#deciding to take a vow of silence | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

swordgrace · 4 days ago

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❝ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐣𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥. ❞

┊ 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: by anonymous — amidst the avengers feud, you and joaquin are going steady in your relationship. you decide to sneak him into the watchtower while the team is away on a mission.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: joaquin torres x fem!thunderbolts!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 9.4K (long one!)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), smut/fluff, established relationship, sam wilson cameo, inexperienced reader, making out, body worship, mild dry humping, oral sex (fem!rec), lots of praise, unprotected p in v sex, missionary position. aftercare + cute ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: my brain is filled with joaquin torres, I’m in love with him sm !! this was so, so much fun to write, I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

“You’re thinking about something.”

Sam’s inquiring statement sliced through Joaquín’s thoughts like a hot knife, tinged with an underlying jolt of humor.

Sitting sideways on the couch, the both of them were in his apartment — bunker, more like. He affectionately took to calling it the ‘Cap Cave’, which Sam always groaned at.

Swiveling around in his chair, Joaquín blinked owlishly, brows lifting in surprise. “I’m always thinking about something,” He counters, seemingly perplexed. “Are you saying I don’t think?”

On the coffee table, Sam’s got a stack of files, names of enhanced and non-enhanced individuals to recruit for the Avengers.

He’d gotten Jennifer and Shaun onboard with restarting the Avengers Initiative — he didn’t care about Fontaine’s new group running around. Sam pretended not to be bitter, but it still hurt anyway.

It stung knowing that people out there still didn’t think him worthy of the mantle, and worse, knowing that Bucky was there, too.

“Nah, I’m not saying that,” Sam mused, perusing through files. He was still waiting on a response from Shuri, who’d assumed the mantle of the Black Panther. “You look like a guy who’s thinking about a girl.”

Joaquín gawked, idly rolling the chair from side-to-side, palms getting sweaty. He was definitely thinking about a girl. “What if I am? You can’t police that, Sam.” He muses.

There’s a lapse of silence as Sam contemplates, brows pinching together. He knows it’s about you, and Joaquín’s face gives everything away.

He found out about the relationship unwittingly one morning, when Joaquín had come home at four o’clock, all cheery and stealthy like a teenage boy.

It wasn’t an intelligent move on his part — it was dangerously reckless, Joaquín knew this, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Joaquín, you gotta be smart about this,” He starts in with a fatherly tone and a certain sternness that makes Joaquín wither. “She’s in Fontaine’s pocket, and I know you’ve been sneaking over there to see her.”

“I’m being careful,” He vows, staring down at his lap to avoid the scrutiny of Sam’s stare. “I don’t think she’s in with Fontaine like that, man. She doesn’t seem that way.”

With a begrudging sigh, Sam doesn’t attempt to refute his claim or dissuade him. He can’t stop him from seeing you, even if he thinks it’s a bad idea.

Unconvinced, silence fills the momentary gap between the both of them, and Joaquín is swift to defend your honor; and you aren’t even here.

“She’s different, Sam. I want you to meet her sometime — she’s unlike anybody I’ve ever met.” He sighs, and Sam can practically hear the swooning in his tone.

“Whatever you do, don’t get involved in Fontaine’s business,” It was more of a precautionary measure than a threat. He didn’t want Joaquín to be taken hostage or something worse. “Got it?”

“I got it, Sam. I promise.” Swearing up and down, his phone vibrates in his pocket, catching both of their attention. His smile is light as he spins back around in the chair.

“If you’re gonna talk to her, take it to your room, Romeo.” Sam chuckles, and despite the circumstances, he’s being cordial about everything.

He didn’t want to heighten the tension if Joaquín couldn’t see you. Sam didn’t know you, but he knew how his partner talked about you — like you were the sun, the center of everything.

If you made him happy, he wasn’t going to interfere.

Flashing a smile, Joaquín clamors from the chair when he sees your name flash on his phone, and he waves in-passing. Sam scoffs and grins, but he doesn’t make any lasting remarks on the matter.

Admittedly, Joaquín hadn’t intended for all of this to happen in the way that it had; it just did.

He’d gone to the Watchtower about five months ago with the mission of trying to talk to Bucky, wanting to do right by Sam. He managed to get past the extensive security measures before it all came crashing down.

He met you.

Joaquín still remembered how you looked that day, wide-eyed and curious, wearing a shirt two sizes too big and floral-patterned shorts. You were eating from a bag of grapes, and you called him Falcon.

From then-on, you’d formed an unexpected friendship, and two months ago, he got the stones to ask you out.

Despite the newness of the relationship, he was loving every second of it, even if you couldn’t see one another as often as you wanted. It was all meetings in neutral places, at first — the park, going out to dinner, a museum.

Then, he started using his new suit to fly over to the roof of the Watchtower after you dismantled the surveillance system. He taught you how to do that, too.

The both of you started to get bold with how far you could test the limits of him “coming over”. The rooftop escapades merely scratched the surface.

It turned to midnight dates on the helipad, shooing him away when the others got back from a mission. It turned to him getting as far as the common room, giggling on the couch together at two in the morning.

Tonight, it was turning into your room.

Typically, Joaquín was the one pitching all of these ideas, and the both of you were all giddy, sneaking around like two teenagers. Now, it was really getting serious when you posed the idea of smuggling him into your bedroom.

The plan was all set, laid out to perfection, and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

Team’s gone on a mission, Bob included — no one else in the Watchtower except you and him. That got him excited; maybe a little too thrilled about the whole thing.

You planned on dismantling the surveillance systems beforehand, knowing that if Bucky went back and checked, he’d probably find evidence of your house-guest.

He scuttled into his room, kicking the door closed when your text popped up.

YOU (my girlfriend <3): hey joaq :) are you still wanting to come over tonight?

JOAQUIN: you’re really asking? I’m still coming over! coast still clear?

YOU (my girlfriend <3): yes, still clear! talked to lena today, said they won’t be back for two days! means we have tower to ourselves 😚

Joaquín huffed a laugh at the emoji you used, nose wrinkling with amusement. He had no idea what he did to get so lucky, other than break a few dozen rules and hijack the New Avengers headquarters.

In his eyes, no one could hold a candle to you; you were so beautiful, so kind, full of a liveliness that brightened everything around you.

The both of you were mutually understanding of the whole feud between two Avengers teams, and as long as that remained intact, everything would be perfectly fine.

JOAQUIN: do you think I could get away with spending the night?

Maybe a little brazen of him to say, or even assume, but if your teammates wouldn’t be back for a few days, he decided to take his chances. Sam wouldn’t be happy about it, but he’d apologize later.

YOU (my girlfriend <3): like a sleepover? lol! I think you can :) don’t want sam to be mad at you, tho!

JOAQUIN: if I text him and tell him what’s going on, he won’t be as mad 😇

On the other end of the phone, you were giggling at your screen, perched along the edge of your mattress. Your relationship with Joaquín was going splendidly, especially with it being a secret — from your teammates, anyway.

He’d blown his cover with Sam awhile back, and you were grateful that he was relatively amiable about the whole thing.

A hush had fallen through the Watchtower with the absence of the team, save for some folk ballad you had playing from the speakers in your room. It was late afternoon, closer to evening.

YOU: don’t think you can bat your eyelashes out of this one, joaq 😭 also gonna order carryout tonight! what do you want?

JOAQUIN: it only works on you ig 😏 the beef and broccoli with noodles :)) thanks babe!

YOU: very funny! come over around five? will disable cams on helipad for a sec

JOAQUIN: sounds good miel :) can’t wait to see you tonight, missed you a ton 🥺

A soft snort escaped you when you caught the emoji he’d tacked onto the end of his text, heat curling around your spine. He made you feel so special, beautiful — you weren’t used to having that constant in your life.

When you closed your eyes, you pictured him on the other end, grinning at his phone, black curls framing his temples, a hand pressed against his jaw. It filled your stomach with butterflies.

Hopping off of your bed, you made sure to send another quick text, springing towards the shower. It was a little reckless, having him over like this, but love had made you a little stupid, too.

YOU: missed you more! ❤️ text me when you’re near the helipad, falcon :)

Joaquín grins at his phone, shoving it into his pocket before rifling through his wardrobe. He wants to find something nice to wear, something to fit under his Falcon suit.

The cologne he haphazardly throws into his overnight bag is a scent you’ve complimented him on before. Anticipation twists into knots in his stomach, excited to see you.

He does get some thrill out of all of this — of sneaking off to see you, getting smuggled into the Watchtower. He figures that all of this good luck is bound to cause whiplash, eventually.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he gets his stuff together, attempting to be quiet about packing.

CAPTAIN AMERICA: Do not wear the Falcon suit over there or I’ll lock it up for good.

Deadpanning at the screen, he lets out a sigh, figuring you’ll have to disable lobby cameras, instead. Joaquín groans theatrically into a bunched-up shirt, brows furrowing together.

JOAQUIN: You got it, boss.

It’s four-thirty when you get a text from Joaquín.

JOAQUIN: so no helipad, had to ditch the wings :( lobby safe to come through if cams are off?

YOU: let me disable on main system and come get you! give me ten ❤️

The clothes you wear are modestly comfortable, a pair of leggings with a baggy shirt thrown over, showered and smelling like a flower shop.

After you slide on your slippers, you make your way to the Tower’s mainframe system, disabling cameras in the main lobby and in the elevator, too. It’s simple to turn them off temporarily with the access code — you’d stolen it from Bucky.

Giddy, your ride down the elevator shaft is riddled with excitement and a constant bouncing of your leg. Outside, the New York cityscape begins to ignite with an eclectic nightlife, between the glow of skyscrapers and the hum of cars.

Downstairs, the lobby is polished, corporate — there’s banners of the New Avengers strewn over the walls, massive and theatrical.

Pale tile clashes with the dark furniture that had been set up to resemble something modern, business-like and suave. Valentina had a knack for making everything look very sterilized.

Joaquín is lingering just outside, waving at you with a pearly smile and a bouquet of flowers. Bursting at the seams, you jog over to let him inside, putting in your clearance code before the door slides open.

“Joaquín!” Overjoyed, you’re nearly leaping into his arms as soon as he crosses the threshold, feeling him wrap you up in a tight hug.

A laugh bubbles from his chest, warm and inviting, curling over your bones as he cradles you against his chest. He presses a kiss to your crown, catching a whiff of your perfume; you smell incredible.

“Hey, pretty girl,” He hums, peppering your face with a myriad of kisses, pulling a soft laugh from your mouth. “I missed you.” Joaquín’s got a lovestruck look in his eyes, akin to a puppy.

“I missed you too,” Draping your arms around him, the closeness is something you’ve craved, absorbing his warmth as if he’s his own sun. “No wings? Did Sam clip them or something?” You tease, nose wrinkled.

Embarrassed, he lets out a begrudging groan, features tinged with a scarlet hue as he shrugs. “He didn’t want me using them to come over, figured I’d respect his wishes.”

“He’s nice enough to let you come over here, given the circumstances,” You point out, gaze drifting toward the bouquet of brightly-colored flowers he’s carrying. “You brought flowers?”

“I know. I want you to meet him sometime, I think he’d like you.” Joaquín stands a little taller, resolute as he presents you with your gift. “It’s an apology for not seeing you in a while.”

“You’re sweet,” Flustered, you accept the bouquet with a beam on your face, feeling his lips press against your cheek. “Mm, move your mouth an inch or two to your right.”

“Yes ma’am.” A smirk spreads across his mouth before he kisses your lips instead. He’s enthusiastic yet disarmingly tender, kiss infused with an underlying passion.

Joaquín leans down, closer to you as he slings an arm around your hips, heartbeat stuttering beneath his sternum.

You make him nervous sometimes, in a good way — you make him want to be the best man he can be.

As the kiss slows to a crawl, he draws away with a contented hum, lips still quirked into a grin. “I want more of those, please.” He muses, hand lingering over the small of your back.

“There’ll be plenty more, I promise.” You laugh, tugging on his hand as you make for the elevator. The door bears the Avengers emblem — slightly modified, but the spirit is still there.

Once the both of you are inside, Joaquín peers around in awe, never having seen the whole interior of the Watchtower before. He’s been as far as the common room.

“You got your own superhero banner?” He remarks, brows lifting with amusement. He wished he got his own Falcon banner — maybe Sam could get the new team one, once he finished recruiting.

“Yeah. Valentina wanted it to be marketable and palatable for people who were reluctant about the whole thing,” You shrug. “I still use my old suit. The one she had made for me is uncomfortable.”

With a click of his tongue, he stifles a mischievous grin. “You look really good in it though, miel,” Joaquín lets out a low, playful whistle before you smack his bicep. “Seriously!”

Shooting him a sideways glance, he’s all smiling and chipper, attitude never dimming. It was something you really loved about him — he was good at his core, selfless and wickedly intelligent.

“Thanks,” Another laugh tumbles through your diaphragm. “Maybe I can get you one to hang up in your room back at the Cap Cave.”

He swallows the slight lump in his throat, biting back the urge to make a raunchy remark. Filtering himself, he plants a kiss against your cheek. “Yeah? Shit, I’d love that.” He murmurs, sly as ever.

“You’re bad,” You counter, and he holds one hand up in surrender. As you reach the main level, the elevator chimes open, and you’re greeted by the sprawling floor of the common area. “Here we are.”

The evening glow spreads through the windows, sunlight whispering over dark tile, bathing your features in downcast embers.

Joaquín refuses to look away, gaze reverently tracing across visage as you coax him into the Watchtower’s main room. He swallows, and the sudden coil of nerves settles in.

“I thought we could eat dinner here, or in my room,” You propose, but he’s thoroughly distracted, breath hitching when he absorbs your beauty. Time slows to a crawl the longer he lingers, lips parted. “Or we can eat on the helipad.”

Uncharacteristically hushed, he doesn’t answer you right away, dark lashes kissing the skin beneath his eyes as he blinks. It’s slow, and he’s too busy ogling you, mesmerized; he can’t believe that this is real.

When you catch him gawking, he awkwardly clears his throat and straightens up, mumbling a low apology. “Sorry. You’re so gorgeous, and I can’t stop looking at you.” He states, straightforward.

Surprised, you become smitten almost instantaneously, fingers toying with some of the plastic wrap curled around your bouquet. “You’re so sweet,” You mumble. “Thank you, Quín.”

With a suave smile, he nods, a hum snaring within his throat when you rock up on your toes to kiss him. He doesn’t recoil, reciprocating your kiss with one of his own, passion overwhelmingly obvious.

The smile that spreads over your mouth is palpable when you kiss, and he drops his duffel bag, wrapping his arms around you fully.

Lips meld together seamlessly, fitting a perfect mold, bleeding with passion. He’s rather charming about it, endlessly confident; he knows he’s suave, and it has you hooked.

He kisses you again after you reciprocate, peppering his lips all over your face. The sound of your laughter makes it all worthwhile, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Are you hungry?” Giggling against him, he plants another kiss to your brow, smoothing his hands across your hips.

“Yeah,” Joaquín bats his eyelashes, dialing up the swagger as he draws you close, chest-to-chest. “Not for beef and broccoli, though.” He remarks, kissing your jaw with a smirk.

“Joaquín,” A sharp gasp punctures your lungs, and you’re burning with embarrassment. Gentle lips continue to string along your jaw, over your chin, around your neck. “Easy there, Falcon.”

He laughs, and it sounds like sunshine; like everything warm and comforting about the world. “Okay, okay,” There’s still a shimmer in his eyes, one of ardor. “I am legitimately hungry.” He concedes.

