#Theseus was a real one for this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kneelingshadowsalome · 3 months

Text

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

4K notes · View notes

lacollectionneuse1967 · 4 months

Text

remembering you - part 2

Theseus Scamander x Reader

summary: the truth of your and theseus's shared past comes to light at a very public venue.

fem!reader. theseus scamander x reader.

category: romance.

warnings: brief but GRAPHIC descriptions of gore (war flashback).

part one / part two

“I don’t think I’ve ever done anything that wasn’t expected of me.” The curse of the good son. The thought comes to Theseus unbidden.

Even joining the magical resistance at the beginning of the war felt like some preordained line of reasoning that he only had to follow.

He’d vowed to his parents that he’d always do what’s right for his community. He’d been asked to help, so he did. In all realms of life, he tried to be helpful and do what was asked of him.

He didn’t have to think about it.

But then: You.

Y/N swept into his life and spun his head around, turned his whole belief system upside down. He can only think of one other girl who struck him so profoundly, reached inside his chest and tugged him back into his body and the present moment, but that was years ago, and their encounter had been so brief…

The principles by which Theseus lived his life were simple ones.

Restraint. Generosity. Order.

All dashed to pieces with the touch of your lips. When you'd asked him to kiss you his only thought had been "Mercy." He’d started undressing you by instinct. He’d taken you on his desk, it seems more like an unwieldy fantasy than a memory.

He’s at home now. Dumbstruck at his kitchen table, glass of whiskey untouched.

He has the strangest desire to call his brother.

Newt, of all people! But he was probably galavanting around the world looking for Wrackspurts or trying to teach a Doxy to play fetch. They hadn’t spoken in so long, and Theseus had been negligent when it came to showing interest in his brother’s work besides that. He couldn't call on him now.

Theseus just needs someone to tell him what to do.

He doesn’t know what happened in his office. He just wanted to put his hands on you and then, once he did, he started burning up inside and couldn’t stop.

Y/N, Y/N, Y/N….

Your name was like a drumbeat driving him to insanity. A trance-inducing chant.

“What’s become of me?” he thinks, helplessly, head in his hands. “I’ve gone mad.”

He was supposed to marry well, unfussily and unremarkably. Find a respectable woman from a good wizarding family after building up his reputation as an Auror. He’d never touched a woman the way he'd touched you, so brazenly, so honestly, so entirely overcome with desire.

He’d never thought much of love.

Even before today, he’d been distracted at work. Powerless, really. Writing to you occupied his every thought. Even when you took a little longer to respond, what he felt wasn’t impatience but agony. He hung onto your every word. His default daydream had become storming down to the Department of Magical Games and Sports and standing before you, making you see him, he loved you and he wanted you to deal with it too.

“Tomorrow,” he thinks and it eases some of the tension. He blows out the candle floating above his kitchen table and gives up on the whiskey, snatching the glass and pouring it down the drain.

Tomorrow he’s decided to tell you that he needs you, that he loves you, although he’s not sure what it means yet. Maybe that will help him clear his head, silence that roaring need. Confessing to you will be like letting blood.

Yesterday your beauty had taken him by surprise, discomposed him, yes. But he reminds himself that he knows you. From your letters.

He loved you then too.

And, aside from his feelings, he doubts there are any real secrets now between you.

-----------------

You want to ask Theseus if he dreams about the war too.

You wonder how many people in Britain return there, to that same reeking, muddied place lit-up with gunfire, in their dreams every night. You wonder if you could meet him there.

But no, Theseus wasn't in the trenches. He wouldn't know about how the mud is different there. Evil. Cursed. You'd long given up on trying to describe it to your sister, make her understand.

No wizards, not even those a part of the underground resistance, were in the trenches.

Your powers were wasted down there, how silly and indulgent magic seemed with people dying everywhere, dying badly, with less dignity and honor than stray dogs.

