#thoughts from faun

[faunabel]

japan is such a banana... litol guy

he lays in his banana bed with his banana legs curved like a banana and goes on his banana phone to read bananaga and watch bananime and eat his bananushi and bananalted bananalmon and pet his bananog bananochi

[faunabella]

hate how many nsfw blogs post untagged noncon content like PLSSSS tag ur shit 👏 i can handle it so much better if its tagged. i dont like being randomly triggered looking at my fyp 😑 it could be entirely avoided if u just tagged it so i could block it and decide if i feel like looking or not.

[yashley]

"Yeah, but we talked about it and I didn’t want it." "Why not?" "Because it scared me."

[tangledinredstring]

Kneejerk reaction is to say "Jawbone! Why haven't you reported that a student has expressed murderous thoughts towards another student! Surely, that is your job!"

But that is assuming that he hasn't. I choose to believe that he has, but the problem is that the principal was

1. A robot man that enforced perfect order by literally attacking students that fell outside the line, and then

2. Another student, who almost certainly doesn't have the training and resources required to deal with this problem.

There is, of course, a third option. The position of Vice Principal has limited power, but it is held by an actual adult...

[skysyzygy]

About the pixie hollow books and general lore, I was thinking about leaf clothes and like even if you have a fresh bendy leaf it’s still gonna get crunchy and fall apart after a little bit so you could think oh maybe they just have a rotation of clothes but NO my new headcannon is that just as fairies never really age, pixie dust has a time-warping effect that holds things in stasis

And the fairies don’t necessarily know about what it does to their youth but rather their intentions with this time dust are to create beautiful things, like garments out of plants that will never lose their sheen or flexibility or anything

Or maybe it even it affects the minds of storytelling talents where they can keep the details in their minds for a lot longer than the average fairy

Hm. I like wondering about the uses for pixie dust beyond flight and light in the pixie hollow universe I think

[willowbirds]

I finally got around to creating a DaggerHeart character, and I love her so much!

Her name is Vrati, and she’s an Underborne Faun, Nightwalker Rouge.

[havepatienceandendure]

Everyone get ready for my thesis this year, ‘how the chronicles of narnia: the lion, the witch, and the wardrobe (2005) awakened questions in me that literally nobody else cares about’

[mikeru666]

(silly rant below)

I’m slightly upset abt ram tubbo designs becoming popular again because people FINALLY stopped comparing my faun ocs to Tubbo and I do not want to go back to that era😭😭

it’s kind of my fault considering my ocs designs tend to be basic af but that’s the point!! I make them basic so I can doodle them on my biology homework!! I just wish people knew Tubbo isn’t the only faun character out there lol

anyways the deer character above is like 3 years old now irl and I love him so much that I forget other people don’t know he exists sometimes.. like wydm you don’t know his lore and origin and personality and choices and voice? he’s been here forever you must live under a rock/sarc

ASIDE FROM THAT here’s an old doodle of him carrying Clementine bc she’s lazy

[faungirlbulge]

I want to exist to be some lady's fuck toy

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I know we're all focused on Satyr/Faun König but that bull comment... I'm quite partial to minotaur's and whats better than a darling who isn't from the area. Oh yes she's innocent of the crimes against König because she was not raised there.

Some foreign little creature just running blind in a maze trying to see where there might be a way out. It's been days after all and the screaming has gotten quieter and she wonders if she's the last one left alive. He takes his time eating his meals... this can be stretched out for such a long time as she hides herself in a dead end just a short rest... the darling is so tired unaware of the horrifyingly silent steps moving closer to her little haven. It's just her left now.

@kit-williams I've wanted to write for Minotaur!König for ages!

Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader Word count: 5 k oneshot Tags/warnings: Sexual tension, threats of violence and rape, implied cannibalism, power imbalance, moral ambiguity. Predator/prey dynamic, Beauty and the Beast elements, Ancient Greek religion & lore. 18+ MDNI A/N: The Minotaur in this story is not an actual hybrid. Reader is Hecate’s initiate. Merry Christmas y'all! <3

EDIT: PART 2 HERE

The screams are the worst part.

They echo through the Labyrinth while you wait and wait and wait.

Even the very stones seem to cry and wail as you place your hope on Theseus who descended to this hell along with you and the human cattle. Seven young men and seven unwed women, meant to satisfy a beast...

And judging by the screams alone, it sounds like the monster is satisfied. It sounds like it's having a ball.

Fourteen lives have been lost, their blood swallowed by the earth as if Hades himself is drinking the crimson of Athenian youth in His feast. The flesh is the beast’s to devour: an underworld demon born of tainted lust.