“It’s in the fridge,” You muse, lips gracing his jaw before you untangle yourself from him. He’s all grinning and happy, chest puffed out, retrieving his duffel bag from the floor. “I’ll reheat it and then we can go to my room.”

“Deal,” Joaquín follows you to the open kitchen, letting out a low whistle. He’s in awe of everything — the Cap Cave is cool, but the Watchtower is incredibly advanced. “This is impressive.”

He follows you closely, hovering beside the island, bag still slung over his shoulder. “She wanted it to be ‘top of the line’ for investors.” You shrug, removing white containers of Chinese takeout from the fridge.

Admittedly, you still felt like you didn’t really belong on the team, unworthy of the mantle — you were inducted at the wrong place, wrong time.

Like Bob, you had superpowers; not as powerful, but enough for people to take an interest, look at you like a curious object.

Joaquín never looked at you like that, but he looked at you with something else; in awe, as if you’d moved mountains and hung stars.

He tapped a hand against polished granite, a smile toying at the corner of his mouth. “Thanks for smuggling me in, by the way,” He murmured, tone warm. “I know this isn’t ideal.”

Scooping the contents of each container into large bowls, you reheated a bag of egg rolls too, lobbing a pair of colorful forks onto the island.

“It’s okay,” Smiling, you met his gaze, affectionate as you placed everything into the microwave. “You’re worth it, Joaquín — you’re worth everything.” Your cadence softens.

Typically, he’s the smooth one; flirtatious, coy, and always coming in with the suave remarks. It was his turn to blush, and he can tell that you’re genuine, sincerity bleeding from every syllable.

“Baby,” He mumbles, a touch flustered before he rubs at the back of his neck. “You’re perfect, you know that?”

Smitten, you quietly remove a steaming bowl of beef and broccoli, wincing when the ceramic burns your palm. “I don’t know,” Cheekily, your brows lift in amusement. “Remind me again.”

Joaquín laughs, the noise bright enough to light up a room, and you’re falling hard. When the bowl begins to cool, he picks it up, following right behind you with your food, too.

“So your room is on this level?” He asks through a mouthful of seasoned beef, making noise when he realizes it’s still too hot for him to eat.

“Mm-hm. I share a floor with Bob and Ava, the rest are on two. The training room is up there, too.” As the both of you make your way toward the sleek labyrinth of corridors, Joaquín clears his throat.

“You guys got a training room?” He wants to see it, but he also isn’t expecting a fully-fledged tour as part of your date night. “What else did Fontaine put in this thing?”

“I think Alexei is trying to vouch for a pool,” A huff of laughter escapes you. “But there’s a debriefing room, a lounge and a bar, extra rooms, a medical ward, and a laboratory.” You name it all off like an extensive list.

“I should ask Sam about getting a bar.” Joaquín grins, nipping at your heels as you turn a corner into a long, hushed stretch of hallway. Outside, it’s nearly twilight, concealed by tinted window-panes.

Stopping in front of your door, you enter in your code before it hisses open, revealing a rather expansive, lived-in bedroom.

It smells like you; floral scents intermingled with everything saccharine, strung with hanging lights, comforter wrinkled over a queen-size mattress, bathroom door ajar.

Everything is warm, blanketed in a low, orange glow that swallows the room whole, a fluffy chair draped over with a woven canopy. It was relatively tidy and organized, but comfortable — it all felt organic.

“Sorry if it’s messy, I tidied up before you got here.” As you settle down on the edge of your mattress, Joaquín nudges his duffel bag onto the fluffy rug below, bowl in-hand.

“Messy? Babe, this room is pretty spotless,” He snickers, watching you bat your eyelashes before eating a forkful of noodles. “Food’s delicious, by the way. Where’d you order from?”

“Takeout place down the street,” Your mouth is full when you answer, prompting you to clear your throat. “Eggroll?” Wax paper crinkles within your grasp as you offer it to him, still-warm egg rolls inside.

“Thanks,” Joaquín immediately placed it into his mouth, halfway wedged as the other half fell unceremoniously into his bowl. “Hm, s’good.” He mumbles, watching as you stifle laughter.

Silence trickles in between the both of you, eating within a comfortable silence, occasionally stealing glances at one another.

He smiles, countenance one of tenderness as he clears his throat, lodging another hefty bite of beef and broccoli into his mouth.

“Want to watch a movie afterwards?” You hum, legs tucked beneath you, squinting through the waning sunset that trickles in through the windows.

It isn’t anything exciting, but basking in his presence matters most to you. There’s something gentle and clean about your relationship — you know he’d do anything for you, be anything for you.

You don’t want him to change — he’s perfect the way he is, and that’s more than enough.

“Yeah,” Through a light cough, Joaquín swallows, fork scraping over empty ceramic. “What are we thinking? You know what I’m gonna say.” He muses, nose wrinkling.

“Fast and Furious?” Sharp, your mouth quirks into a grin before he lets out a theatrical groan.

“Second choice,” His smile never wavers; he’s so handsome, something warm and ebullient, incandescently bright. “Interstellar.”

“That’s a long movie,” Another laugh leaves you when he shakes his head, scraping the remnants of his food into his mouth. “We can watch it. I know you think it’s amazing.”

“One of the best movies of all time, right next to The Princess Bride,” Joaquín chuckles, his laugh light and effortless, teeth glinting through glimmering sunshine. “You’ll love it.”

“I’m trusting you.” Teasingly, you finish up with your food before motioning to take his bowl. You stack them right outside of your bedroom door, assuming you’ll circle back in the morning.

“You mind if I change?” He asks, grabbing his duffel bag from the ground. “I brought you some stuff, too.” Dragging the zipper down, he tugs out a few old t-shirts to give to you.

“You brought me your clothes?” Delighted, you’re visibly ecstatic when he hands you three shirts, two of them old Air Force tops, the other an oversized Nike hoodie.

“I know you like wearing them to bed,” Joaquín plants a kiss to your brow, fingertips tracing over the small of your back. “You’re so beautiful, you know.” He hums, tone lowering.

“You are too,” You mumble, and you catch him blushing, lips parting. He huffs a laugh, mouth carefully tracing across your face, buried against your soft skin. “Very cute.”

“Gonna change, babe.” Joaquín hums, planting another kiss against your cheek before grabbing a bundle of clothes, including something you can’t make out.

After he disappears into your bathroom, door clicking with a soft thud, you scramble into something else. Tugging off your leggings and shirt, you slide into his hoodie; it smells like his cologne, like sandalwood and whiskey.

You’re applying a spritz or two of perfume as if you hadn’t layered enough on already, switching on your flatscreen before fumbling with the remote.

On the other side of your bathroom door, Joaquín is furiously brushing his teeth; he’d already brushed them before he left, but it’s a precaution. A hand is roaming through his dark curls, trying to push them into place.

It’s boyish; it’s something extra, valiant attempts to impress you and not ward you away.

Scrolling through streaming services, you locate Interstellar, settling down into bed as you wait for Joaquín to come back out. You can hear water running, shuffling fabric; it piques your curiosity.

When he comes out, cool and collected, he’s wearing loungewear, glint of a silvery chain dangling around his neck. A rosy flush settles into his face, and he’s still smiling.

It wavers when he sees you — no more pants, just his sweatshirt, sitting cross-legged in your bed. His heart stutters, mouth dry as he attempts to form words, ogling you.

“Everything okay?”

The sound of your question nearly makes him jump, lashes fluttering as he hastily clears his throat. He looks a little dazed, jaw unhinged before he waves your concern aside.

“Yeah, yeah.” He coughs, too busy wrapped up in the sight of you, especially as you sprawl out. The hem of his sweatshirt kisses your thighs, and he’s hyper-focused, tongue darting over his teeth.

Joaquín joins you, mattress dipping slightly as he crawls over, feeling you curl up against him. He’s more than happy to hold you, propped up on a mound of pillows, arm draping over your side.

His biceps flex beneath the material of his spandex shirt, sun-kissed like warm caramel, and your mind derails entirely.

“I’m really glad that we could do this,” You hum, tracing your fingers over his chest. “I know I’m breaking a thousand rules, but I missed you a lot, Joaquín.” Those words alone break open a barrier inside of him.

Admittedly, he’s been clinging to restraint as soon as you were kissing in the kitchen; he wants you so terribly that it hurts, and your perfume doesn’t make anything easier.

“You’re my light,” He’s quick with a reply, voice honey-thick and a touch husked, fading into you. “You mean a lot to me, miel — you’re perfect, inside and out.” As he lays on the compliments, you find yourself enamored.

Interstellar suddenly seems so inconsequential when his mouth is ghosting over yours, hand drawing circles into your ribs.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispers, hot breath fanning over your lips, unwilling to budge until you’ve given him consent. When you do, nodding fervently and unable to catch your breath, he doesn’t hesitate.

It’s sparks, tension brewing beneath the surface when you kiss him, palm splayed over his chest. The other rests comfortably near his neck, fingers toying with the necklace he wears.

For weeks, he’d been all wound-up over the thought of you — not being able to see you all the time had made him unbearably needy.

You can feel it rippling beneath his skin when he kisses you, coiled-up want knotted into something he wants to untether. You want it too, but part of you fears your own inexperience.

Joaquín kisses you as if you’re the only one he’s ever wanted, drawing a tremulous exhale from your lungs, making you shiver. His hand finally settles over your thigh, idly massaging your skin, fingers teasing the hem of your sweatshirt.

“Still want to watch the movie?”

It’s you who asks him, attempting to gauge his reaction, like a deer in the headlights. His kisses slow to a crawl, and he pulls away enough to catch your smile, obviously smitten.

“Would you be upset if I said no?” He murmurs, mouth quirking into a slight grin. His tells are so easy, but he owns up to it — he’s not ashamed to admit he wants you.

“Mm-mm,” Shaking your head, you curl closer, hand wandering until it steadies atop his bicep. He flexes for you, chuckling when you get all flustered; you’re easy to rile up. “You’re unbelievable.”

Joaquín smiles, planting a kiss against your jaw. “I know,” He murmurs, inhaling a gust of your scent, perfume sizzling through his senses, through his resolve. “But I’m yours.”

His hand continues to knead along your thigh, savoring the feeling; you’re too beautiful for him, and he knows it. You angle yourself enough to turn inward, face-to-face, lashes fluttering in rapid succession.

Mouths entangle with one another, each kiss deepening, blurring the line of desire. The more it progresses, the more you don’t want to stop — and he doesn’t want to, either.

Digits trail through his dark curls, stroking along the nape of his neck as you adjust yourself again, nearly slotted in his lap. An excitable noise bubbles from his throat, hands finding your hips.

A hush blankets your bedroom, save for the sounds of labored breathing and the subtle groan of the mattress beneath you.

Your palms climb higher, both hands gathering to perch atop his shoulders, feeling sinewy muscle tense beneath your fingers. Lips continue, unhindered, charged with a wave of passion.

“Hey,” Joaquín mumbles, his smile one of amazement as his kisses slow to a crawl, nose brushing against yours. “I don’t have any expectations for tonight.”

Stilling, you sit back for a moment, allowing yourself some composure. “Me neither,” You assure, gooseflesh crawling over your spine. “I want you, Joaquín — I do, I just … I’m not exactly experienced.”

With a tumultuous past and enhancements, your life was anything but normal. You didn’t get to live like everyone else until recently.

Intimacy was something you’d experienced in slices — never the whole thing, and never with someone who saw you in the way that Joaquín did.

When you tell him that you want him, he blushes; maybe he wasn’t expecting it, or it took him by surprise, but his need only continues to burn. It’s burning so hot that it’s scorching him, searing his bones.

“We’ll never do anything that you aren’t comfortable with, miel,” He assures, kissing at the inside of your wrist, lips akin to a warm brand. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure. We’re going at your speed.”

That makes you want him even more.

“I want to,” The cadence of your voice softens, pitched with something breathy, exhilarating. “There’s no one else that I’d ever want this with.” You murmur, and his heart stammers.

Joaquín nods, dazed and yearning, dark lashes kissing the skin beneath his eyes. “Me too,” He confesses, hands rubbing circles over your hips. “You’re it for me.”

A smile spreads over your face, dazzling as you ease yourself into his lap, slotted over one of his thighs. The closeness smolders, and his pupils dilate enough to warrant your attention.

Slowly, he cups your jaw, rough digits stroking over silky skin, bringing you in for another kiss. It’s agonizingly sluggish, intended to savor as your chest brushes against his.

Peach-ripe sunset pools into your bedroom, giving way to the first inklings of twilight. It strikes you at the perfect angle, leaving Joaquín stunned, absorbing your features, committing you to memory.

Each kiss is deep, passionate; you move in an idle dance, and you shiver when his hand slips beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. He finds your back, caressing along your spine.

You aren’t wearing a bra underneath, he realizes, and that makes him flustered. He doesn’t know why, but it does — he’s itching to see you.

The pressure of his muscled thigh wedged between your legs fills your body with a muted buzz, and when you shift, it makes it worse. Pinpricks of bliss shoot through your belly, however slight.

Lips tangle together, again and again, and he feels your body roll into him, flush against one another. He steadies you, hand skirting from your spine to your chest, lightly kneading at your breast.

It’s gentle, a feather-light touch that starts as experimental, testing the waters. You shiver from the contact, skin to skin, kissing him one more time until he untangles your lips.

Instead, his mouth finds your jaw, kissing a trail from the delicate bone to your throat, the pad of his thumb brushing over your nipple.

“Joaquín,” A soft, throaty moan slips past your mouth, hips rolling forward, gathering friction against his thigh. He handles you so tenderly, as if you’re some precious gemstone or artifact.

“You’re so pretty, cariño,” He mumbles into your throat, lavishing kiss after kiss there, occasionally suckling at patches of skin. “Can’t believe you’re mine.” It’s partially disbelief; like he’s still realizing how lucky he is.

It’s more than just sex; it’s intimacy, the closeness, the delight of euphoria you find in one another, hearts twining together.

He wants you in ways that transcend physicality — he wants your future, wants to be the person you wake up to in the morning. Joaquín doesn’t know how badly he wants it all until he’s looking at you.

When his sweatshirt rides up to pool around your hips, his gaze catches on your thighs, over the soft plane of your body. His hand still kneads into your breast, drawing out another moan from your lips.

Sheets ruffle beneath your bodies, and he’s shifting enough to peel his shirt off, leaving you visibly flustered.

He’s beautiful; a chiseled adonis whose muscle is raw and well-earned, something he’s worked tirelessly for. His skin turns warm, like melted caramel dusted with freckles, silver chain glinting around his neck.

He’s got a tangle of scars on the right side of his throat, a few peppered across his abdomen. You want to kiss every single one, tell him how perfect he is.

“You’re gorgeous,” You murmur, listening to the subtle hitch in his throat. Delicate digits trace the lines of his musculature, drinking him in, lashes fluttering in rapid succession. “Just perfect.”

Preening beneath your compliments, Joaquín doesn’t shy away from the scarlet flush that slithers around his face. Instead, he kisses your neck fervently in response.

His other hand drops to skirt beneath your sweatshirt, holding onto your hip, palm still kneading at your breast. “You look so good in my clothes,” He murmurs. “Mind if I take this off?”

“Mm-hm.” With a soft hum, you adjust your arms, letting him peel off your sweatshirt with ease, draping it toward the foot of your bed. His tongue flicks over his teeth when he sees you.

God, you’re perfect; everything about you is beautiful and he can’t help but drown in you.

Pastel-hued cotton clings to your hips, the last article of clothing that covers you. A slight draft slithers over your hot flesh, goosebumps following suit as your mouth returns to his.