You remember trying to use magic wherever you could anyways. You remember your hands and your medical knowledge being, shockingly, more useful. When a man's limbs are shattered in opposite directions, when a man's face has been shot off, when a man is bleeding out, when a man....

You remember that first night, after Theseus and your family had left you, the numb-shock of seeing a man's brains for the first time. The sensation that came over you was less startling and more like paralysis or ice water. They were grey and had splattered onto your face and the ground before you. The men shoved his body over the top of the trench, throwing him at you to save him, not realizing he had a hole in his head. You stared at the soft, grey chunks on the floor and your mind unfeelingly conjured up images from the kitchen: chicken hearts, boiled ground meats, uncooked egg whites. It was so random you'd almost laughed.

War made the grotesque banal.

And all for what? That pointless tract of wasteland. Bodies at various states of decay, laid out like a rotting carpet.

You wonder what Theseus did to get called a war hero, you didn't think there were any heroes in the Great War. To you it was a tragedy of gross political malpractice.

They made a grave of your home in France. You couldn't have returned there, not ever.

You only ever went back there in dreams, where you couldn't seem to remember that the war was over.

It made you feel guilty in a distant, half-realized way, how you never wanted to talk about it or think about it in your waking life. When your siblings wrote down your name in a tribute to the combat nurses at last year's Armistice Day, you'd been blind with rage. Inconsolable with a nameless, blooming betrayal. "Nameless" because you couldn't say what they had betrayed.

Which is why this year's Armistice Day, today, you'd resolved to avoid all grief celebrations and talk of glory and war and to think only of the future. Of happy things. Of Theseus.

Theseus.

Yesterday you'd slept with him.

You'd actually taken him into your arms and body and then just let him take and take and take. You'd only asked for a kiss, but you'd found yourself unable to say anything but yes and please to him.

This fact made you blush the whole way home. Made you unfold his "goodnight" message from days before and read it again and again just to see the ink of his writing on paper, just to prove that what existed between the two of you was real.

At work yesterday he'd kept writing to you, just like he promised. Afterward, at the end of the day, he came to your desk and walked you to the Atrium, kept his hands in his pockets and looked at you fondly when you spoke, with an attention like sweetness. He was a gentleman--what happened in his office aside--indisputably so. You'd felt good and safe by his side. Like you belonged there.

Until you got home.

It was your mistake to open up to your sister. It didn't help that she kept saying that she couldn't believe you, that she'd kill him, that "it's all so unromantic."

You spared her the details, but you wanted to just blurt out and admit that it was the both of you begging for the other at intervals.

He'd gotten down on his knees, for crying out loud! He didn't coerce you into anything. All he coerced were inappropriate noises from your mouth, but, no, you couldn't tell your sister that...

Your argument continues in the morning, picks up where it left off right after breakfast.

"I just feel like you gave up more than you bargained for, Y/N. Because you like him so much you're more at risk of-"

"I didn't 'give up' anything! God, I can't believe you."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"No, it's fine, really!" You're grabbing your keys and shoving them into your purse with force, pointedly not fine. "For the record, he was the one who said he liked me. And I was the one who asked him to kiss me, again! I'm not a child. The only thing I'm at risk of is finally getting what I want."

Your sister cries easily, famously. You can see it mounting now in the tremble of her lip. It almost topples over into a sob when she whines, "I love you Y/N! I don't want you to get hurt."

"He likes me! He's my friend. We've been talking for weeks."

"What if he..." your sister hesitates and for some reason it humiliates you, her censoring herself for the sake of your feelings.

Your shoulders go rigid.

"What?" you snap. "What if he what?"

She shakes her head but when you don't relent she speaks grudgingly.

"What if he does this a lot? Casual sex. Spontaneously sleeping with women. Maybe even coworkers. I just want to be sure you're on the same page, Y/N. He means so much to you, I know that, and he always has. But he doesn't even remember you...."

Sick. You feel a swaying illness in your chest and gut. For a moment you taste bile.