Half bull, half man, you always thought the stories were only tales told by the fire to scare children. Turns out that the stories, for once, are true. There's something even worse in this maze, something cursed and foul... Hecate herself would shiver if She were here, in the womb of the earth, witnessing what you’re witnessing now.

You don’t actually see the Bull of Crete cut or hack or slash anyone, and you can only imagine what the monster does to the bloody, gutted corpses of the young. The only thing you see are the hollow, dark walls carved out of soil, sand, and clay, the intestine-like route dug deep into the earth. And you don't have to see the massacre: the screams tell you enough. The silence that follows betrays even more.

Your only light is flickering, waning: the candle will hardly last an hour. If the hero from Athens won’t arrive soon, you will have to leave this place. 

And oh, how you want to leave… You were a fool to follow him here. Blinded by love and hope, you thought Theseus of Athens would be your way out of Crete, but it’s clear that the only thing the young hero is capable of loving is fame. The only time his eyes turned to yours was when you said you might be able to help him with a small bundle of yarn.

Red as the setting sun or spilling blood, the thin woollen string is your only way out now. It’s ironic how a heap of twine is the only thing that can help you out of this hellhole, but the Fates always did possess a cruel sense of humour. Your silly daydreams might’ve cost your life, and even if you’re sworn to the dark goddess, you would rather die anywhere but here. In the darkness, all alone, with nothing but eyeless worms to keep company to your decaying bones.

The sudden draft from the outside world is warm but threatens to blow out your candle. It’s a sign from Apollo: if you don’t leave now, you’re dead. Theseus has to manage without you because you’re not dying in this underworld prison because of some man’s stupid lust for fame.

There's only deafening silence in the maze as you scurry up, taking support from the wall as your sight darkens for a moment. You rose too soon: you can’t even remember the last time you ate. And it appears that even the sun god has abandoned you because there's a faint echo of steps in the tunnel, and they don’t belong to a man. They’re too thick, unduly heavy, and it’s not a pair of sandals that are thumping against the soil.

So, Theseus is dead...

So much for the legend, the myth, the demigod.

Heart thumping in your chest and in the hollow of your throat, it threatens to drown the sound of approaching footsteps. They’re all dead, the people who descended here with you. The only thing you are right now is prey. You're being hunted; whether the Minotaur knows you're here or not, you know you're being hunted. You can feel it in your gut.

You cover the candle with one hand, hoping that the flickering light doesn’t reach around the bend. The falling thump of the footsteps stops, and you still your breath, hoping that the beast would turn around and search the other way.

You hear it sniffing behind the wall. It's trying to catch your scent in the air, the smell of dread and terror, sweat so thick it must reach his nostrils and make them flare with lust. Your heart is thundering in your chest, and the tunnel is so quiet that that you’re certain the creature will hear that, too. (Your heart always betrays you.)

And your luck is cursed.

The beast shifts. 

You can’t see him yet, but you can hear it: the scraping sound underneath his feet as he aligns himself anew, choosing the path that leads straight down to you.

“Hecate save me,” you whisper into the air that seems to grow denser as he approaches, loud thumps of feet now accompanied by metal grating against clay. 

“Hear me, flame-bearing guide... Darkness, protect me…”

He’s dragging bronze against the wall, announcing that he’s carrying a weapon with him, the strength of a bull apparently not satisfying enough if he wants to break your bones with metal.

Don’t blow out the candle... 

If you blow it out, you’ll die.

It’s a clear message, a knowing voice in your head that says it. It’s not young, it’s not old: just knowing. Alert. Wise beyond ages. 

So you still your breath and wait.

Shadows fill the curve of the tunnel just before he emerges: thick like thunder, a darkness so deep that even the name of the twilight goddess escapes your tongue. 

And he’s big. Bigger than the bulls you used to dance with, bigger than kings, or heroes, bigger than even Theseus, the man you thought was a myth walking. His head is enormous, bigger than the rest of him, awkward and rough like it’s not quite part of him even though he’s supposed to be half ox. 

The gigantic, horned figure stops when it sees you. Vast shoulders tense; the fat, double-edged sword falls to his side when he settles to loom between you and your only way to escape this place. You’re oddly thankful that the horrible screeching stopped, but then you notice that his blade is drenched in blood: actually, his torso, thighs, even the buckskin loincloth – the only garment this monster has chosen to wear – is spattered with red dots. 

The bronze tip drips with crimson, and the earth drinks it all. Hades is never satisfied: this beast is never full. Everyone who was sent down here is dead: everyone else has met their doom except you. You wonder if your mother would cry if she heard her only daughter died because she fell in love with a fool.