A husky groan stirs in Joaquín’s chest when you shift against him, friction producing a heat that settles within his stomach. He kisses you back, passionate and needy, hands touching you everywhere.

He caresses you with rapture, reverence; it’s a reminder of how he sees you, how much he loves you. Mouths entangle, and he slyly lets his tongue trace over your bottom lip.

There’s another shift when he begins to ease you back onto your mattress, over soft sheets and pillows. Your legs part for him without a second thought, letting him stay there.

“Damn, you’re so beautiful,” Joaquín murmurs against your mouth, nestled between your thighs. He props himself up on one forearm, the other stroking across your ribs. “Can’t get enough.”

He catches a whiff of the perfume clings to your flesh, an amalgamation of something saccharine and fresh; he loves it; drinks it in.

His mouth wanders over your jaw, layering endless kisses over your skin as he climbs toward your throat. A low moan fizzles past your lips, leaving you wanton, desperate for more.

The cold metal of his necklace grazes your collar, a bite of ice, knees squeezing at his hips. Your line of sight drifts toward the soft tent in his sweatpants, causing you to lick your bottom lip.

Joaquín is relentless, wanting to map every inch of your skin with his mouth, tongue; he kisses fervently toward your collarbone. Fingers tease the waistband of your panties, feather-light and gentle.

Warm lips graze your sternum, dipping toward your right breast, kissing your chest with a thinly-veiled passion. “You okay? Can I keep going?” He asks, tone husked and pitched with affection.

“More than okay,” You huff, squirming slightly underneath him, hands drifting to rake through his dark tresses. “Please keep going.” After vocalizing your enthusiasm, he’s more than happy to continue.

With a nod, he starts to take your nipple into his mouth, kissing at the sensitive bud, hand skirting to grope at the other. A moan escapes you, jaw slack and mouth agape.

He’s so gentle; there isn’t a single rough or harsh movement, everything concentrated with an oozing affection. Ardor is laced into every kiss, every caress of his hand, every stolen glance.

Arousal pools between your thighs, hot and honey-thick, slick cooling along your core. Hips grind together, and the friction is enough to elicit pleasured sounds from the both of you.

Exploratory, Joaquín commits all of you to memory, letting you sink your talons into the deepest parts of his mind. Your perfume gets on his skin, and he doesn’t want it to come off, either.

He briefly teases your nipple with pearly teeth, planting wet, open-mouthed kisses around your breasts before he descends.

“Joaquín,” You moan, hips jolting forward, absently grinding against the swell of his erection. He lets out a low groan in-turn, lips carving a path along your body. “Feels so good.”

When he peppers kisses across your stomach, you suck in a sharp breath, knowing exactly where he’s going.

He mumbles something in Spanish, and it scratches something raw inside of you, belly twisting into a coil of excitable knots. Reaching the waistline of your panties, he looks at you again.

You’re already nodding several times over to tell him it’s okay, and you catch the little stutter in his exhale, pupils dilating.

“Yeah?” He whispers, breathless when you nod again, shivering when his fingers curl into the thin elastic. Easing your panties down, he looks like a man starved, razed by affection and desire.

Joaquín crawls down, head settling between your thighs as he guides your legs onto his broad shoulders, palms kneading their way toward your haunches.

As your panties leave your legs, he kisses hot brands to your calves, stringing them along your knees, cresting over your thighs. The exhilarated wobble in your exhale makes him excited.

“Been thinking about this,” He confesses, and it floods your insides with molten heat. There’s something effortless about the way he says it — you know he means it. “Wanna taste you, miel.”

His gaze is incendiary, staring at you as if you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, tongue absentmindedly swiping over his bottom lip.

“Please,” It’s all you can manage to squeak out, legs flexing beside his face, fingers fisting at the sheets. “Please, Joaquín.”

Steady hands hitch beneath your thighs, holding steadfastly to your hips, haunches braced on top of his shoulders. He caresses near your waist, fingers stroking in repetitive motions.

“Look at me, pretty girl,” Joaquín murmurs, and it’s merely a suggestion, not a demand. When you do, it’s him who blushes, lips kissing a trail to the slick coalescing over your pussy. “Gorgeous.”

The sweetly-spoken praise rips through you, sending waves of pleasure throughout your body as his tongue laps at your slit.

Pleasure sizzles through you suddenly, hot and wanton as his mouth explores your cunt. He’s tender, painstakingly passionate when he strings kisses over your core.

Maintaining eye contact is something that has you squirming, lips parted, heat curling over your bones like wildfire. Joaquín’s stare doesn’t waver, mouth buried deep into your pussy.

His tongue is vigorous, flicking from your entrance to your clit, causing you to quiver. Wordlessly, he reaches for one of your hands, keeping them interlocked atop your hip.

He eats you out like he’s deprived, hungry for you; for all of you, body, heart, everything.

Your thighs twitch, curling around his head, stomach twisting into knots. Arousal coalesces heavily between your thighs, oozing onto his tongue.

Mouthing at your pussy, he slows to a crawl, taking his time to savor every inch of you, feeling your legs quiver. He groans, musculature shaking, gaze eclipsed with desire.

You say his name as if it’s a prayer, the only words worth memorizing. A shiver traces through his spine, joined hands squeezing tighter, and you feel your pussy clench around nothing at all.

With a broad stroke of his tongue, he raked hot embers over your core, hands steadying you, eager to please without an ounce of hesitation.

The bridge of his nose ghosts over your slick folds, causing you to tremble. There’s a fire in your belly that demands to be extinguished, nerves set ablaze, a fervent buzz humming in your skin.

“I’ve got you, baby.” Joaquín sighs, hot breath pluming over your cunt. His tongue is a thing of beauty, working through you in the way that you deserve.

Eager lips kiss their way along your pussy, from your aching entrance to your clit. Your thighs tense, twitching when he stimulates that clutch of nerves, listening to you moan.

He tries again, using his tongue this time, slowly working it over your clit in languid patterns, intended to savor.

You want to melt, back arching, hips jolting forward as you grind into his face. Joaquín welcomes it without recoil, groaning as he eagerly laps over the clutch of nerves.

The sight of you razed, jaw slack and visage one of bliss, body on-fire for him; it’s picturesque, an image that’s emblazoned in his mind for the rest of his life. He can’t imagine anyone else like this.

Through the low glow of your bedroom, he strings kisses around your clit, tongue circling afterwards, one hand caressing your thigh. You let your free hand drift to run over his scalp, and he hums.

When he focuses on teasing your clit, your hips jerk again, prompting you to whine out a breathy apology, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“That feel good? Want more?” Gruffing from between your thighs, your boyfriend ensures that you’re getting everything you want and more.

“Y—Yes, Joaq, please,” You moan, and the use of his little nickname makes him preen. He shuffles closer, tongue deep in your pussy as he begins to lightly suck at your clit. “Right, mm — Right there!”

He provides without question.

His lack of hesitation makes you all hot and bothered as that coil in your stomach begins to unfurl, dragging you toward the edge.

Each pulse of his mouth sends shockwaves of ecstasy hurling through your bones, hot and blissful, like static surging in your brain. You begin to see stars when he keeps the pace, throat ragged with another moan.

To relieve his own arousal, his hips rut helplessly into your mattress, finding some reprieve, but it’s slight. He’s too busy wrapping himself up in your own pleasure, and it outweighs his own.

It’s how he wants things to be, focusing on you, ensuring that you’re taken care of before it ever comes down to him. His cock twitches when you squeeze his hand again.

White-hot spots float through your vision as he brings you to your peak, lips lightly stimulating your clit even when your legs rattle.

His tongue eagerly laps across your throbbing cunt, cleaning you up, the taste of you ambrosial, intoxicating. Joaquín’s brain is filled with static as you grind your hips into his mouth a time or two.

“Joaquín!” A pleasured whine rips through your diaphragm, lungs stinging as you catch your breath, euphoric high still rippling through your body.

He works you through it, stringing kisses over your pelvis, flush against the inside of your thighs, over the crook of your knee. A rosy pallor clings to his features, chest tight with excitement.

“So pretty when you cum, cariño,” Joaquín hums, kissing up along your body as he slots himself between your legs, his erection firm against your aching core. “Did so well.”

The praise makes you preen, a lackadaisical smile floating across your face as you arch forward, shyly wiping your slick from his chin.

“You’re so handsome,” You sigh, and he’s kissing your jaw, letting you feel what you do to him. He’s painfully hard and ready to feel you, hand shifting to tug at his sweatpants. “Need you, Joaquín.”

“You’ve got me,” He murmurs, his suave cadence dripping with adoration, and the look in his eyes rips the air from your lungs. It’s clean, gentle love — loves you so much. “Always.”

When he discards his sweatpants, the spandex of his boxers leaves little to the imagination, and it makes you swallow.

Lips find one another, and you taste yourself on his tongue, drawing a moan from his chest when you’re eager to savor it for yourself. Your hands trace over his biceps, perching around the nape of his neck.

“Still want to keep going? We don’t have to.” Joaquín is incredibly reassuring about everything, and it makes you want it all the more.

“I do,” You swear, fingertips tracing patterns over his hot skin, over freckles and now-faded scars, over the plane of his muscles. “I want you more than anything.” His breath hitches when you say it.

He nods, planting several kisses along your throat, feeling your legs constrict near his hips. There’s another light scuffle of fabric, and he adjusts himself enough to kick his boxers off.

They join his sweatpants, scattered somewhere along the foot of your bed. Joaquín stares down at you with wide eyes and a slightly nervous smile, as if you’re the center of his universe.

A shiver passes through the both of you when the flushed head of his cock nudges against your slick folds. He swallows, beautiful through the sienna glow, lashes fluttering a time or two.

You’re perfect — beautiful beneath him, breathtaking in every way imaginable. The lapse of silence lasts for a moment, with him adjusting himself between your legs.

A shiver grips his spine when his hips fall flush against yours, cockhead splitting past your folds, still oozing with precum.

“Ready?” His voice is low, pitched with want as he attempts to keep composure. Splintering at the seams, Joaquín stifled a groan when you moved against him, wanton.

With a nod, you give him your consent, trembling from exhilaration as his hips push forward. There is mild resistance at first, tip of his cock prodding against your entrance.

He’s sluggish, making sure that you’re comfortable first before progressing. “I’m okay.” You assure him, the sensation stinging yet blissful.

Shifting closer, you suck in a sharp inhale as his hips urge forward, cock sinking into you. It takes a moment of adjustment, cunt clenching around him with ripples of ecstasy.

Halfway inside of you, he stops to let you feel it all, every twitch, every muscle-deep quiver. Joaquín swallows a groan, forehead pressing against yours as he kisses your lips.

“Good, s’good.” Reassuring, you want him to continue, nearly clawing out of your flesh to have him in you completely. His cock is perfect — it’s pretty, as if it were molded for you.

“Yeah?” He huffs, mouth messily tangling with yours. Again, you’re nodding, spurring him on as his hips sink forward completely, cock fully buried inside of your pussy.

You’re tight, and it’s driving him crazy in the best way possible. He’s head over heels, so desperate for you that he might’ve been a beggar.

There’s a moment of hesitation from his end, and before you can comment on it, he begins to pull his hips back, and push forward. He’s disarmingly tender, making love instead of fucking you.

Sighs of passion tangled together, hot and fervent, breathing in the sweet air of one another. His cock kisses your pussy with each drawn-out thrust, dragging over your walls.

His chest burns with a string of needy grunts, holding you tightly, feeling your skin flush against his. Braced on one forearm, the other hand moves to hold yours, pinning them into the pillow.

Muscles flex, taut and sinewy, and you’re momentarily distracted by him; all of him.

Pupils dilate with desire, amber hues turned molten by the low light, jaw loosened, features flushed. He’s gorgeous like this, when he’s all over your mouth and needy.

Each rock of his hips is meaningful, cock buried into your tight heat. He’s good at it — makes you feel wanted in every way imaginable, like you’re something worth worshipping.

“Joaquín,” You pant, and the sound of your voice makes him buckle, trembling above you. Delicate fingers stroke over the nape of his neck, reaching into his tresses.

“You’re perfect,” He groans, inhaling a gust of your scent, hips stuttering slightly before regaining their confidence. He’s exceptionally passionate; not rough, not harsh, just desirous. “So pretty.”

His cock kisses your walls with each thrust, well-timed and intentional, driving himself into you. Your arousal makes it all easier, hips rolling over one another, friction simmering.

The silvery glint of his necklace dangles from his throat, mouth ajar, inhabiting a host of low, throaty groans. He’s vocal about how much he’s enjoying this, savoring every second of it with glee.

He smooths a hand over your thigh, gripping at your haunch to angle himself, joined hands squeezing beside your head.

The slow, drawn-out thrusts make your body melt, succumbing to heat. Sometimes he can’t believe that you’re real, that this is real; you’re a vision, a fantasy made flesh.

Joaquín doesn’t change course — he’s steady, passionate as he continues to rock into you, letting you feel everything properly.

Digits wander from the nape of his neck toward the silvery chain that dangles from his throat, hitching a finger in to drag him down.

A tremulous moan splits your diaphragm, shuddering as your cunt pulses, clenching around his cock. Lips collide, and you’re moaning into his mouth.

Each kiss makes your head dizzy; it’s all passion, bleeding heat that coagulates in the pit of your stomach, coil wanting to unfurl. His cock continues to slip inside, and then back; a push and pull.

Hitching your leg around his hips, it gives him leverage, a new angle to thrust into. He never gets rough or invigorated, letting passion override everything else.

Foreheads press firmly together, noses ghosting the other, mouths still joining in slow, needy kisses. “Mi amor,” He sighs, causing your cunt to clench around him. “Gettin’ close.”

There’s a slurred pitch in his voice, drunk on desire, drunk on the feeling of your body flush against his, on the sensation of you.

Pleasure floods your insides, the coil within your stomach having unfurled, treated to the loving thrusts of his hips. His cock moves deeper, kissing your walls, pulling another moan from your mouth.

Something tightens in his abdomen, pulled as taut as a bowstring, threatening to snap into two. Joaquín’s thrusts tick up in speed, just enough to make his head go static with desire.

Hot, breathy pants escape him, feathering over your mouth, and your noises spur him further. He keeps pushing, motions languid and loving, dragging out each thrust so that the both of you shiver.

“Joaquín!” A low, shaky whine tumbles from your lips, mouth pressing against his jaw as you lavish him in kisses. He shudders, teeth clenched as he gently fucks into you, again and again.

He’s there, and it’s euphoria — he groans, countenance contorted into bliss, chest shaking with low, pleasured sounds.

Hot ropes of cum flood your pussy, the aching sensation crawling through your skin. His movements begin to stutter and slow, hands twined together, his knuckles turning white.

Your name rolls from his tongue a time or two, dark curls tousled, wisping over his temples as he loses his composure.

For a moment, his thoughts are blank; the only thing he wants to think about is you.

With a drawn-out exhale, his hips shift, cock beginning to soften inside of you. He looks thoroughly pleased, razed and delighted, flashing a pearly smile at you.

“You okay?” Joaquín mumbles, leaning in to plant a kiss against your brow. Perspiration glitters over his skin, bitten by scarlet, muscles beginning to unravel the tension.

“Yeah,” A smile spreads over your face, and it makes his heart buzz with something warm. “That was amazing.” You don’t have much to judge it off of, either.

“Amazing, huh?” A twinge of playful cockiness creeps into his tone, characteristically upbeat. “That’s gonna go straight to my head.” He muses, kissing at your shoulder.

“I’ll revoke my compliment,” The faux threat makes him laugh, followed by your fit of giggles. It’s that sound he clings to — it’s everything. “You’re so perfect, Quín.”