Her words hurt so bad that you don't even feel pain, the fight in you just dies instantaneously.

He doesn't even remember you...

"Okay," you say, staring blankly at her. "Okay..."

"Y/N-" your sister stands from her chair suddenly, but you jerk away from her.

"It's fine. Theseus can do what he pleases. Thank you for your concern, but I don't want to talk about it anymore."

You leave for work.

------

The chaos at the Ministry mirrors the chaos in your head, which isn't any real consolation.

Whizzing baubles and streaming banners are still being put up in the Atrium, the center of which lies a hulking, rectangular platform, scattered hauntingly with red poppies. It sort of reminds you of gallows, though you doubt anyone else would appreciate the humor in your observation.

The Ministry always did some sort of luncheon or memorial for Armistice Day.

Speeches, honors, sometimes a little parade, sometimes, conversely, observing four minutes of silence. The thought of being asked to go on stage horrified you more than the Western Front had.

As you walk to your desk, you think about Theseus again. You think about the war. Both inevitable, given the circumstances.

You think about the service he rendered your father and your siblings that night. You think about the chivalry he demonstrated in letting you hold onto your girlhood for a bit longer, his hand framing your face as he left it untouched and denied you a kiss.

You think about him letting you stay for the Battle of Verdun, and how it never made sense to you and it still doesn't now...

You have to know.

"I'll tell him," you think. "I'll tell him today."

------

There's a memo waiting for you at your desk. It makes your heart patter in gross relief.

"He likes me. He likes me," you remind yourself.

Your sister's words this morning must've really gotten to you.

"Urgent matter for the Interdepartmental Liaison of the Department of Mysteries!!!"

You roll your eyes. You're smiling stupidly at the paper as you write your response.

"Theseus, you can't keep writing 'URGENT' at the beginning of all of your memos. It's cryptic and dishonest and it loses its intended effect."

"Okay, fine. I was just going to ask if it would be terribly uncouth if I asked you to meet me in my office before the memorial so I could kiss you a bit?"

The thought of him putting his hands on you affects you more than you'd ever admit. You look around the office, blushing, as if anyone could read the paper from so far away. This man was driving you insane.

"Well, that's one way to honor the troops. You are a veteran so I suppose there's no turning you down."

You want to see him, you do. But you have a mission today from your Department. It couldn't wait and he couldn't know.

You're hoping to use the Armistice Day events to talk to Mr. Bragg, the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, or maybe sneak into his office. Too much time has elapsed already, you need to find out whether or not he is really betraying the Ministry for Grindelwald.

Theseus's reply is surprisingly earnest.

"Huh, I always thought today was more about honoring the fallen than honoring the veterans."

"True. Maybe no kissing until it's over?"

"Deal. I'll see if I can write you into my schedule."

"Not funny."

"If you want to see me so bad you could always commit a crime and I'll come arrest you?"

"Hey, you're the one who asked to see me!! And threatening me with a good time is beneath you."

You see a lone blot of ink fade-in from where his quill is pressed down onto the paper on his end. He's trying to decide what to write.

When the words come at last they are so simple and candid and enticing. Theseus has never been afraid of honesty or affection.

"I like you so much."

You laugh aloud. If he was here you'd kiss him breathless.

"Yes, you said that already."

"Forget the kiss, I'd kill even to hear your laugh in person. To see your face."

"I like you so much too."

-----

You're the last person from your level to make your way down to the Atrium for the Armistice ceremony. The noise from below sounds more like a motorcade than a memorial. Honking trumpets, trilling drumroll, applause. Funnily enough, you think your coworker Ana is the one speaking now, snatched the microphone from the Minister of Magic himself.

In fact, by the looks of it, you might've missed some of the ceremony already.

The Atrium is packed with people. Ministry workers brought their spouses, some their entire families. Well-dressed witches and wizards not affiliated with the Ministry have also come in droves.