“I killed your hero,” the walls of hell boom. 

His voice is thick like tar, dark and foul like it’s the God of Earth himself speaking.

The flame in your hand quivers from fear, and you slowly remove your palm, the tiny candle illuminating the beast with warm homely yellow, making the prominent muscles of his chest even bigger. 

He’s carved like the statues in Athens, only, this giant is far hairier than the painted marble heroes of the city. The hair on his chest is thick and wild; it shoots down his abdomen and disappears underneath the loincloth, spreads over his inner thighs, even covers his shins in dark mats. He looks like a wild man, a beast indeed: sweaty, filthy and thick. But you never knew a beast like him could talk…

“A coward, that one,” he snarls, the voice reverberating oddly like it’s a human man speaking from under a wooden mask or inside a clay jug.

And you believe every word he says.

Theseus was strong and able-bodied, but he had built his strength just to show it off. This man’s body speaks of pure, ripe survival.

A hulking shadow with shoulders that barely fit the tunnels of the Labyrinth, with palms nearly twice the size of yours, he’s the myth walking instead of the hero whose blood now adorns that dull bronze blade. The Minotaur who survived his father’s wrath, his mother’s absence, these bleak surroundings, and all the heroes sent down to get his head… His weapon isn’t even sharp anymore, and still, he managed to cut through the sacrificial humans like butter. And what a horrific death it must’ve been to be hacked to pieces by a dull blade.

Is it evil of you to hope that the death of your “hero” wasn’t a quick one…?

Theseus was a fool and a coward, rotten to the core, but you saw all of that too late. He never cared about the human sacrifices or the king’s wrath; he never cared about digging into Pasiphae’s sorrow. He only cared about getting his face depicted on a pot or having his deeds played out in amphitheatres, his name uttered in song, accompanied by harp and flute.

“I know.”  

Your voice gets sucked into the earth: it doesn’t echo from the walls like his. It’s thin, damp, and frail, just like everything else meant to walk under the sun instead of stand buried under the earth.

But the beast before you tilts its head a little. It’s curious. 

Why would you say that? 

Why don’t you cry from hearing the news...? Why don’t you howl out your hero’s name and beg the gods to heed your grief? Why don’t you run away from a monster?

The candlelight is puny and weak, but it’s bright enough to bring out the eyes of an animal. You draw breath in the dampness of the earth when you finally see it: the bull’s head is devoid of eyes, and yet, the beast still has them. Blue as the summer sky, stern as the death grip of winter just before spring.

There’s nothing but ripped shreds of skin where the eyes should be, and instead of looking at you from the sides, they’re greeting you from the front. The horns are sturdy, but otherwise, the colossal head is a bit skewed... Thick patches of fur sticking out as if it was years and years old, and then – you realize it’s not his head; it’s only an illusion. 

There’s a man under there. A full, grown man who’s made himself a terrible helmet out of a bull’s carcass. 

“You’re a man,” you say out loud, earning yourself another shift of the colossal head.

“...What?”

The muffled echo confirms it: he’s speaking from inside the bull, moving only slightly to get a better look at you. 

“You’re not a monster. You’re just a man.”

His eyes are wild but intelligent; they pierce you from inside the inanimate shield. The large chest heaves, his ribs flare like sails as he draws air through what must be the foul stench of a long-dead animal.

He takes a step, and you shrink, almost dropping your candle and the roll of red yarn.

“You think talking will save you, female?”

He speaks like a man, walks like a man, but his moves are an animal’s. Shoulders slightly hunched like he’s a bull about to attack, you recognize the way his muscles quiver from the times when you used to do bull leaping. You don’t dance with Rhea’s oxen anymore: your tasks at Hecate’s temple are more suitable and less wild for a maiden your age. Back when you were younger and more agile, you used to jump from the back of one bull to the next, clouds of dust swirling around you as you showed your prowess to the priests.

But you can’t charm this ox by dancing. This one can’t be tricked or fooled: he will pierce you with those horns or his brazen sword if you take even a step.

“I can get you out of here,” you wet your lips, noticing that the blue eyes shoot straight to your mouth when you do that. “I know the way out.”

“What makes you think I want out,” he says, so tight and tense that you fear he’s either about to leap at your throat or plunge his sword into your chest.

And you should be concerned about your own safety, not about his sensibilities – if he even has such things – but hearing this beast man’s reply is like drinking bile. 

Why would anyone want to stay here?

You don’t know if he eats human flesh; you don’t know if he had to in order to survive. Everyone knows why his father threw him down here, but no one knows he’s not half the things the people above say he is. And if half of it isn’t true, what other lies have been told about the Minotaur? 