There’s a sparkle in his gaze when he meets yours, swimming with affection. He’s always strived to prove himself, be better; to you, he’s flawless, sunshine in living flesh.

“Mm-mm,” He kisses your jaw. “That title belongs to you, miel. You’re everything I want,” There’s a sudden sincerity that saturates his tone. “Got my heart in your hand.”

A hitch forms within your throat when you realize how serious he really is about you. You aren’t used to it, accustomed to only pain and misery, of being isolated.

You lose that fear with him in ways that you never thought possible. Unable to keep from smiling, you kiss him again, hands squeezing at his biceps.

“Maybe we can make breakfast in the morning,” You suggest, and he’s already over the moon about the idea. “Lena said something about tomorrow night, so we’ve got time.”

“I’ll make you breakfast,” Joaquín insists, all doe-eyed and dazzled, showering you in another playful barrage of kisses. He moves off of you not long after, wanting to help you get comfortable. “You a pancake type of girl?”

Laying on his back, he gently grabs your hips, pulling you into his chest, propped up against your heap of pillows. He’s smiling still, painfully handsome as continue to stare.

“French toast, actually,” You muse, and that stumps him. His nose wrinkles slightly, arms still cradling you close. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” He chuckles, warm and tender, fingers drifting to cup the nape of your neck, thumb tracing along your jaw. “I’ll learn how to make french toast tomorrow.” Joaquín won’t back down, either.

“You don’t have t—” Before you can finish your sentence, he’s kissing you, affectionately squeezing at your hip. “Joaquín.” You mumble, visibly flustered.

“Making you breakfast,” He insists, kissing your mouth again, a second time, and then a third. “My beautiful girlfriend deserves it.” You know there’s no protesting him.

“Your girlfriend wants to take a shower,” Giggling, you’re moving off of him, body sticky with perspiration and the aftermath of your escapades. “And you’re coming, too.”

Visibly excited, he huffs a laugh, swift to scramble after you, hastily grabbing a bundle of clothes in the process. As you move off of the bed, you give your phone a quick glance.

There’s a new text that’s popped up, one you didn’t notice while you were with Quín.

YELENA: Nice of you to ask if we wanted any takeout. Tell little Falcon we said hello :)

#mcu #marvel #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x you #joaquin torres x y/n #joaquin torres x fem!reader #joaquin torres #joaquin torres fic #joaquin torres fanfiction #joaquin torres smut #marvel x reader #marvel smut #marvel fanfic #danny ramirez #danny ramirez x reader #brave new world #mcu fanfiction

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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

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

The candle goes out before you reach the surface.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you cold?” You whisper.

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

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

“Good. I need your heat.”

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

“Come take it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...Do what again?”

“Touch me… With your hand.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Then sleep, Bull of Crete...”

…

You wake up to his cock pressing against you.

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

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

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

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

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

“No I don’t,” you hurry to whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, it’s not. We need to get up.”

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

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

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

“You need more heat?” He asks softly.

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

“No… I’m hungry.”

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

“Hmm. No mice up here,” he ponders.

“You eat mice…?”

“Sometimes.”

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

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

“How do you know that…?”

“The air smells different.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gods damn him…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t want to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pay? With what?”

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

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

“I will take their heads before that.”

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

“Bulls don’t have kings.”

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

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

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

“You’re the first to think that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“How did you… How did it...”

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

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

“Where is Theseus of Athens?”

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

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

So…

The Minotaur has reached the king.

…

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is the maiden of the crossroads?”

He came back for you, after all…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your body is singing, singing, singing.

It’s not a request… Or a proposal.

It’s a god, taking what’s his.

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your mother was heartless. And wrong.”

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

“But you’re not.”

“...What?”

“Heartless.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you… kill her?”

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

“How could I kill my own maker?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you say so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Beautiful, aren’t they...?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that why you took me?”

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps,” you confess.

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

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

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

“I’ll teach you.”

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

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

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

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

“You know how to please women?”

“No. But you could teach me.”

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

And then…

“Do you know how to fuck?”

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

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

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

“I…”

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

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

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

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

Or a leash.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I hurt you...?”

“No… But this is not mating…”

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

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

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

“Guide me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does this feel good to you too…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you always like this…?”

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

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

“No. It’s just when…”

“When you want to fuck?”

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

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

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

“You’re not a–”

“Keep telling yourself that, little maiden.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” you smile. “This feels right…”

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

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

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

“What? No…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Asterion.”

Starry one…

Of course.

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

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

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

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

“It makes you immortal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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neonbonded · 13 days ago

Text

I Heard the Heartbeat and I Broke a Little

♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus x fem!reader ♡ cw: pregnancy, first ultrasounds, emotional devastation (soft), quiet tears, twin reveal (Sylus), stoic boy meltdowns, chaos disguised as tenderness ♡ a/n: they all swore they’d stay calm. They all lied. You hear the heartbeat, and suddenly the bravest men in the galaxy are on the verge of crying, fainting, or starting a baby-proofing war plan.

Caleb

He tries to be calm.

Really, he does.

You’re holding his hand—well, more like crushing it—and Caleb’s doing his best to be composed. He smiles at the nurse. Makes a dumb joke. Rubs your knuckles.

But the moment that grainy little flicker shows up on the screen?

The moment the room fills with the steady, quick-thudding whump-whump-whump of a heartbeat?

He stops breathing.

The grin drops off his face like it was never there.

His fingers go still.

His eyes are locked on the screen, wide and unblinking.

“That’s… that’s ours?” he whispers.

You nod, voice catching in your throat. “Yeah.”

And then he laughs.

A breathy, broken little sound—half-sob, half-hysterical wonder. Like his whole body can’t decide whether to melt or combust. He turns toward you, eyes shimmering.

“I didn’t—I didn’t think I could feel this much.”

His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking just beneath your eye. “You’re growing a whole person. Our person. That’s my kid in there. Our kid. I—”

He can’t finish the sentence.

He buries his face in your shoulder and laughs again, shaking a little.

“I’m gonna be a dad,” he says against your skin. “And they’ve already got my whole heart. I’m so screwed.”

You kiss the side of his head. “You’re not screwed.”

He pulls back, smiling through tears.

“No,” he says, looking at the screen again.

“I’m the luckiest bastard in the galaxy.”

Xavier

He’s quiet when the screen lights up.

Not his usual stillness. This is different.

His posture doesn’t shift. His expression barely changes. But you feel it—the way his hand tightens slightly around yours, the way his breath catches just a second too long.

And then the heartbeat comes through.

Whump-whump-whump.

Quick. Strong. Inarguably alive.

Xavier blinks once. His eyes lock on the grainy blur on the screen like he’s calculating a threat.

But there’s no threat.

Just something small. And safe. And yours.

“That sound…” he murmurs, voice low and careful, “is them?”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

He stares a moment longer, then lowers his gaze to your stomach—like he's only just realizing what’s been there this whole time.

“I thought I understood,” he says softly. “What this would be. I thought I was prepared.”

A pause. He shifts in his seat, fingers grazing the edge of the ultrasound photo the nurse just handed him.

“I wasn’t.”

Another silence.

Then, so softly you almost miss it:

“I’ll protect them. Always.”

He says it like a vow. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just fact.

Like this heartbeat rewired him.

You lean your head against his shoulder.

He doesn't speak again. Doesn’t need to.

He just keeps staring at the screen like he’s watching the future take its first breath.

Rafayel

He's already being too much before the machine even starts.

Kissing your hand like you’re royalty. Calling the OB “a vessel of the divine.” Whispering, “Are you ready, my muse?” in your ear like this is a movie premiere.

You roll your eyes. “Rafayel, it’s an ultrasound.”

He leans closer, eyes glowing with mischief. “And what is an ultrasound… if not the first brushstroke of our greatest masterpiece?”

You don’t have time to reply before the screen flares on—and just like that, he goes silent.

Utterly. Completely.

You turn to look at him.

He's frozen. Wide-eyed. One hand over his mouth like he just saw the face of a god.

The heartbeat kicks in.

Whump-whump-whump.

And he loses it.

“Oh,” he whispers, voice breaking on the single syllable. “Oh—look at them. Look.”

You do.

But Rafayel? He’s already gone.

Tears pool at the edges of his lashes—long and unblinking, like he’s terrified that blinking might erase the moment. One escapes down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it.

He grabs your hand with both of his, reverent. Desperate. “They’re so small,” he breathes. “And they’re ours. You—you made that. In you. I—we—”

He lets out this overwhelmed little laugh-sob that turns into a hiccup halfway through.

Then whispers, “I need to paint this.”

You blink. “Babe. It’s a blur of static and bean-shape.”

“Exactly. It’s pure. Abstract. Untouched by symbolism. It’s raw emotion, darling.”

You stifle a snort. “Are you crying?”

“I am feeling,” he snaps, brushing a tear away dramatically. “Leave me be.”

He presses a kiss to your wrist like he’s grounding himself in reality.

“Promise me something,” he murmurs.

You nod.

“When they’re born... remind me I loved them first. Before I even met them.”

You lean in. Kiss his cheek.

“I think they already know.”

Zayne

Zayne keeps his eyes on the screen the moment it flickers on.

His hand is holding yours, but it’s stiff. Careful. Like he’s trying too hard not to feel anything too early. Trying to stay clinical. Detached. Professional.

Like he’s just here to observe.

Then the sound hits.

Whump-whump-whump.

The heartbeat. Fast. Alive. Steady.

Your baby.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

You glance over, expecting some sarcastic comment. A critique. Something.

But his jaw is tight.

His eyes—sharp, exact, always calculating—are suddenly unreadable. Blank in the way only Zayne can manage.

He doesn’t blink.

Not even once.

“Zayne?” you whisper.

Nothing.

And then—

Quietly.

Like it slips out without permission.

“…It’s real.”

He exhales hard, like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it.

His fingers tighten around yours. Not painfully—but with intensity. Like if he lets go, it might all disappear.

“I’ve seen thousands of heartbeats,” he murmurs. “Monitors. Flatlines. Fibrillations. But this…”

He swallows. Looks down at your hand in his.

“I didn’t know how different it would feel when it’s… ours.”

There’s something cracked open in him now. Something bare.

You watch his throat move as he swallows again, hard.

Then, softer:

“I didn’t think I’d be scared.”

You squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to be perfect.”

He finally turns to you. His eyes are glassy, but he’s holding it in like always. You can see it—the quiet shaking underneath.

“I’m not scared of messing up,” he says. “I’m scared of how much I already love them.”

You lean in, rest your forehead against his.

“They’re going to be okay.”

He closes his eyes.

And lets himself believe it.

Sylus

Sylus is leaning against the wall like this is a business meeting and not the moment his entire future is about to implode.

Arms crossed. Mouth set. Watching the monitor with laser focus, like the image might suddenly sprout a threat he can neutralize.

Your hand is in his, resting on your belly. The gel’s cold. The nurse is smiling. Everything feels calm.

Until—

Whump-whump-whump.

The first heartbeat kicks in.

Sylus doesn’t move.

Then the nurse tilts her head. Frowns slightly. Adjusts the wand.

“Oh,” she says casually, as if she’s not about to detonate a bomb in the room. “There’s another.”

You blink. “Another what?”

She clicks something.

“There are two heartbeats.”

You stare at her. “As in—?”

“Twins,” she says, cheerfully. “You’re having twins.”

You whip your head toward Sylus.

Still frozen. Still unreadable.

Except for the twitch at the corner of his mouth. The subtle roll of his eyes. The very long blink like he’s internally rebooting.

Then, under his breath—just loud enough for you to hear:

“…I’m f*cking surrounded.”

You choke on a laugh. “Babe.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Just rubs a hand down his face like the weight of responsibility has suddenly tripled.

Finally: “I agreed to one. One tiny parasite. We had a deal.”

You grin. “Babies don’t do contracts.”

He mutters something about renegotiating with the womb gods before slouching down in the chair beside you, staring at the screen like it personally betrayed him.

The nurse keeps talking—measurements, due dates, baby A and baby B—but he’s not hearing any of it.

He’s calculating. Strategizing. Probably already planning to fortify the nursery.

Then he turns to you. Deadpan. Quiet.

“I’m going to need more weapons.”

You squeeze his hand.

“More diapers, you mean.”

He scowls. You can see the crisis brewing behind his eyes. But he still lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles like it’s instinct.

And then—very softly:

“…They’re gonna be so small.”

You nod. “And they’re yours.”

He leans back. Stares at the ceiling.

“God help me,” he mutters. “I’m gonna love them stupid, aren’t I?”

You smirk. “Already do.”

He groans.

But doesn’t let go of your hand.

Not for a second.

576 notes · View notes

fizzyapplecandy · 3 months ago

Text

The one with the alpha and his little lamb Part 1

Part 2

Ateez Yunho X female reader

Genres and warnings: werewolf Yunho x human reader, strangers to lovers, soulmates, fluff, angst, mature language, mild smut

Word count: 5.4k

Your life was as boring as it could get, before you took a tumble in the woods and came face to face with a large creature. Who would have known the man behind the beast would be a big softie, and your soulmate?

(Part 1 of a two part series)

"You're too stressed Yunho, you've got to calm down."

That was a sentence Yunho has heard about a million times before. How could he keep calm? He was about to become the official alpha of his pack, but his mate was nowhere in sight. He thought he'd have her by now, and they would be happily in love.

The universe had other plans, it seemed.

"Mingi, I love you, but please go home. I can't deal with all of this paperwork, and listen to you."

Mingi was his trusted beta, and he adored the man, but right now he wanted him gone. They've been friends since they were babies, born in the same pack. The friendship turned into brotherhood, and when they announced he was the new alpha, he immediately knew who would be his second in command. Unusually it was the other way around, and Yunho had to keep Mingi in check. This time, with the ceremony approaching, he was a bomb of nerves waiting to explode.

"Look, I'll go if it makes you feel better, but there is no point in sitting here, mopping around."

Yunho knew Mingi was right, but he just couldn't help the way he was feeling. He took great pride in being a werewolf, an alpha at that, but he needed his mate by his side. The ceremony was three weeks away, and the elders were starting to worry as well.

"I'm sorry Mingi, I'm usually more collected than this. Go home, I'll follow soon."

It seemed like his beta wanted to say more, but he decided against it. Yunho already had a lot on his plate, it would be best if he left him for a bit. The men exchanged goodbyes, and silence filled the room after the door closed.

Yunho took a deep breath, his wolf going haywire inside his head. He loved the damn thing, but sometimes he could get overbearing. There was an incredible ache in his chest, one that could only be soothed by his other half. Maybe he should go out on a run tonight, let out some steam.

He just hoped she would come soon, because he couldn't bear being alone for the rest of his life.

Y/N wanted to be left alone for the rest of her godforsaken life. Men were shit, that much was obvious, but she was starting to lose hope at this point. After another disastrous date last night, she could barely get herself together.

Chan was nice, at first. Then he ate her portion of fries and dipped his finger in her custard. As if that wasn't enough, he licked her cheek as they said goodbye. Men really were dogs.

She deleted all of her dating apps, vowing to be celibate for the rest of her life. It was much easier that way.

There was no chance she could sleep peacefully tonight, so she decided to go running in the nearby forest.

Yes, that might sound unsafe, but there was a well known trail mapped out, and she's been in the city for a month now. Her new job in the marketing office was nice, her colleagues were polite, but she didn't make any friends yet. Perhaps that's why she's been on so many dates lately.

Deciding to leave those thoughts for a later time, she stood up from her bed and went to her closet to put on her running clothes. It was hot outside, so she opted for a pair of shorts and a simple T-shirt. After lacing up her shoes, she made her way out of her building and towards the woods.

