

Miguel, I honestly just don't know you do it, you would say with a sarcastic rise in your tone.

Say, how does your suit even work? I mean, I know it's nano-tech, but I'm no scientist of any sort. You'd ask, all while poking and prodding at the technology. A privilege he only allows you to have.

I don't know what to do with you, how am I supposed to help when this thing doesn't even have a damn zipper! The frustrated grind in your voice says it all.

Don't die on me, please. I'm sorry if I'm a thorn in your side, okay? I'll stop, just wake up! Wake up, please. You begged, a desperation sewn deeply with the way you grasped at his bandaged hand.

When did he get here?

His body still hurt like hell, trying to get his neck up straight was like having needles straight into the muscles. His eyes fluttered open, and the first thing he sees is your eyes. Puffy, swollen, and red from crying, your mouth stuck in a pout, quivering from the amount of sobs that you've let out. Your grip on his hand loosens upon his awakening, you can't hug him without risk of hurting him, so you simply lean in closer.

"You're alive," it's said a lot calmer than the hysterics you were spewing a while ago, a relieved smile gracing your features. "I- I didn't kill you, you're alive!"

The joy rushes into your voice, you're practically vibrating with happiness while trying to fight back the urge to swoop him in your arms. Miguel would, but for obvious reasons, he won't.

"Why would you have killed me?"

"I'm not a science person, how many times do I have to tell you?"

He doesn't bother quipping back, he hums, looking down over at the exposed parts of suits, pushing the blanket you set on him aside to discover that everything was cleaned and patched and stitchedto near perfection. "So you're not a nurse or a science person, but you can fix wounds like no other."

"This is a common book trope, considering how I'm closely tied to a superhero, I feel like being a fixer-upper is a requirement."

"Closely tied?" He says, unamused.

"We'll have to be now! I can't have you scare me like that, I won't ask you any questions for a month as long as I don't see you in any dark alleys all hurt looking." You harumph, you see him press a spot below his ear and all of a sudden-

His mask disengages, fabric disappearing seamlessly as his face is miraculously bestowed onto your gaze. Warm skin from the ambient lighting set to accomodate his hypersensitive senses. Curly and deep brown hair, all mussed from his scuffle. A set of dark crimson eyes that look a beautiful chestnut if you really look from a different angle, you forget to breathe.

"Thank you, but don't get too excited. Consider this a treat for taking care of me," he returns to that sense of stoicism, but your jaw is unfortunately still agape from how awe inspiring he truly is. Now, you'd have to imagine this face every time you even so much as wrote the word spider down.

"I, uh, yeah. Sure,"

This is the first instance he's ever had you so silent. You trekked around your flat for different foods you could feed him, brewing him too many cups of tea to count. You barely even made small talk, it was astounding to him.

He left soon after, the super healing abilities work bound to have started working more efficiently anyway. You bid your goodbyes to him, it was as if you still had the moment of shock written all over your face when he revealed his face to you.

The days that followed were odd, he didn't find himself in any sort of kerfuffle that involved him to be severely injured anymore, but when he noticed you in the crowd, you tended to shy away. You didn't even try to follow him afterward to pester him for details on the battle, there was something so off about it.

So Miguel decides to talk to you about it.

You were idly typing away, contained in a small office from the rest of the room. The chatter from your coworkers were your white noise along with the near silent clicks of your keyboard, the process has you so out of it that you don't pick up on the reflection of navy blue and bright red on your computer screen.

"You," grumbles Miguel and this time, you're started.

"Oh, shock. What are you doing here?" That boisterous confidence you always carried with you had gone mute, all Miguel saw was a drained creative and it made his blood boil.

"Why haven't you been," he doesn't want to say it. Don't make him say it. "Talking to me?"

You tilt your head to the side in confusion, quirking your brow up. Miguel disengages his mask again, you'll never get used to that. "I- what do you mean by that exactly?"

"You know, don't you normally- ask more questions? After I take care of business?" Miguel despises how needy he sounds right now. Please talk to me and keep annoying me, for I miss it so dearly.

"I thought you hated that," your voice drops in volume. "I just thought since the thing that happened that you'd want me to leave you alone for a while."

The absurdity of your statement had him reeling, the reason why he didn't die that night was because of your allergy to negligence, how the thought of even leaving him alone would make you sick to your stomach as you so described. Now, you were giving him distance?

"No," he walked even closer to you, cornering you against your desk and causing you to shrink in your small swivel chair. "You don't get it, do you?"

You shake your head hesitantly, it's too hard to focus. You've touched him before, but never has he actually initiated it. He was mere inches away from you, whether you should focus on not looking like a freshly plucked tomato or his handsome face was between you and God.

He lets out an irritated chuckle, the gleam of his canines prominent from the light of the monitor behind you. "Has it ever struck you in that head of yours that I like talking to you?" He places a hand on one of your arm rests. "That I enjoy your sass, your passion?"

There's that funny feeling again, that feeling from when he revealed himself to you. Discovering such a big revelation from Miguel, something you've dreamed of nearly every night, but now that it's in the palm of your hand, you can't bring yourself to think properly.

"But I– I thought that–"

"It's a yes or no question, hermosa. Answer it."

"No."

The back of your chair hits the wood of your desk as Miguel pushes you, he dwarfs your suroundings, his presence much larger now that both of you are in a place so confined. Now that he wasn't "couchridden". At this proximity, you wouldn't be surprised if he could hear your heartbeat.

"Think again," his other hand moves to tug on your bottom lip as he clashes his own against yours, your whole body tenses and for a split second, he thinks he's seriously messed up this time, until you groan into his mouth and that thought is straight out the window.

Your hands map out his body, from the broad shoulders, tracing the muscle connecting them to his neck, then to the soft hair that you've been dying to touch ever since you've laid your eyes upon it. Your fingers ultimately find home in the curls at the ends.

It's almost filthy. His other hand now trailing down to your neck, wrapping deft fingers around your throat and it causes you to arch your back into him.

He uses his grip on you as leverage to separate, left panting and with a memory to use for later.

"We should get dinner sometime,"

"When are you free?"

"Friday. 7PM."

"Okay," and you lean in to kiss him again.

#spiderman: across the spiderverse #spiderverse #across the spiderverse #atsv #spiderman #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #x reader #x you #x y/n #fluff #hurt/comfort #miguel o'hara fluff #suggestive

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