Even most prisoners see the sun, yet this man has been deprived of that, too. He’s been robbed of mother’s love, of father’s mercy, of friends and foes, of mentors and guides. He’s been robbed of life, of stars, of fires and summer skies, of women’s giggles, of fistfights with fellow men. Of songs and plays, of festivals and games, of bull dances, and maidens that leap…

“Have you ever been up there…? On the surface?”

You turn your voice into soft water on pebbles, a soothing pour of persuasion and goodwill. His pecs contract, strong abs under thin hair and body fat bunch like you’re about to hit him there. You take a step, and now it’s his turn to shun away. It’s only half an inch, but he actually moves away from you. 

“I can take you there,” you offer gently. “Have you ever seen the sun…?”

It’s like talking to a starved predator, trying to entice them to follow you with a fresh steak in hand, hoping that the fanged mouth won’t take more than was promised if it decides to accept the offering.

And the beast accepts. 

“As a boy,” he grunts, a tad more softly. 

Those eyes are fixed on you, reminding you of horses when they’re slightly afraid. The glint of white and blue behind the carcass is fiercely alive, quite unlike the hollow, disinterested stare of the Athenian hero who was only interested in himself.

But this beast is interested. Oh, the Bull Man of Crete is wildly, fiercely curious about you. 

“You’ll take me to the sun,” he repeats, an affirmation rather than a question.

“Yes. To the surface. I promise.”

He moves. Like an animal who learned long ago to drive others into the corner so that he wouldn’t get forced there himself, he’s primal, sensual in the way that oracles in a trance are sensual.

Approaching you in silence that’s almost eerie, the hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end by the time he’s only an arm’s length away. Why announce his coming earlier if he can move so quietly?

“You’ll lead me to my father.” 

His gaze bores into you, and not even the warm draft from the tunnels can prevent you from shivering. He’s distrustful, and it’s no wonder. It must be odd that some girl with a candle and a bundle of yarn is suddenly waiting for him around the bend, and doesn’t even flee. He’s a behemoth, but he’s not stupid. A stupid man would not have been able to survive, let alone thrive in this place.

And why should he trust you? Who is he supposed to trust in this maze when every person he has seen has either run away from him or tried to kill him? His father will slaughter him if he ever escapes the Labyrinth, so what else is a priestess in his kingdom but a squealing mouse, trying to feed him lies and then guide him to the surface and into a forest of spears? 

“No,” you shake your head slowly. “No, I promise I know the way. There will be no soldiers–”

You shut your mouth just before a huge palm closes around your throat. 

Gods, but he moves fast when he wants to… 

The candle and the yarn drop the instant his hand seizes your neck, strong fingers nearly meeting at the back as he squeezes your windpipe ever so slowly.

And he’s so close now. The carcass reeks of death, but the man underneath stinks of plain human sweat. His musk is a peculiar mix of blood, earth and soil, something both stale and invigorating, the thin sheen of sweat and dirt covering his muscles making him look like a common builder. It’s strange that the bull’s head hasn’t yet decayed in this place, that the man doesn’t reek of bodies and bones that must be scattered around like debris further down the tunnels. 

Another thing that’s strange is that he doesn’t seem to want to simply silence you.

He also wants to touch you.

A wide thumb strokes the underside of your jaw as he studies you. It slides down the column of your throat, the blue eyes gleaming with fascination when you swallow against him.

He drinks in the sight of you: the lips that part with fear, the frail collarbones that breathe against the side of his palm. The promising crevice between your breasts, the enticing softness of your teats. 

You can hear his breath grow heavy under ox skin and bone, the rugged, vicious helmet he has chosen to wear. What lies under, you can only imagine, wherein he has little left to the imagination when taking in the curve of your breasts, your nipples rising to peaks under the thin white linen only temple virgins use. 

Seeing your reaction to his touch makes him growl -- he actually growls like an animal, a deep, low rumble of approval rising up his throat when he sees how different your body is from his. How supple and cushy it is, soft and plump like a peach, covered only barely as if to tease a best like him. You wonder if he ever took pleasure in the maidens sent here by the king… If he ever thrust the sword between his legs into their weak bodies before giving them the mercy of his actual blade. Would he even know what to do with a woman, having lived here for so long?

“Please,” you whisper, bringing his eyes back to yours, the ice in them now liquid sapphire of pure want. 

Gods… You need to bring his attention back to your offer of help before he sees it more compelling to just stay here and play with his new, plump little mouse. Virgin or not, you wouldn’t survive a mating with this man. 