It was slowly starting to become dark outside, and she knew she couldn't spend as much time as she'd like. She was alone, after all, and that wasn't a risk she was willing to take. Soon enough, she was greeted by the soft forest ground. Her steps turned into a jog, and before long, she was huffing and letting her frustration out.

What she failed to notice was a tree root sticking out of the ground, and suddenly she was tumbling down onto the dirt path.

She fell with a yelp, wincing loudly as she tried to get herself together. It was her fault, being so careless on this terrain. Now she would have to hobble back home, and that would take a long time. Her knee was bleeding, the skin around the cut red and irritated.

"Great! Is this all? Does the universe have something else in store for me?!" She yelled in no particular direction, frustrated with herself and her life.

A loud growl made her freeze.

"Um... I was just joking... Come on, I can't get eaten here!" Her yelling turned into a whisper.

Her eyes scanned the area, looking for the source of the noise. It was impossible to tell where it came from, but she was certain she heard it.

While she was trying to decipher whether this was a life or death situation, an excited wolf was looking at her from the shadows.

Yunho couldn't believe it. There she was, in all her glory. His mate. His one and only.

His true love, sitting down on the floor, hurt.

The feeling in Yunho's chest became tighter. How could she be hurt? She wasn't supposed to be in harm's way, not with him by her side. He'd make sure that this kind of thing never happened again.

The beautiful woman was still looking around, probably scared by his growl. He couldn't help it, he was too excited to see her. Maybe he should come a bit closer?

Would he scare her? Probably.

Did he care after finally finding her? Not really.

Slowly, he approached her crouched form. Her scent was more intense the closer he got, and it made his whole body warm up. He picked up hints of vanilla and cherry, so sweet he could almost taste it in his mouth.

The rustle of the leaves in front of her made Y/N freeze. She could now clearly see the figure emerging from the shadows. It looked like a wolf, he was too large for that kind of animal. Wolves weren't supposed to be this huge. His fur was midnight black, and it was tough to focus on him so late at night.

What caught her attention the most were his eyes. They were red, the colour popping out in the darkness.

This was it. Her final moments in life would be spent as wolf kibble. Did something like that even exist? There was no time to brainstorm, because the monstrous animal stepped closer. Her arms went up to protect herself, as if they'd do much.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my... Please make it quick."

She waited, but nothing was happening. The only sound she heard were her own whimpers, along with something loud thumping on the ground. Moving her hands from her head, she saw the strange wolf sitting down in front of her. His head was on his paws, demeanor calm. What the hell?

For a moment she swore he looked into her eyes, as if to show her he wasn't going to do any harm. It would be foolish to think so, but her fear overpowered her common sense.

The strange animal slowly inched closer to her. She tried to get away, but the pain in her leg stopped her.

"Ouch! Motherfuc-" Y/N cut herself off, remembering she wasn't alone.

The wolf... Whimpered? It sounded like he was the wounded one, not her. His head was now at her feet, but he didn't stop crawling closer.

"Hey there Mr. Big Guy." She said nervously.

In a flash, the giant animal's head was on her lap, gazing up at her eyes.

This was not happening. There was no way in hell she was sitting on a dirt path in the middle of the woods with a giant wolf thing in her lap.

Said thing reminded her that it indeed was by whimpering again.

Y/N didn't know what to do next. Does she throw him off and try to run? Does she... Pet him? Did he want that?

She cleared her throat. "Listen up Big Guy, I'm about to do something really stupid, but you seem like you want me to. Here goes nothing."

Her hands slowly went to the creature's head, patting lightly to see his reaction. He didn't move, nor did he take his eyes off of her. The only thing she noticed was his tail. It was moving around like a dog's. That was a good sign, right?

She got bolder with her moves, so she scratched behind his ears. His tail was now moving faster, his posture relaxed and happy, she thought.

"You like that, don't you?"

A grumble left his chest, his body now fully stretched out on the floor, head relaxed in her lap. She continued scratching and petting him in silence, in utter disbelief of the situation.

"It's fine, everything's fine. I'm just here, in the woods, petting a wolf. No big deal? Yeah? Yeah."

Yunho thought she was odd, talking to herself like that. That might have been his fault, but he only had pure intentions. The mate bond probably made her trust him a bit more, so she relaxed quickly. It was weird, though. He couldn't sense her inner wolf at all. Was it dormant? Maybe she was afraid?

That usually wasn't the case with mates. Their wolves would thrive in a situation like this. He took a quick sniff again, and it came to him.

She was human.

His mate was a human with no trace of the werewolf gene.

What will the elders say? How can he be the pack alpha without a strong werewolf female by his side? His cubs? What about his future cubs?

A hundred thoughts were running around in his head, but they soon vanished when he heard her giggle.

"You're quite the softie, aren't you?"

Yunho felt proud. He managed to make her laugh in the short amount of time he was present, and he was in his wolf form. It just solidified the fact that he, actually, didn't care about her non supernatural status.

She was his, and she was perfect.

He wished he could speak to her properly, introduce himself and proclaim his undying love for her. It may seem sudden to the average person, but werewolves mate for life. Their bond is so strong, they feel each other's emotions from miles away. It was a bit difficult to do that with her, just because she couldn't communicate with him properly.

The option of changing back in front of her was off the table for now, but he could enjoy the moment for a little while longer.

Her pets didn't stop, and she slowly started talking again.

"I'm sorry I freaked out. I see there was no reason to. Well, you're still much bigger than me, and you eat meat. I know this doesn't make sense to you, but to me it kind of does."

She glanced around herself, realising how late it had gotten.

"Mr. Wolf, I... I have to go home now. It's late, and I'm all alone. I don't know how I'm going to hobble my way out of here, but I better do it soon. We can meet again, okay?"

Wait, was she leaving him?

How can this be? He just got her!

Yunho didn't realise how worked up he got, and the growl he let out wasn't on purpose. She, however, didn't cower away this time.

"Hey! Do you want me to bleed out? I need to go, but I promise I'll come back to meet you. I'll even bring you a treat!"

Okay, that did make him feel better. He could let her go now, but she'll be back. Maybe next time he could come out in his human form? Yeah, that sounded like a good idea.

Reluctantly, Yunho stood up from his position in her lap. She tried pushing herself off the ground, but her leg was still weak. He kneeled before her, hoping she would get the message and hold onto him.

Thankfully, she did, grabbing into his fur carefully and pulling herself up. She hobbled a bit, but managed to stay on her feet. Once she was stable, she let him go. Now that they were both on their feet, she noticed he came up to her waist in height.

"Hmm... What are you? You're no ordinary wolf, for sure. You must be special, there's no other way to explain it."

Yes, Yunho thought, there was. He was a werewolf for crying out loud. You patted him on the head again before making your way towards the direction you came from. He was one step behind you, making sure your balance wasn't off.

"You know I can't bring you home with me? You should stop following me."

She could bring him home, but where would she put him? He wasn't exactly apartment friendly. There was no answer, not like she expected it to be, so she answered instead.

"Maybe I can sneak you in somehow? No, that would be ridiculous. Please, stop following me, I don't have the strongest willpower, and I'll end up taking you home."

Yunho felt happy. His mate didn't want to be separated from him. The bond did its job, but he could also tell her real feelings. As much as Yunho wanted to never be apart from her again, he had to stay back. People in town were familiar with the legend of a werewolf pack residing here, but he hadn't seen her before. She also had a different scent than the regulars, so she must be from somewhere else.

Just as they approached the edge of the forest, Yunho sat down on his hind legs and watched her hobble the rest of the way out. She turned around, looking at him with a smile.

"Thank you, Mr. Wolf. I'll see you again soon."

With a wave, his mate was gone.

The ache in his chest got worse as she went further away, but he knew this wasn't the time to chase after her. She promised she'd be back, and he could search for her in town. Maybe she'd appreciate his human form a bit more.

He took a final sniff of the air, savouring her scent before running back through the forest towards his home.

Y/N was always questioning her mental state, but she now determined she was out of it. Did she really talk to a wolf?

She couldn't really talk to anyone about her encounter, because she had no friends, and nobody would believe her. What intrigued her the most was the certain aura around the animal. It felt powerful, like it meant something big. It surprised her how well they communicated. It was like he could sense her mood, and he acted according to that.

Reaching her apartment after a long walk back, she made her way to her bathroom to wash off the grime and dirt. As she shampooed her hair and skin, she felt little tingles going over her body.

It almost felt like another pair of hands were on her. A big, strong and secure pair. Maybe she was too touch deprived, so her brain conjured it up. She didn't want to get too into it, so she quickly washed herself off and changed into her pyjamas.

As she lay there in her bed, the moonlight shined through her window and lit up her room. The moon was bright tonight, and she fell asleep gazing at it out her window.

Somewhere, deep into the forest, an alpha was sitting outside his mansion, thanking the Moon Goddess for finally bringing him his happiness. He only hoped his little mate would feel the same way about him.

Yunho had a plan. First of all, he had to find out who she was. He hadn't seen her before in town, which meant she was probably new. Maybe he could take a stroll around the center tomorrow and try to look for her?

He remembered her words from earlier. She said she'd be back in the forest to bring him treats. He hoped she truly meant it. Yunho would just have to wait and see.

"Hey Yun. What are you smiling for?"

The alpha turned around and saw Mingi leaning on the front door.

"Nothing much. I found her, Mingi."

His beta's eyes widened. He was beside Yunho in a flash, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him.

"What? Are you serious? How did it happen?"

Yunho smiled, pushing Mingi's hands off of him.

"Calm down boy. It was... I don't know, it was so random. I went out for a run and just bumped into her. I was in my wolf form though, so it was kind of awkward at first."

"You didn't scare her off?" Mingi asked.

"Not really. She warmed up to me quickly. I just have to find her tomorrow, and meet her properly."

"Do you know who she is?"

Yunho sighed, glancing at the moon again.

"I have no clue. I'll have to go and look for her in town. I thought it would be easier."

The men sat next to each other on the steps, silence enveloping them. Mingi was happy Yunho finally got to meet his other half, but there seemed to be something else bothering him. He cleared his throat, placing a comforting hand on his best friend's shoulder.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?"

Yunho nodded, realising he didn't have to keep quiet about his mate's status, at least not to Mingi.

"She's... She's human, Mingi. My mate is a human, there is no trace of the gene in her. I would have felt it."

Mingi fell silent. He knew Yunho would have a field trip with the elders later. Sometimes, he hated the way Yunho's life had so many obstacles. Being an alpha wasn't easy, and now finding his mate was even tougher. He felt for his friend, his true brother, but he couldn't do anything to help.

"Do you feel the bond?" Mingi almost whispered.

"In every vessel of my body." Yunho confirmed.

"Then nothing else matters. As long as you know she is your mate, nobody can do or say anything about it. It's your choice, your destiny. The Moon Goddess wouldn't make a mistake, even if it's unexplainable or unfair."

Yunho's eyes softened. He knew what Mingi was talking about. His beta met his soulmate a long time ago, but she didn't want to live a pack life. Three years have passed since she left town, not even glancing back at Mingi. It tore him apart, but he learned to live through it all. Nobody knew about the nights he spent crying into his pillow, except for Yunho. He's gotten much better with the help of the rest of the boys in his pack. Hongjoong always dragged him around to music stores, Wooyoung taught him how to cook, and Jongho sparred with him almost every day. The boys were a nice distraction, and they had a positive influence on Mingi. He was thankful his friend was back on his feet, living the life he deserved.

"Thank you, Mingi. Somehow, you always know what to say." Yunho reached over and pulled him into a hug. He wasn't always affectionate, but it came naturally with his beta.

"No problem. Now, go inside and sleep. We'll think of a plan tomorrow."

Y/N was feeling antsy. The pain in her knee was bearable now, but the memory of last night wasn't.

She almost felt... Sad. There was no way she was sad about not spending more time with a literal wolf, but her feelings were confusing. Her workplace was suffocating, and she couldn't wait for the day to end.

All she wanted was her bed, a glass of wine, and a good movie. Maybe she could take a stroll through the woods again?

Now, that would be ridiculous. What would she do, hobble around trying to look for a wild animal?

She did promise him a treat, and she wasn't someone who went back on her promises.

Determined, and probably a little crazy, she went to the local butchers to buy a pound of beef. That would probably be enough for the furry creature. As she drove to her destination, it dawned on her how bizarre this whole thing was. For some odd reason, she didn't care much.

Parking near the entrance from last night, she exited her vehicle and made her way into the trees, bag of meat in hand. She thanked the lord she decided to wear her converse, otherwise walking would be a disaster.

"Mr. Wolf? I came back for you! Are you around here?"

A couple miles away, Yunho's whole body began to tingle. He could feel her on his territory. Did she come back for him? His protective instinct took over immediately. Was she crazy? It was starting to get dark out, and she was probably still injured.

He stood up abruptly, and the boys around the dinner table went silent. Mingi could sense there was something wrong.

"Yun, are you okay?" He asked.

The alpha barely glanced at his pack before pushing away from the table and storming out the door.

"Gotta go, be back later, don't eat all of the pie!" He shouted before shifting mid air and sprinting towards the direction his mate would be.

She seemed like a girl who'd keep him on his toes, and he kind of liked that. His legs kept pushing him to go faster, and before long, he could smell her scent in the air. The blood in his veins began warming up, and as soon as he noticed her figure, he almost howled in glee.

Y/N turned around, hearing the rustling of the leaves behind her. She wasn't even scared, not questioning whether it could be another animal. She knew it was him.

What she wasn't prepared for was his large body jumping onto hers. They tumbled to the ground, and the wolf began licking around her face. She barely managed to shield herself from his slobbers.

"Okay, okay! I'm excited too, but please get off!"

He immediately listened to her command, stepping off her body and sitting down in front of her.

"Hey there buddy. Look! I brought you beef!"

She picked up the bag from the floor, opening it up and pushing it towards him. Yunho sniffed around, excited to eat again. His mate was a true sweetheart. The beef she brought wasn't cheap, and she was about to spoil what she thought was an animal. She truly had a heart of gold.

Yunho quickly inhaled the meat, licking his face afterwards before jumping onto her again. This time he didn't lick her, but he just laid his whole body over her. The woman chuckled, taking her hand to pet around his ears.

Yunho was ecstatic. His mate was enjoying his presence, and he was taking in hers as much as he could. The euphoria clouded his mind a bit, and he thought about shifting back to his human form.

Would she be scared?

Maybe she'd run away and never speak to him again. He just got her, he couldn't lose her. He knew the logical option would be to just enjoy another moment and try to look for her tomorrow.

However, his instinct took over in a second, and he pushed his large body off of her. She looked confused.

"What's wrong buddy? I thought you liked being pet? Did I do something wrong?"

Yunho's chest hurt. He didn't want her to think anything she could do was wrong. She was an angel, spending time with a monster like him, and he was probably about to make it worse.

Yunho sat on his hind legs, keeping his eyes on his mate. She was still on the floor, sitting cross legged, returning his stare.

The ground started to rumble a bit as the transformation began. His bones cracked, emitting a horrible sound, and he could tell she was getting scared. In a matter of moments, his human form was in front of Y/N, butt naked and smiling.

"Hi. I'm Yunho."

His sentence was met with silence, his mate's eyes wide and terrified. He cleared his throat before speaking again.

"Sorry we had to meet like this. Thank you for the meat, how did you know I loved beef? It was delicious."

Y/N didn't know what to do. Was she high? No, she never took drugs in her life. Did she have a concussion? Also no, she hurt her knee.