You scoot along the edge of the room, moving sideways towards the stage, craning your neck to find Mr. Bragg.

The periodic sound of applause crashes down like heavy rainfall, the way it drowns everything out. It's a bit stuffy from all the body heat, and your clothes cling to your body uncomfortably.

As you approach the stage, you stop pushing forward and look up in shock to see Theseus's face. He doesn't see you, and you're glad for the chance to just look at him outright. God knows you could look at him forever.

He's waltzing down the steps of the platform smiling broadly. His gait is relaxed, he's comfortable in his skin despite the attention of being on stage, which is something you envy. There's a ribbon on his lapel and a red flower stuck in his suit pocket, a few men and women are trailing behind him.

They must have just honored the wizards who fought.

Next would presumably be some ceremony for the Ministry workers to honor their dead. Last year they'd done a magical memorial with floating lanterns. This year you'd been told it would involve stones, or maybe it was flowers? You didn't want to stick around.

It was painful enough carrying your losses inside of you, seeing loss and grief paraded and exploded all around you didn't feel therapeutic or healing for you the way it seemed to feel for the rest of the nation.

"Y/N!"

You turn without grace, neck jerking painfully. The sight of Mr. Bragg's face startles you, makes you feel found out. It's difficult for you to rein in your surprise. You have to shout over the sound of Ana talking onstage.

"M-Mr. Bragg!"

The older man smiles. He's with his department friends and his cheeks are rosy. Drunk, maybe. They're holding the flask between them like schoolboys, drawing more attention to it really.

It seems disrespectful to you. Most Ministry workers waited until after the memorial ceremony to start celebrating the end of the war and drinking to "peace."

But Mr. Bragg and his colleagues look positively jubilant.

"My girl! I was just telling these gentlemen how we have a real Unspeakable in our midsts now! Tell them how good the Department of Magical Games and Sports has been treating you, why don't you? Better than the Department of Mysteries, eh?"

The men he's with laugh and jostle him, they're about to turn back to the stage.

You're still reeling, sputtering from surprise, but you have to spit it out now, take your chance.

"Mr. Bragg! Wait!"

His colleagues' eyes go wide in delight, one of them looks as if he's about to bark an inappropriate comment. Mr. Bragg looks taken aback at your newfound attention.

It was nearly 1930 and some of the men in the Ministry still had such backward ideas about women, even coworkers, it took everything in you not to roll your eyes.

"Yes, darling?" Mr. Bragg's answering smile is eager and smug. Self-satisfied.

Gag.

"Um, I was hoping to talk to you in your office after the ceremony? About my position as liaison." He looks suddenly bored, turned off, so you give him your most flattering smile and add, coyly, "Alone. If you're not too busy, that is?"

That seems to gratify him. He adjusts his jacket impressively in front of his colleagues. One of them wriggles his brow indiscreetly and nudges him.

"Of course, Miss Y/L/N! It's about time you and I had a good talk, one on one."

Again, gag.

You smile, and it's a strain to, before bowing your head in thanks and moving on.

Well, at least that was settled. You could drill him with questions after the ceremony and, during the ceremony, you could poke around in his office for evidence of betrayal. It was perfect.

Too perfect.

It was your mistake for lingering near the stage. For coming at all, really.

It sends a jolt of liquid panic down your spine when you hear your name, magically amplified for the whole crowd to hear. It booms throughout the entire Atrium. It's bizarre to the point of feeling dreamlike.

"Oh, and is that Y/N? Miss Y/L/N! Please join us on stage! Everyone, how can we forget to honor our wartime nurses?"

This isn't real. If the crowd hadn't parted to stare at you after all of Ana's pointing, you would've continued walking away.

A man jumps off-stage to escort you to the staircase.

You're past the point of being able to speak or object.

Once onstage you stare out at the crowd unseeingly. The tops of so many heads. You'd rather be at the summit of some great height, looking out at some cloudscape. Your fear of heights seemed healthy, whereas your stage fright was a simultaneously useless and formidable thing.