What the hell was this then? There was a naked, very handsome man, sitting across from her. How did he get there? What happened to the wolf?

She must be hallucinating. There was no other explanation.

"Hello? Are you with me? You still haven't told me your name?"

The man was persistent. After he asked for her name, she kind of came back to the present. She quickly stood up, trying to steady her footing. Curse her stupid knee.

"Whoa, careful! That thing must hurt! You should be resting right now, you took a good tumble yesterday."

Why was he speaking like he was there? He wasn't, the wolf... Oh God.

"You... You're a..." It was the only thing she managed to say before turning around and trying to sprint back to her car.

"Hey! Wait up!"

Yunho took off after her, catching her easily. He grabbed her by the arms, turning her around. She screamed, but he quickly covered her mouth.

"What is with you today? Stop screaming, people might think something bad is happening." He took his hand off and Y/N trashed around in his embrace.

"Get off of me you... You freak! You're a naked freak! Let go!"

Her words hurt, but Yunho knew she must be frightened.

"I'm not a freak, I'm your mate!"

She froze, looking into his eyes. She did have to admit, he was the most beautiful man she's ever seen. His hair was ruffled, chest broad, shoulders wide. She glanced down, heat creeping up her cheeks. There was something else big about him, but she was too embarrassed to look again.

Yunho noticed her blush while checking him out, and he felt proud. He could sense the change of emotions in her, and he knew she was loosening up. The bond helped in this situation.

"Like what you see little lamb? This is all yours to look at. You can touch me if you want to."

Yunho let go of her hands, putting some space between them to help her relax. He could see she was thinking about it, but she was still apprehensive.

Slowly, one of her hands lifted up, lightly caressing a deep scar on his peck. Her touch was soft, and Yunho couldn't help feeling excited.

"You... I'm so confused." She whispered.

"It's okay. This is a bit much to take in. We can take things slow. What about your name first, him?"

She looked into his eyes, going over her options.

For some reason, she didn't feel threatened by him. If he was (and she knows this sounds crazy) the wolf from earlier, he wouldn't do her any harm. Making up her mind, she took a deep breath.

"Y/N. My name is Y/N. Yunho, was it?" She somehow managed to get out.

The man in front of her was ecstatic.

"Yes, yes. Yunho. I'm your mate. Pleasure to meet you."

Y/N looked even more confused.

"Why do you keep saying that word? What does that mean? Are we... Buddies? I don't get it." She shook her head, pointing a finger at him.

"And what the hell are you?"

Yunho chuckled. She was a spicy one for sure.

"I am a werewolf. A shape shifter. And no, we are not buddies. We're mates, as in soulmates. You're my other half, Y/N." Yunho was about to take her hands in his when she abruptly stepped back.

"Woah, take it easy Mister. Werewolves? Soulmates?" She sat down on a tree stump, head in hands.

"I need a moment."

Yunho knelt down in front of her, and she realized he was still bare. Without a word, she took off her jacket and handed it to him. He looked confused.

"Please, cover yourself up. I can't think with you naked in front of me."

"But... This is all yours, little lamb. My body is yours to enjoy."

He sounded so innocent, it made Y/N almost swoon.

"I'll... I'll look some other time. Cover up, please."

The man took the jacket and wrapped it around his waist, sitting down afterwards. Y/N cleared her throat and looked at him, more comfortable now that everything wasn't visible.

"So... Werewolf. How does that work?"

Yunho smiled. "Well, I am the alpha of my pack. It's a big pack, our territory spreads out far from this town. I can shift whenever I want, and I enjoy spending time in my wolf form. My pack mates live in a big house near mine, we have a mansion for ourselves, don't worry."

He said it so casually, she almost missed it.

"Woah, woah. Who's 'we'? I don't know you, and frankly, I still don't believe what's happening."

"I get it, but it's just how it goes. Now that we've met, it will only progress naturally. You don't have to be afraid, I already have deep feelings towards you. You are my one and only, as I am yours. Don't you feel it?"

Yunho placed his hand on her knee, and she did feel it. There was a certain warmth coming from his touch, and she's never felt like this before.

"See? You're confused, and that's okay. I just don't want you to be afraid of me."

Her gaze now softened on the big man in front of her. He was worried about scaring her off. Honestly, she was accepting this more quickly than she thought she was supposed to. Y/N needed to go home, otherwise she might do something stupid, like following him to his house.

"I have to go." She stood up, not bothering to look at Yunho again, and made her way towards her car.

"Wait! Y/N! Don't go!" He ran after her, catching her easily. His grip wasn't tight, he just didn't want her to run off, again.

"Please, don't leave me now. I just got you!" He pleaded.

Y/N felt sad all of the sudden. She wanted to reassure him that everything would be fine.

"Yunho... I have to go home and think about all of this. Don't you think I deserve that? I don't know you, and all of the things you said are a bit much for me. You need to let me go." That made his grip on her tighten.

"No! Please! You'll leave me and never come back! Please, we can get to know each other. I-I... Let's go on a date!"

Her eyes widened. The man was frightened about the possibility of rejection, and her heart clenched.

"A date? Okay... Let's go on a date. I'll go home now, but I'll be back tomorrow. We can talk some more. I'm surprised at how calm I am about this."

Yunho smiled. "That's because the bond is making you feel safe. It's doing its job. I'll be here tomorrow, and I'll wear proper clothes, I promise. I can't wait to see you again, my little lamb."

He wanted to hug her, or place a kiss on her cheek, but he didn't want to overwhelm her. So, he opted on patting her head. The beautiful woman smiled up at him.

"Hey, I'm supposed to be the one who pets you."

Yunho chuckled, bending down to be eye level with her.

"You can pet me anytime you want."

Y/N blushed, and detangled herself from him and turning around to walk away.

"Okay now, I'm off. See you tomorrow wolf boy!"

All she heard was his laugh, and it brought a smile to her face.

Her life was about to become a lot stranger than she expected, but she wasn't complaining. If a man like that wanted her, who was she to question it?

#ateez #ateez imagines #fluff #imagine #ateez fanfic #ateez yunho #ateez yunho x reader #werewolf ateez #yunho werewolf imagine #ateez supernatural #strangers to lovers #soulmates #mild smut #mature language

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thewitchandtheassassin · 8 months ago

Text

Life, Death, and the Space in Between Part One (Agatha Harkness x Reader x Rio Vidal)

Summary: Bound together by power and fate, you and Rio are undeniably tied, but Agatha Harkness was something unexpected - yet in the end...

Words: 1664

Warnings: Canon deaths, AAA, uh... language, child birth kinda? Angsty? I dunno, there's things.

A/N: A retake and partial redo of AAA (in the sense of "what if"). This is gonna be a... four part series? I think?

-X-

Cries of pain echoed throughout the trees as Agatha stumbled towards the water, body finding purchase against the trunk of a tree as another contraction washed over her. Everything ached, but she didn’t care. All she had worked for was so close. She just needed a little more strength and her child would be tucked into her arms, a beacon of her love.

She hardly noticed the unnatural silence that befell the forest, the wind dying into nothing more than an occasional puff of air. All she could see was- feel, hear - was the sound of her own heartbeat.

Glancing up as another cramp hit, she caught sight of two familiar figures lingering near. The beating of her heart quickened, so overwhelmed at the prospect of you both being there to meet your son, but the identical expressions you wore sent her heart plummeting.

He is not mine, you conveyed to Rio regretfully, tears prickling the corner of your eyes.

Life and Death stood, watching critically over the mortal who’d stolen their hearts. While bound together forever in a way no one would ever understand or be capable of recreating, you had both found the tiny piece you were missing within Agatha. You’d found a middle ground.

Death took a step forward.

Life took two steps back.

“It cannot be,” Agatha breathed, inching away from the green witch as she neared.

You could feel Rio’s heart cracking, felt the anguish and guilt rushing over her.

“It must be,” she replied gently.

“You do this and I will hate you forever,” Agatha spat fearfully, glancing between you. “Both of you.”

A sob clawed its way up your throat, suffocating and vile. This was the hardest moment you’d ever been summoned to.

“Please let him live!” Agatha cried. “Please, my loves. Don’t take him from me.”

Pleas began falling like tears, and your entire being called out to you. Begged you to rush to her side. To heal your son.

Rio’s eyes drifted closed for a moment before a dark stare met Agatha. You could see the parts of Rio warring. Her nature and her love clashing together in a battle, both reaching out to Agatha before being yanked back.

“I can offer only time.”

She peered at you. Save him.

Your feet moved before you could fully comprehend what was happening. Your knees hit the dirt in front of Agatha, warm light shining from your hands as they touched her swollen belly.

Looking over your shoulder at Rio, you watched the veil that separated you from mortals swirl around her.

Tell him of me, she begged, tears streaming down her cheeks in rivets.

All the time, my love, you vowed.

Attention returning to Agatha, you smiled up at her faintly. “Let’s bring our boy into the world, shall we?”

-X-

Years passed. Years of joining your love to decide the fate of a life. Years of watching your little boy grow, watching him become sick, watching him grow frail and tired…

Watching your lover kill in hopes of distracting your other lover. Watching her use your son to do it but never allowing Rio too close. Watching Agatha grow colder. Meaner. Deadlier.

As life comes and goes, you were often pulled away from Nicholas, helping the other piece of your soul collect and distribute life and death as needed. But for the times you were with him, watching him blossom and shrink, you never let him forget about the woman who offered him time.

As you stepped through the trees, veil falling away into your human form, you watched the beautiful smile break across Nicky’s face before he was bounding into your arms, clinging to you like a lifeline.

“Mother! You are back!” he beamed up at you, his thin arms gripping you as tight as he could. It was devastating to see the sickness ravaging him, knowing you could do nothing to change it.

“Hello, my littlest love,” you cooed, carding your fingers through his long hair before peering over his head at Agatha. “And my tall love.”

“If you are here, will I see Mami tonight in my dreams?” Nicky whispered into your ear, shrieking happily as you lifted him, tossing him over your shoulder and holding him tightly as his little feet kicked.

“Maybe.”

Agatha rolled her eyes affectionately as you pressed a kiss to her cheek, Nicky thrown playfully over your shoulder and squealing as you swung him about. She was surprised to see you return so soon, and her heart thumped painfully as she thought to Rio.

As the afternoon progressed into night, Nicky regaled you with tales of their exploits. Your heart ached, knowing the reasons behind Agatha’s choices but refusing to discourage your son from telling his vivid stories. You were so… angry with Agatha, for doing this to him, but in another life, maybe you would’ve done the same.

After he was tucked onto a small pallet, blanket right around his frail form, you joined Agatha at the edge of the water. Staring out into the darkness, you spoke softly, “This has bid you some time but you know this cannot stop the inevitable, my love.”

Bristling, Agatha turned to walk away, unwilling to hear your truths, but a steady hand caught her.

“You need to hear me, Agatha. She has given all she can. She has fought the universe to keep him here; avoided her own son so that Death would not call him home yet. But we cannot keep him here. He is not meant to be here, yet we let him walk and talk and be here with you. And you still hate her for the time she has allowed me to give him. Without her, he never would have taken his first breath. You need to unbury your head from the sands and accept we cannot change fate anymore than we have.”

Eyes flaring purple with fury, Agatha shoved you but you did not waver. “You are essentially gods! Yet one child unravels the cosmos? Fate? He is my son and you want to let her take him from me!”

“He is our son,” you corrected sharply. “He is her son. As much as he is mine or yours. She made him as we did. She does not get to watch him grow as we did. Hold him. Love him. Because she wanted to grant you time with him and yet you spit in her face!”

Staring into the reddened face of your lover, you softened slightly. “She loves Nicholas. I love Nicholas. And we love you. Gods know we do not wish to hurt you. But he is sick. His body is tired. You know there is only one way.”

“If you cannot understand why I do what I must to keep him here, maybe you should leave,” Agatha whispered, eyes filling with anger and tears. “I will do whatever I can to save him.”

Bowing your head, you tugged her into a tight embrace, pressing your lips to the crown of her head as she cried silently against your chest. It was raw and painful and you knew this was the last time you would see her for a very long time.

By the time she wandered back to camp, you were gone.

-X-

The shadows of night surrounded you as you and Rio approached the campsite one night, hand in hand. Her eerie green torch illuminated the path, her true form hidden beneath a familiar guise.

“I don’t want to scare him,” she had mumbled, cheek resting against your shoulder as time ticked down.

The heavy fall winds dragged Nicholas from his slumber and he slowly sat upright, eyes landing upon the eerie light. His eyes brightened before dimming, realization crashing into his chest. He peered down, watching his body remain as he stood.

Rio gestured for him to kiss his mother and he obeyed, whispering, “I love you,” before meeting you and Rio at the forest edge.

She cupped his cheek sweetly, thumb soothing on his paling flesh. “It’s time, love.”

“I am afraid,” he admitted shyly, wide eyes flickering between you as if ashamed of the admittance.

Crouching down, both of your hands found his lithe shoulders and squeezed reassuringly, letting light and warmth pour from you. “We will be with you every step, darling. I swear it.”

He peered over at Agatha, eyes shimmering in the green light. “I do not fear dying, but I do not want Mama to be alone. She is going to be so lonely.”

Your chest seized painfully.

“Our sweet, wonderful boy,” you breathed, peeking up at your partner, who stared at Nicky adoringly. “I promise, we will not be far from her, even if she cannot see us. Even if she is angry. She is etched into our bones and we will not stray far.”

“I will miss her,” he murmured, “But I will see her again one day?”

“Yes, sweetheart, and someday, we shall be a family again. A complete family.” Looking at Rio, you smiled sadly and cupped her face with your free hand. “One day, we shall never be apart again.”

“A complete family,” Nicholas repeated with a smile, peering up at Rio. “With Mami this time.”

Carefully making your way to the bridge, shadows and light swirled around as you passed through the veil and Nicholas was brought into the embrace of his mother’s domain. You were not ignorant to the pain that would overtake Agatha when the sun rose above the horizon, so once Nicholas found the space crafted especially for him, you returned to the mortal plane and stood above the resting witch.

Stooping down, you patiently maneuvered Nicholas’ mortal body in Agatha’s arms, tucking his blanket tight around him before pressing a butterfly soft kiss to Agatha’s temple.

“I am sorry, my love,” you muttered, pecking her temple again before disappearing with the morning light, soul aching as her wails crested the treetops.

#agatha harkness imagine #agatha harkness x reader #rio vidal imagine #rio vidal x reader #reader insert #agatha all along #reader imagine #mcu imagine #marvel imagine #agatha harkness #reader

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szarina · 5 months ago

Note

Hi! Hope you're doing great! Is it possible if we got a glimpse of the wedding day between Yan Reo and chubby reader?

You don't have to answer, just remember to take care of yourself!

❝ TO LOVE AND TO CHERISH.❞

$ FEATURING. YANDERE! HUSBAND MIKAGE REO

NOTES. i apologize for it took so long. i'm combining it with a another request similar to this and i didn't forgot all of your requests. they're all sitting in my inbox catching mold.

CONTENT WARNINGS. implied noncon

SYNOPSIS. such wedding vows are not meant to be spoken when you didn't agree to be wed.

it is said that the wedding of ceo mikage reo to his fiancee eclipses what was considered the most expensive wedding of the century. although a speculation of the media who had followed every step of the life of mikage reo, once a professional player for soccer and now ceo of one of the largest corporations in the world.

the wedding was a private affair. exclusive to only who had received invitations and the media wasn't clearly allowed to get a glimpse of what the wedding had become. it was considered top secret and no one had uttered a word of it after the wedding.

there were only speculations about it and the media can only have it base on their assumptions.

the wedding itself was grand that never in your life you would stand behind the large doors of the church in a wedding gown. there isn't any means that this wedding was consensual and two parties had agreed with it but the moment he put the engagement ring in your finger — it was decided. it wasn't a rags to riches story nor a cinderella one where the prince charming swoop his princess to save her from a life of impoverishment and the cruelty of her stepmother and stepsisters. this wasn't your story and you wouldn't wish a prince to save you from your life when you're decent and contented from the way of your life.

you didn't dream of a fairytale but reo did. reo was like the prince from a fairytale book. handsome and dashing he is. charming also and he's not a prince if he doesn't have a castle and reo did have one. mikage corporation. the one where you worked for and unfortunately is where he stole you to be his. you were his since the moment you entered the glass doors of the company.

at the moment you're clutching a bouquet of flowers. an assortment of flowers that you can only name a few. baby's breath and lilies of the valley surrounds the ranunculus and escimo roses. the bouquet cascades from your hold to your knees. a shaky breath escapes your lips. you can't run away from this wedding when reo had locked in all of the things he can use to you. including your family. upon the engagement he paid all of the expenses of your siblings education and just not that, your parents were included. they were brought off with reo's wealth.

the music began and then the large doors opened. it was now or never. you're sealing your future with reo and you're taking the first step.

the crowd fell into silence as you walked down the aisle. the sunlight of the afternoon filters through the windows casting a soft glow to your figure and then white petals of cherry blossoms cascades down the aisle. the guests were entranced at the spectacle of a bride walking down the aisle looking so ethereal and if it weren't for reo's affluence — you were considered to be a low born marrying to a royal in which you are but they were tight lip about it and doesn't seem to care. they only care that they were invited of one of the biggest weddings of the century.

the air feels constricting and the wedding gown feels like glue to your skin despite the multiple fittings and adjustments to make you look perfect in your wedding day.

wedding day.

the concept was strange to you. between working and taking care of your family — you never considered yourself to be lucky in the romance department and whatever wish for union didn't occur to you until this very day. such event was wasted to you when you can't even appreciate this. a bride should be happy and any girl were willing to die just to experience this.

they will have this gown teared from your body just them to wear it. what a waste.

the wedding gown was designed exclusively for you. reo had flown three designers and force one of them out of retirement just for his bride. they all took a look out of you and with their collaboration produced a wedding gown that not even royalty or a well-known celebrity would have the luxury to have. it took a year for the gown to be completed. a team consisting of fifteen members had worked every day for the smallest of details in the gown. the embroideries, sewing pearls on your dress and the veil. a ten meter train of a veil with lace trimming delicately sewn with their expertise and after arduous efforts it was complete. two months before the wedding.

in the naked eyes, they would only see what the wedding gown looked like. a off the shoulder bodice. showing your decolletage. the smooth expanse of your chest with your nonexistent collarbones. the top was enough to cover and gave you modesty. a bride appropriate for reo. the skirt designed with a ball gown and the train of a veil made you look a princess fitting for a prince like reo. a simple tiara encrusted with diamonds sat atop on your head.

everyone was enchanted to you and the dress. a wisp of a bride. walking — floating in her small steps to be with her prince charming.

reo waits for you. looking so dashing in white suit that was also exclusively tailored for him. his purple hair is put in a tie. his handsome features were highlighted and the dark purples of his eyes is glazed with happiness that he was about to marry you with a thousand eyes looking at the both of you. witnessing the union of two souls.

reo composes himself cause if he won't — he cannot stop from smiling at the sight of his bride walking towards him. a ethereal bride of his. oblivious to the tight smile and confusion of her eyes cause all reo can see is her. about to be his.

there's a slight tremor of your voice when the exchanging of vows was spoken. it feels a lie. you were speaking a lie. lying to the man in front of you and the vows you spoke was nothing to be with him. you can't love a man who has taken you everything.

reo spoke of the vows with reverence. staring deeply at your eyes with his that you wish he can take a hint and read your thoughts that you don't want nothing from him. “to love and to cherish.” it was like molten sugar and butter when he spoke with a touch of honey. it was the truth and nothing else and with the line “until death do us apart.” you realize it that reo was dead on set promising that part to you.

he takes your hand. the chubby finger adorned with a engagement ring that reo had blown off two million dollars for a piece of jewelry. crafted by jeweler with history of making jewelries for royalties. he was once known being commissioned by a prince and his current masterpiece is wrapped around your finger.

a oval cut diamond in the middle along with a vines motif for the band encrusted with smaller diamonds for the leaves. it was regal and something out of a fairytale. it was being paired with a simple platinum ring matching with reo's that you had put and after that — you were bestowed with a sweetest kiss from reo and then the bells started ringing. signifying that you were now married to each other.

the reception was no difference. the crystal chandelier glinting in the light of the huge ball room. a five tier cake in the side. the grandeur was everything and it was like what reo had planned. down to the smallest detail. a orchestra been hired too and despite the number of the members they still have the space for the performance and hasn't engulfed to the while reception for it was the biggest to accommodate all the guest and the newlyweds that will be the center of attention for the next hours. it was a celebration and such celebration is with festivities that will last for a week.

the fireworks were like sprinkles of light swirling on your eyes while you gaze at the pyro display. it was too mark such conspicuous event. the breeze was cool and the scent of the sea welcomes you with its waves of embrace.

reo held you tightly while you both watched and the guests too. he presses a kiss to your forehead. “wife.” you see him smile and he calls you again with that endearment and now, your title as mrs. mikage. wife to billionaire mikage reo of mikage corporation. he repeated it again as if the word foreign to his and wanting to get used to it.

he leans closer to you and the words he whispered left you blinking the tears away for what he spoke is your reality that you can never escape. bound to him forever.

“you're finally mine, mrs. mikage.”

#♱ ⋮ shai's works⸝⸝#chubby reader #blue lock #blue lock x chubby reader #blue lock x you #blue lock x reader #bllk x you #bllk x reader #yandere mikage reo x reader #mikage reo x reader #reo mikage #reo x reader #yandere x reader #yandere themes

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zaynessbeloved · 2 months ago

Text

Suppressing desires

Synopsis: You never expected your quiet friendship with Zayne—the cold, brilliant cardiac surgeon—to spiral into something that burned beneath your skin. Between long shifts, cold coffee, and fleeting moments, you tried to ignore the pull between you two. But life was hard, and desire was harder to suppress. Filming yourself became your secret escape. You never thought he’d find your videos. You never thought he’d watch. And when the truth breaks free, so does everything between you.

Content warnings: Friends to lovers, slow burn, camgirl x viewer dynamic, explicit sexual content, masturbation (camgirl content), mild voyeurism (consensual context), sexual tension, emotional angst, miscommunication, guilt, soft dominance, possessiveness, power dynamic, soft dom Zayne, oral sex, begging, overstimulation, rough sex, aftercare, cute shower scene, mutual pining, unspoken feelings, confessions during intimacy, possessive!Zayne, light choking (consensual), hand on belly kink, manhandling, praise kink, deep emotional release, cuddling, vulnerability, comfort after conflict.

Pairings: Zayne x reader

Word count: 5.1k

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - more soon

He hadn’t meant to watch it that night. But that excuse had lost its weight the moment he came to the sound of your moans.

Zayne sat alone in his apartment most nights now, the silence more suffocating than usual. The kind of quiet that wasn’t restful, but sharp-edged and constant—like the hum of a surgical light long after the patient was gone. He buried himself in work, deeper than ever before, clinging to it like a tourniquet. Double rounds. On-call weekends. Extra consults he didn’t need to take but did anyway, anything to keep his hands busy and his mind obedient.

He hadn’t opened the site again. Couldn’t.

That night—that one night—had started as nothing but release. Exhaustion. A disembodied need he tried to chase into numbness. He hadn’t even remembered paying for the video until he saw the receipt in his inbox days later—proof, in black and white, of the line he crossed. He deleted it without opening it. Deleted the browser history. Deleted the app.

But nothing could delete the memory.

You haunted him now. Not in the way of ghosts or grief, but in movement in the dim light. The way your hips moved beneath the lens. The shudder in your thighs. The wet sound of your fingers sliding through your slick folds, and the way your chest rose in uneven, stuttering breaths when you neared the edge.

He remembered too much. He saw your face in the middle of the night when he blinked. Heard your quiet, broken gasp when the silence in his apartment stretched too long. And worse—far worse—was what came next.

The arousal. Undeniable. Thick and low and crawling down his spine until his hand was fisting the sheets or pressing into his lap, his body reacting with shameful need before his thoughts could even catch up. He didn’t even have to touch himself anymore. You lived beneath his skin now. Every memory blurred with the shape of you, the sound of you, the unbearable want of you.

And so he pulled away. He hadn’t decided to. There was no conscious effort. No dramatic vow to create distance. It just happened. He found himself hesitating when he passed the café. Scrolling past your messages instead of answering right away. Saying less. Giving nothing. And when he saw you that one last time—flour-dusted apron, tired smile, slipping him a macaron like always—he wanted to throw up from how normal it all was.

You didn’t know. Of course you didn’t, how could you? You greeted him like nothing had changed, made a small joke, asked about his week. And he couldn’t look you in the eye. Not the way he used to. Not when he had seen your mouth open in a moan, your body shaking as you came, so beautiful and undone that it nearly brought him to his knees.

He had always been good at restraint. That was his entire life—control, discipline, precision. He prided himself on never crossing lines. Never indulging what didn’t belong to him.

But now… now he was tainted by the weight of what he’d taken. He couldn’t unsee you like that. Couldn’t pretend he hadn’t touched himself to the sound of your pleasure. Couldn’t be the same Zayne you smiled at, so easily, so trustingly—not while his body betrayed him every time your name so much as drifted through his thoughts.

So he distanced himself. Because it was the only thing he could do.

He told himself it would pass. That if he stayed away long enough, if he buried himself deep enough in work, the memory would fade. He told himself you deserved better than the man who’d watched you like that. Who couldn’t face you without the blood rushing straight to his cock and the shame blooming hot across his skin.

But it didn’t fade. And every day that passed only made the guilt grow louder—clawing against his ribs, not just because of what he’d seen, but because of what it meant. Because maybe…just maybe…he hadn’t watched you by accident at all.

There were moments—late ones, usually—when Zayne let the truth crawl up the walls of his apartment and press into the hollow of his chest.

He missed you.

Not in the casual way people said it, not like a “we should catch up” text sent out of politeness. It was deeper than that. Messier. Something more like grief. Something that sat under his skin like a bruise that never faded.

The past year had crept up on him in quiet ways. What started as coincidence—the coffee shop, the check-ins, the light teasing you managed to pull from him on tired days—became routine. And Zayne didn’t build routines with people. He didn’t let anyone close enough. But you… you’d bypassed all of that without even trying.

He should’ve known better. He should’ve set boundaries from the start. That would’ve been the smart thing. The safe thing.

But you smiled at him like you saw something behind his stillness, behind the sterilized walls and grey suits and unreadable gaze. You joked when others backed off. You understood the pauses in his messages, the weight in his silences, the sharp way he sometimes said too little instead of too much. You made space for him—for the real him—without ever demanding it.

And somehow, without realizing it, Zayne started looking forward to the little things. The text notifications with your name. The way you added just enough syrup to his coffee to piss him off. The sound of your voice through the noise of a busy café, instantly grounding him in ways he couldn’t explain.

He let himself care. And then he watched you…at the edges of pleasure. And now, everything was fractured. Because the truth—the awful, quiet truth—was that he hadn’t just seen you as a friend. Not for a long time.

Zayne knew what you deserved. He’d known it from the beginning. Someone light. Someone who brought joy like oxygen. Who laughed without restraint and danced in the kitchen and would tell you to fuck off and skip work just to lie in bed all day. Someone better. Someone normal.

Not him.

Not someone who lived under the weight of other people’s hearts, who only came home to silence and cold floors and microwave leftovers. Not someone whose affection came wrapped in sarcasm and eye contact that lingered too long because he couldn’t say what he wanted. Not someone who loved in restraint and apology and ghosted conversations when the shame got too loud.

You gave him so much without even knowing it—your attention, your time, your trust. And he? He tainted it. Took you into the dark and watched you like he had the right. Got off to it. And then ran.

What kind of man did that? Not the kind you deserved. But the most unforgivable thing—the part that made him press his palms into his eyes at night until stars danced behind his lids—was that he didn’t just want your body. He wanted you.

The quiet you. The exhausted, eye-rolling, stubborn you. The version of you who laughed too hard when the whipped cream machine broke and stood with hands on your hips like the world owed you something. The one who leaned on the counter and called him predictable for ordering plain coffee, who slipped him macarons like it was an inside joke, who looked at him like he wasn’t just the surgeon—like he was Zayne.

He wanted a life with you. A real one. One where he came home and found you curled on his couch with a mug too big for your hands. One where he woke up tangled in your limbs and brushed hair out of your eyes before kissing your temple. One where you sat on the kitchen counter complaining about your classes while he made time to cooked for you and made sure you ate something that didn’t come from a vending machine.

He wanted mornings that stretched slow and warm. Shared showers. Matching mugs. Sundays where neither of you said much because you didn’t have to.

And maybe, in a different world, he could’ve let himself believe in that. But this wasn’t that world. This was the world where he’d crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. Where every time he thought about seeing you again, his body remembered too much—the flush in your cheeks, the arch of your back, the tremble in your thighs—and his shame swallowed every kind thing he could’ve said to you.

So he stayed away. Said less. Gave less. Pretended less was fine. And still, when he closed his eyes, it was your voice he heard. Still, when his fingers curled around the edge of the mattress at night, it was you he imagined curling into his chest in the morning.

And the worst part? He knew you saw it. The shift. The silence. The difference. And it was only a matter of time before you asked him why. And Zayne wasn’t sure what would break first—his resolve, or the lie he kept trying to live with.

————

It had been nearly two months.

At first, you didn’t even have the energy to notice it fully. Life was relentless—coursework stacked higher than your sanity could manage, shifts at the café bleeding into study marathons that left your back sore and your eyes burning. You were in survival mode, held together with caffeine, stress, and pure spite. The days blurred. Sleep was a luxury. Eating became mechanical.

And Zayne? Zayne simply… faded.

Or maybe he withdrew. Quietly. Strategically.

At first, you told yourself it was fine. He was busy—always had been. Surgeon hours, demanding cases, sleepless nights. It made sense. And besides, your own world was chaos. You didn’t have time to cling to every unanswered message or missing smile. You were barely holding yourself together.

But after weeks of the same dry, clipped replies—if he replied at all—the truth began to weigh heavier than the excuses.

He hadn’t come by the café. Not once. And that wasn’t nothing. You noticed it in the way your eyes drifted to the door every time the bell chimed. How your heart still leapt—just a little—before your brain caught up with the letdown. You didn’t say anything. Not to your coworkers. Not even to yourself, at first. Because it felt like jinxing something fragile.

You texted him. Light things, soft things. Dumb jokes, photos of your busted espresso machine with “RIP” typed underneath. Even a photo of the last pistachio macaron, captioned you missed your chance, old man.

Most of it got no reply. The few responses you did get were sterile. Efficient.

Busy. Sorry.

In surgery.

Later.

You called twice. Once, it went to voicemail after five rings. The second time, he picked up—breath tight, voice clipped, as if you’d interrupted something you weren’t supposed to.

“Zayne?” you had said, soft, hopeful.

“I can’t talk,” he replied, low and sharp, background noise too chaotic to place. “Emergency bypass. I’ll call you later.”

He didn’t.