You regret befriending Ana. You regret telling her about the war, telling her anything about yourself at all.

You are sweating.

And, impossibly, Ana is still talking.

"-and at only sixteen years old! As a volunteer wartime nurse, Y/N Y/L/N stayed for the entire ten months of brutal fighting at the Battle of Verdun in Northern France. 300,000 dead and 400,000 wounded. She saved countless lives, muggle and wizardkind alike, indiscriminately. These combat nurses were the foundation of-"

Her last commendation draws some uncomfortable shifting and impressed gasps from the crowd. It's a mixed reaction, as views of blood purity were equally mixed.

Ana, in an asinine but expected turn of events, is still talking.

But you're no longer listening. You can't.

There are so many people in the crowd, but your gaze locks on Theseus almost immediately. You see his expression change in realization, his eyes widen and his jaw flexes, almost undetectably.

When he tears his gaze from Ana to you, you turn away.

He knows. Even if he doesn't remember, he knows.

You only know Ana's finished talking because of the crashing noise of applause, like the shore breaking on a cliffside. Your ears burn. You keep your head low as you exit the stage.

This isn't how you wanted it to happen.

You're torn between wanting to explain yourself and wanting to escape. Heart hammering, cutting through the crowd, you choose the latter.

You make for a secluded alcove of the Atrium, far from the crowd at its center, and sit on a marble bench.

You never lied to Theseus. If anything he was the one who lied. He said he'd remember you. He'd promised.

"It's okay," you repeatedly run your hands over the material of your skirt, over your thighs. It's meant to be reassuring, grounding. You don't feel like it's working. "It's okay, Y/N."

You'd like to say it was the stage fright at work, but no. It was the way he looked at you that was so upsetting. He looked at you like the earth was shattering.

"Y/N!"

Your head lurches upwards from where it's bent over.

It's shocking to you, the sight of him. As shocking as it was to see him in his soldier's uniform, standing in your doorframe on that night all those years ago.

"Y/N," Theseus walks over with heavy footsteps. He looks winded and undone, like he'd run to find you. His voice is weak. "It's.... How can it be you?"

There's a desolate longing to your returning stare. Your chest hurts. You're shaking your head, trying to dispel some of that tightness in your heart.

"You said you didn't need a name to remember me...."

"Did you remember me?"

"Of course," you're speaking so fiercely, he doesn't deserve it but you can't help it. "Right away."

Why is it more embarrassing to be the one who remembers? It's even more embarrassing than being forgotten.

"That's why I stopped writing to you that day," you add pathetically. "After I saw your face at the Ministry, I'd put the pieces together. All it took was once glance."

Theseus sits down beside you on the bench, still looking adrift. At a loss of what to do with this information.

"You must be disappointed," he says at last. "And you must think me a fool."

"Well... I don't think you're a fool," you hope that doesn't reveal your disappointment, but his pained wince suggests the opposite.

"I should have known," he says with newfound vigor. "You really haven't changed, have you? Even after your coming-of-age, you're still as stubborn as ever."

That makes you laugh, dreary as the sound is.

"I didn't come of age I just sort of... came through."

He laughs at that. "You know, I've seen far more of your siblings."

"Really?"

"They didn't tell you?"

"No, not really..." None of you liked to talk about your father's death or the period surrounding it. Too painful.

"Well, I spent a good week with them. With your father too, obviously. I had to make sure he was receiving proper care."

"Did you speak to them?"

"Your sister didn't understand much of what I was saying, the same for your father. But I spoke with your brother often, his English wasn't half bad."

You groan. "What did you talk about?"

Theseus seems pleased. Eager to demonstrate to you how much he remembers.

"Of course I asked him if you really were a combat nurse, had to make sure I didn't just send a teenager to her death," Theseus explains. "So he told me about the first time you came to help out in the trenches. Some story about the men catcalling you, telling you ways to make yourself prettier, and you shouting 'It's not my job to be beautiful!' at them and tightening the tourniquet of the man you were working on. Your brother told me he yelped so loud that none of the other men dared to bother you again."

You laugh breathlessly. It's so strange to hear the memory come out of Theseus's mouth. Everything about this feels impossible. Ridiculous.

"Did my brother share any other anecdotes about me?" You turn to Theseus with a wry look on your face.

This is oddly pleasant. Doesn't feel so awful anymore, unearthing the past together.

"I wish," Theseus's smile is toothy and endearing. Sly look in his eyes. "Naturally I asked almost exclusively about you. When he talked about you he called you by some pet name? I tried to use it to find you after the war before I realized it was only a nickname."

That makes your heart stir.

It was stupid. Impossible.

An unhappy coincidence. Those were all that seemed to keep you apart.

Theseus had tried to find you.

But [your brother's name] was so young at the time, he'd only ever thought of you as [your nickname] and never "Y/N." It wasn't his fault.

"I was so curious about you," Theseus continues. "Although I was proud of myself for not kissing you... You were too young. And I was relieved it was me who left last and not one of the other poor sods who came along, who knows what they would've done if a girl like you asked for a kiss."

"I wouldn't have asked them!" you protest, and his smile as he shirks off your playful hit splits your heart, you love him so.

Theseus raises an eyebrow, still smiling. "No? I thought you just wanted your first kiss before the battle. Didn't matter from who."

You shake your head.

"No.... I didn't even think to want to be kissed until I saw you. And until I realized my life was going to change forever. I'm an opportunist, I guess..."

The last part is meant to be a joke but he's not reacting accordingly anymore, he's hanging onto your every word.

And he's definitely looking at you too seriously for you to admit that you found him severely attractive. And kind. Observant and receptive, like he saw through you. Mostly handsome.

"I just," you cringe at yourself. Cower away from his searching eye-contact.

"What?" he prods. His smile is teasing this time, like he's hoping to charm the truth out of you.

"I just wish..." you wince at the words as you say them. "That you would've remembered me. It sounds silly, but I used to think about that night a lot as a girl. I handed over my siblings and my father to you, and I would've given you my first kiss, and more than that maybe... I still don't understand why you let me stay and fight in Verdun. I suppose it makes me feel even more silly, knowing it didn't mean as much to you."

The more you speak the more you watch his expression dampen. Theseus purses his lips unhappily.

"I'm new at this, Y/N."

"New at what?" You don't know what he means.

"And I'm already messing it up, aren't I?"

"Theseus," you say. "I haven't any idea what you're talking about."

"I just," he dips his head back in frustration. "I have thought of you and that night, often. I just never imagined you as a grown woman, Y/N. During the war, you'd become something like a guardian angel in my mind. Forever sixteen. But when I met you two days ago, I knew..."

It's so difficult for him to find the words it seems. He keeps grimacing and shaking his head to himself.

"I knew when my body reacted that way to seeing you. Every part of me rejoiced when I saw you sitting at your desk. It wasn't like meeting you for the first time, it was uncanny. Like... immediate recognition. It felt like I was remembering you, Y/N."

You place a hand over his sympathetically. It's warm under yours. It still makes your head spin, touching him at all.

"You made such an impression on me, Y/N," he reassures.

"I was just a girl," you say, dismissively. "I was naive."

"You were courageous, more than me or any of my men. Braver than all the British Ministry. It shook me, meeting you. Reminded me why I decided to fight, I'd become so jaded."

You have nothing to say to that. He fills in the silence.

"So you didn't want to become a nurse after all then? After the war, I mean."

"I never wanted to be a nurse, I just..." Death all around you. You just wanted to stop feeling helpless. "I wanted to help."

"I never wanted to be a soldier," Theseus offers congenially. "I just wanted to do what's right. That night you reminded me why I was there in the first place. You reminded me to be brave. I was ashamed of how little I thought of the muggles. And there you were, going off on your own, risking your life for them. Before you, I just wanted to minimize losses. But you made me want to save people."