And still, you waited. Waited because you’d come to know Zayne—not just the sharp lines of his face, or the way his mouth tugged when he smirked. You knew how long it took for him to open up. How care from him came in gestures, in precision. In remembering how you took your coffee, in placing his palm over yours when words failed him.

This wasn’t him forgetting you. This was avoidance. You could feel it. The way people do when they’ve been dropped without the courtesy of a fall.

You didn’t know what exactly changed. You went over scenarios, again and again, dragging your own memory through every small interaction. Had you said something wrong? Texted too much? Not enough? You even wondered—on nights when the loneliness ached a little too deep—if maybe he’d gotten tired of you. Realized you weren’t worth the softness he offered.

But deep down, past all the spiraling, the dread, the overthinking—you knew this wasn’t boredom. Or indifference. This was deliberate. And it hurt. More than you let yourself admit.

So one night, after a particularly shitty shift where a customer made you cry in the back room and your professor smugly handed back your project with a disappointing grade and too much red ink, you walked home in the rain. Alone. No umbrella. Soaked to the bone. Shivering.

And that night—that exact night—something inside you snapped. Because you were done. Done pretending not to notice. Done excusing the silence. Done wondering what the hell you did wrong when he wouldn’t even give you the decency of honesty.

You stood in your tiny apartment, hair dripping onto the floor, and stared at your phone like it held answers. It didn’t. Just unread messages, unanswered questions, and a contact name that used to make your heart skip.

And now only made it sink.

You wrapped yourself in a blanket. Sat on your bed. Let your frustration burn low beneath your ribs, steady and unresolved. Because if Zayne wasn’t going to speak? Then maybe you would.

You tried for another two weeks. Texts. Calls. Even one stupid meme that made you think of him—something dry and sarcastic and exactly the kind of humor he used to pretend not to laugh at. You sent it without thinking, half hoping it would shake something loose.

It didn’t.

Everything stayed the same: unanswered, unread, unreturned. And slowly, your frustration melted into something worse. Something heavier.

Hurt.

It settled in the pit of your stomach and made itself a home—not sharp like a blade, but dull, persistent. A quiet erosion of all the trust you’d built, day by day, moment by moment, in soft smiles and slower conversations that had once felt like safety.

You didn’t understand. You’d always thought highly of him—more than he probably realized. It wasn’t just about his career, though that alone could’ve been intimidating. Zayne was… steady. Quiet. Thoughtful in a way that never needed to be spoken aloud. He noticed things. He remembered them. He showed up in the background without fanfare, and somehow that meant more than all the dramatic, hollow promises anyone else ever gave you.

And somewhere along the way, it started to matter. A lot.

Too much.

You liked the way his glasses slipped down his nose when he was tired. The way his dry remarks always carried a thread of warmth buried beneath them—like he wasn’t as cold as he wanted the world to believe. The way he looked at you, sometimes, when you caught him off guard. Not wide-eyed or stunned—just present. Like he really saw you. All of you.

And maybe, deep down, you were starting to fall for him. But you never dared to say it. Because your life was chaos. Cracked at the seams. Uni was a warzone, work was survival, and half the time you were scraping by with four hours of sleep and a granola bar as dinner. Zayne was a surgeon. Respected. Calm. A man with a path so clear, it felt blasphemous to imagine him sidestepping it for someone like you—messy, disorganized, exhausted.

You were barely keeping yourself afloat. And now… the one thing that felt like an anchor—your friendship with him—had started to sink too. Slowly. Quietly. Without warning.

That’s what hurt the most. Not knowing why.

You replayed every conversation, every joke, every soft moment. Searched for the crack, for the mistake, for the shift in his gaze that might’ve told you when things changed. But there was nothing. Just absence. Just silence. Like a door closing without a sound.

It was a Thursday night when it all hit you at once. University had drained every last bit of patience from you—another group project where you carried the weight, another professor who condescended with a smile, another assignment deadline that loomed like a guillotine. And then came work, where the line stretched to the door and your manager blamed you for the broken milk frother. A man snapped at you for getting his order wrong when he hadn’t even spoken clearly. A teenage girl rolled her eyes when you handed her the wrong size cup.

By the end of the shift, you could barely keep your hands from shaking. You clocked out late. Walked past your apartment. And just kept going. No headphones. No destination. Just footsteps and cold air and the ache in your chest that refused to quiet down. The streets were quiet—late enough that the bars were winding down, too early for sunrise joggers. You shoved your hands deep into your coat pockets and stared at the sidewalk like it could offer you something you’d lost.

You weren’t sure what you were looking for. You just knew that if you stopped walking, you’d cry. And not the soft kind. Not the cinematic, beautiful kind. No—it would be ugly. Angry. Frustrated and furious that someone like Zayne—someone who used to make you feel like maybe you weren’t entirely alone in the world—could just vanish. Without reason. Without a word. The thought made your throat close. You turned a corner. Slowed. Pressed your fingers against your eyes as the burn started to rise.

You missed him. You missed Zayne. And the longer the silence stretched, the louder one truth kept echoing in your chest. Something between you had broken. And you still had no idea why.

————

It started as a drizzle—the kind of rain that didn’t feel real until it soaked through the collar of your coat. You barely noticed it at first, too deep in your own spiral to care. But then a cold drop smacked hard against your cheek, and you blinked.

Then another. Then dozens. And before long, the sky opened up above you.

You stopped walking as the downpour hit in full. Cold. Sharp. Merciless. You tilted your head up, let it slap against your skin like it had a point to make. And for some reason, the only reaction you could manage was a laugh. A single, bitter, humorless huff of a sound that cracked at the end.

Of course. Of fucking course it had to rain. So cliché.

You stood there, soaked and shaking and done with everything—this day, this week, this version of your life. You let out a breath so heavy it felt like it carried your entire soul, and then… you walked. Not toward home. Not toward shelter. Just… forward.

Cars passed, tires hissing through puddles. People bustled past with umbrellas, barely sparing you a glance. You might’ve looked deranged—soaking wet, clothes clinging to your body, hair dripping into your eyes, walking like you had nowhere left to be.

And then one car slowed.

You didn’t notice it right away. Not until the brake lights flared beside you and the low purr of the engine crawled into your awareness. The passenger window rolled down, letting in a wave of warm air and the sound of your name spoken low and sharp—like disbelief wrapped in concern.

"—What the hell are you doing out here?"

You stopped. The rain blurred everything, but not his voice.

Zayne.

You turned slowly, eyes wide, breath caught in your throat. For a second, you genuinely believed you were hallucinating. Your mind, fractured and soaked through, playing tricks on you. But then you saw him—hand on the steering wheel, brow furrowed in stunned alarm, hair damp at the edges like he’d just come from work. His tie was loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

He looked… shaken. But not as much as you.

You said nothing. You just stared. And he had none of it.

“Get in the car,” he said—low, urgent, seeing straight through your silence, your soaking sleeves, your cracking expression.

Still, you didn’t move. His eyes narrowed, voice dipping softer. “You’re freezing.”

That did it. You swallowed hard against everything rising up in your throat and opened the door, sliding into the passenger seat without a word, dripping rain onto his pristine upholstery. You stared ahead. He didn’t comment. Didn’t even flinch. He just started driving. But the silence was suffocating.

Your breath caught in your chest, your fingers curled around the damp hem of your coat. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye—the way he gripped the wheel a little too tightly, the way his eyes refused to meet yours for more than a flicker. He looked calm. Composed. Like this wasn’t the first time in two months you’d seen each other. Like he hadn’t disappeared. Like he hadn’t left you wondering what you’d done wrong.

You hated how casual his voice sounded when he finally broke the silence. “I didn’t expect to see you out here. This late, and in the pouring rain, no less.”

You turned your head slowly, disbelief etched across your face. “That’s what you’re opening with?”

He glanced at you, brief, unreadable. “You’re wet and shaking. What would you prefer?”

You laughed. Sharp. Bitter. Loud enough to make him blink. “You’re unbelievable.”

He didn’t reply.

The tension wound tighter. You could see his jaw clench, the flicker of something behind his eyes that he didn’t want you to see. He kept driving, like it was just another day. Just another shift. Just another one of your normal, quiet encounters—like he hadn’t been ghosting you for weeks. Like he didn’t get to act like nothing happened.

When he pulled up outside your apartment, you unbuckled your seatbelt with trembling fingers.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said flatly. Then you got out and slammed the car door so hard the whole vehicle shook.

You didn’t even feel satisfied doing it. You just had to do something—anything—to keep the tears from breaking loose in front of him. You were halfway up the building steps, feet squelching with every step, when you heard the car door open again. Then slam shut.

“Wait.”

You didn’t stop. You didn’t want to see him being composed again, not when your chest was tight and your teeth were clenched and everything inside you was fucking unraveling.

But he didn’t listen. Zayne sprinted after you—into the pouring rain, shoes slapping the pavement, soaking within seconds—and you heard his footsteps echo behind you before he caught up.

“Wait—damn it—just wait!”

You turned around, rain cascading over your face, heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst right through your ribs.

He stood a few feet away. Dripping. Soaked. Chest heaving slightly from the run. His hair was plastered to his forehead, eyes wild and hurting. And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t look composed at all.

You turned on him. Not loud. Not theatrical. You didn’t scream or shove at his chest, though your body burned with the want of it. The rain poured down harder now, so cold it felt like punishment. The streets were slick with silver, your hair clinging to your cheeks, your fingertips numb. And still, you didn’t yell.

You seethed.

“Two months, Zayne.” your voice shook with fury you could barely hold in. “Two months of silence. Of short replies and canceled calls and empty space where you used to be.”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. You didn’t let him interrupt. You couldn’t. Because if you stopped now, your voice would crack—and you refused to give him that.

“I was going through hell,” you continued, quieter this time, but no less sharp. “Uni is a nightmare. Work’s draining the life out of me. I’m barely surviving most days. And do you know what the one constant in my life used to be? You.”

His expression changed then, just slightly. Like something inside him finally registered the depth of it. The weight of what he’d done—or hadn’t done.

“And then you just…” you laughed again, bitter and breathless. “You just disappeared. Like I didn’t matter. Like I wasn’t supposed to notice.”

Rain dripped off your jaw. Your coat hung heavy on your shoulders, soaked through to the skin, but you didn’t move.

“I texted. I called. I made excuses for you. Told myself you were busy. That you were tired. That maybe I’d done something wrong. Do you know what it feels like to doubt yourself every fucking day because someone you trusted suddenly decided to vanish without explanation?”

Zayne’s jaw tightened, his glasses streaked with water, his suit soaked beyond saving — and still he didn’t speak. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t offer a single fucking word. And it made something inside you snap.

“Say something,” you whispered, furious. “Anything, Zayne.”

He looked at you—eyes full of guilt and something deeper, something cracked wide open—but still, nothing came.

That silence? It undid you, made you so angry. You turned away, your throat burning. “Fuck this.”

You made for the apartment entrance with shaking legs, your boots squeaking against the wet tile as you yanked open the building door. The instinct was to slam it. To shut it in his face, in his silence, in his guilt. But you didn’t. You left it open.

Because despite everything, he was soaked through. Because you still cared. Because some pathetic, stubborn part of you still held out a hand toward the connection you’d once shared—the one he seemed determined to ruin.

You walked up the stairs without turning around. But you heard his footsteps. Wet and soft behind you. And when you unlocked your apartment and stepped inside, trembling and breathless, you couldn’t stop yourself from spinning on your heel—eyes red with unshed rage.

"You could’ve told me. Anything. Anything, Zayne. You could’ve said you were overwhelmed. Or that you didn’t want to talk. Or that I annoyed you. But no. You said nothing. You just vanished. Like a fucking coward.”

That one cut deeper than you meant. You saw it in the flicker of pain that crossed his face. But you didn’t take it back. Couldn’t. You huffed sharply, tossing your keys onto the table with a loud clatter, too hard, too much, and kicked your wet shoes off like they were enemies.

“Get in or go,” you muttered, voice hoarse. “But close the door either way.”

You turned from him again, hands trembling, heart racing, and this time you didn’t look back. You couldn’t. Because if you did, you’d break. And right now, you were holding the last of yourself together with fraying thread and spite alone.

The door clicked shut behind him. You didn’t turn around, but you heard it—that small, weighted sound. A huff escaped your chest before you could stop it, a mix between disbelief and bitter relief. He stayed. Of course he did. Despite everything, despite the silence and the distance and the way he’d hurt you—some small, aching thread of hope still clung to your ribs, whispering that maybe he wouldn’t walk away this time.

You hated that hope.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath as you strode into your room, shoulders squared in frustration, limbs stiff from cold and fury. “Absolutely fucking unbelievable.”

The anger gave you something to do. Something to cling to. Your hands moved on instinct, yanking open drawers with too much force, shoving aside old clothes, socks, forgotten sweaters. You found a pair of sweatpants—soft cotton, probably from your uncle’s old stash—and an oversized t-shirt that might've once been your ex’s but had long since lost meaning. They were clean. Dry. Comfortable.

Not nearly enough to fit Zayne’s tall, broad frame properly. Good. Let it be uncomfortable. Let him drown in it.

And still… you dug out a towel. Because you knew him. You knew how he got when he was sick—quiet, fussy, prone to pretending he was fine while sniffling into his sleeve and stubbornly refusing to take anything stronger than lukewarm tea. You hated how that memory softened something in your chest even now.

You marched back into the hallway and tossed the bundle of clothes and towel at him—not hard, but not gently either. You didn’t say a word. Just turned and stomped toward the bathroom, your own change of clothes clutched to your chest.

Zayne caught the clothes with a grunt, silent, soaked and still at the threshold like he wasn’t sure he deserved to go any further.

And then you shut the door. The shower came on in a sharp hiss of water, and you stood under it without even checking the temperature, letting it scald your skin, hoping the burn would melt something—the knot in your throat, the tremble in your hands, the goddamn ache in your chest that still wanted to reach for him despite everything.

You didn’t cry. But your jaw ached from how tightly you clenched it, your nails biting into your palms as the steam curled around you. Because if you didn’t get control of yourself now, you’d explode. And you didn’t want to say the things you were thinking.

Didn’t want to scream about how dare he come back acting like nothing happened. About how sick it made you to still care, to still think about whether he’d be warm enough, dry enough, comfortable enough—when he’d left you alone with silence and doubt and confusion for two goddamn months.

Meanwhile, outside the bathroom door, Zayne stood in the quiet, the clothes limp in his hands, his own wet frame slowly steaming in the warmer air of your apartment. He didn’t move right away because he couldn’t. Your voice still rang in his ears—low, trembling, furious. Not just angry. Wounded. Like he’d taken something sacred and shattered it with his silence.

He hadn’t known. Not truly. Not until tonight. He thought he’d pulled away cleanly. Quietly. That maybe you would notice but wouldn’t feel it like this. He had told himself he was protecting something. Sparing you from the mess of his own failure. That it was better this way, to leave without saying too much, before whatever quiet affection lingered between you could twist into something irreversible.

But he’d been wrong. So deeply, undeniably wrong. And now the proof of it clung to your skin, raw in your voice, etched into the way you threw clothes at him like they were both a comfort and a punishment. He didn’t blame you. Not for a single second. Because this was his fault. All of it.

And the worst part? He still didn’t know how to fix it.

He changed into the clothes—awkward, uncomfortable, the fabric tight across his chest and barely reaching past his wrists. He ran the towel through his hair in silence, chest aching with every minute that passed, replaying your words over and over until they carved themselves into him like a wound. Because he couldn’t shake the image of your face in the rain.

He had done that. And nothing—no silence, no apology, no excuse—would make it disappear.

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