Your lip wavers. You're staring into his eyes, into that pure blue, that dark sea. It's entirely inappropriate, but you'd like very much to kiss him now. You won't ask this time. You'd like to press yourself against his suit, no words can articulate what you feel for him, but maybe you could show him.

But then he speaks again.

"Y/N," there's a guarded, defensive edge to his tone that makes you hesitant. "I'm sorry, you don't have to answer this at all, but I have to ask. Was that your first kiss yesterday? In my office."

You can't help but bristle. You're embarrassed. The look on your face reveals everything, so there's no use in hiding it. Damn him.

"Yes," you admit, hotly. "Was it obvious or something?!"

He groans, looks pale. His reaction horrifies you further.

"I shouldn't have done that," he's saying, he looks like he's going to be sick. "Falling all over you like a dog---I should've made it gentle. Sweet. Demonstrated an iota of self-control-"

"It's fine," you raise a hand, made shy by his self-deprecation. "We didn't do anything wrong."

That does give him pause. Theseus stops mid-sentence, mouth hanging open. He has to recompose himself.

"You're right," he relents with a gentle shake of his head. "We didn't. I just mean... I would've made it good for you, Y/N."

"It was good," you insist. You're not sure if he's talking about kissing anymore.

"Let me try again, I'll get it right this time."

Your heart races.

You wonder when you'll get used to this, the knowledge that he wants to touch you, that he's going to give you what you want. Wonder when your body will stop reacting like a prey animal's every time you're near him, so strong is his effect on you. You want to run. No, you want to bare your neck, submit. Let love kill you.

Your sister's words from this morning are the only thing stopping you.

You have to close your eyelids before speaking.

"Theseus, do you...."

"Yes?" his smile is almost too dazzling for you to formulate a response.

"With other women... Do you do that sort of thing often? Not that it matters..."

For a stunned moment he doesn't react.

Then he is laughing at you. It startles you and hurts your feelings.

"Y/N, I don't--Oh, Y/N!" He hurriedly moves to reassure you when he notices the look on your face, reaching out and grabbing your arm. "Oh, no! I wasn't laughing at you, I swear."

"Theseus," you groan, hiding your face, humiliated.

"No, no," he says again, trying to gently pull your hands away so he can look you in the eyes. His hands are firm and persistent. He's still half-laughing as he speaks. "It's just that I've never done something like that before. Y/N, I don't know how to say it better, but I am dreadfully in love with you."

You look up sharply, instantaneously, to read his expression. It is serene and sincere.

No sign of a prank, no sign of a psychotic break.

Oh god. Your stomach plummets. He loves you.

He loves you.

"Theseus, I-"

"Y/N!"

Once again, Mr. Bragg has taken it upon himself to surprise you. You jerk away from Theseus on the bench.

Theseus closes his eyes and doesn't turn to greet him, his wrath is only barely veiled.

"Mr. Bragg!" You stand abruptly. "What-What are you..."

"The ceremony is over!" He seems annoyed that you don't remember, his pride bruised. "If I'm not mistaken you and I have a date in my office?"

Theseus makes a comically disgusted face, looking between you and Mr. Bragg in rude astonishment. If you weren't afraid of offending you might've been amused.

"He means an appointment, Theseus," you hiss in clarification. That seems to sedate Theseus if only slightly.

"And yes of course," you say to Mr. Bragg with a placating smile. "I'm all yours."

---

next part here

-----

author's note: part 3 (LAST PART) incoming! i had to break this part into two because it was getting too long :(

hope you enjoyed! more drama and smut in part 3

(spoiler: mr. bragg sucks + drunk!Reader and caring!Theseus)

#theseus scamander #fantastic beasts #theseus x reader #theseus scamander x reader #hp fanfic #fbawtft

508 notes · View notes