“I swear on Hecate’s torch that it’s not a trap. You have my word: I’m a priestess soon to be.”

He’s entranced. Hypnotized by your lips. You lick them to confirm your fears true: the man grunts with pleasure, out of instinct, absentmindedly like an animal who reacts to the sight of a fat, meaty bone. 

Oh, he might not know what to do with a woman… But he would try his best to find out. 

“Priestess…?” He rasps.

“It’s a holy woman,” you explain. “I serve the Goddess of the Crossroads.”

He snorts, either because he’s not impressed or because he’s downright amused by your vocation. The eyes, warmer, more demanding now, are far from the eyes of a bewildered beast.

“Little female of the crossroads... You will take me to the king. And then, I will kill him.”

He puts weight into his words, tries to make you understand. 

He wants you to guide him to his father. 

To the King who claims his son is half bull, to the husband who claims his wife was adulterous with an ox. To the King who demands tribute as virgins so that he can send them down to hell. The dark goddess screams justice, but you're at a horrible stalemate.

The gods will curse you for this… They will smite you with a bolt of lightning or drown you next time you cross the great sea if they see you’ve helped this half-beast escape. If you guide him to Minos, you’re a participant in kingslaying, and the gods never forget things like that.

“He’s your father and the king of Crete,” you whisper in fear. “The gods will strike you down–”

“Gods?” He spits. “I piss on the gods. I fuck their corpses and leave them to rot.”

You almost choke on the blasphemy levelled at you. The shadows creep closer, the stare behind the black fur is dark and amused, burning with the crooked wrath of a thousand years. 

“Perhaps I’ll fuck you too.”

It’s unnerving that you don’t find the threat wholly unappealing.

If anything, your eyes drift down to the hairs of his chest, to the two big muscles that resemble the work of the best sculptors in Athens. 

“Are you a virgin, female of the crossroads?”

His eyes search for your response: they want to see your fear and disgust. You swallow again, arduously against his hand, both caressing and testing you. 

The beast leans forward, as if weighing if he could somehow insult the gods by pillaging you. The rough hair of his chest meets the white cloth, it brushes against your nipples as he bends down to have a good sniff of you.

“You smell like a virgin,” he growls.

The hand leaves your throat, only to travel down your sternum. He grabs your breast nonchalantly, a little too roughly, the hot palm closing around the teat and squeezing it like it’s a toy. When you don’t react, he squeezes it again, this time hard enough to coax a whimper out of you.

“Sound like a virgin…”

Without warning, the hand dives straight between your legs next, palm forcing its way through your thighs and curving to cup your sex, moulding around it with barbaric thirst.

“Feel like a virgin, too.”

It’s thick, hot, and heavy, how he simply tries you through your dress. Fingers testing your folds, he’s clearly enjoying the subtle wetness he finds down there. You can hear another hitched grunt pushing up his throat, rugged and whiny this time, a broken groan that dissipates because of how dry his throat is. 

No man has ever dared to lay his hands on you... Many have wanted, but none have tried. Even drunkards and fools respect women who belong to the dark goddess.

But he doesn’t care about the wrath of Hecate. He doesn’t give a shit about the gods. He simply takes what he wants, what falls into his lap. The fifteenth offering, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in devouring your flesh. 

How easily he could simply yank that loincloth aside and drag your dress up. Force his cock into your tight, wet heat without uttering a word. You doubt that he would even take the trouble of laying you down on the ground for taking... Beasts rut when they want to: this man could fuck you against this wall if his loins demanded so, guttural groans being the last thing you hear before the candle goes out. 

You don’t know if you have to spread your legs for him before this is over, but you reckon you will do even that if it means you’ll see the sun again. You’ll endure every thick thrust, and gods be cursed, you wouldn’t even be solely disgusted if this half-animal chose to breed you... As shameful as it is, you would somewhat enjoy having him rut you like an animal in heat.

And you’ve gone mad, surely. 

You want to touch him too, just to test another theory. 

Deciding that it's a good idea to stick your hand into the maw of hell, your fingers lift. They meet his bicep, and the lewd panting stops.

He’s not even breathing… He’s just drowsy and drunk, looking at you with a mixture of soft sleepiness and awe in his stare. Like a dog who has never been petted, even his eyes drift half closed when he forgets to threaten you, now focusing solely on your hand. 

And you start to caress him, slowly, so slowly… Tracing the muscle all the way up where it meets the shoulder, you stroke even the thick cord that leads to his neck. The rest of him disappears under the bull, but the man behind it already shivers under your touch. He even bends his head a little in hopes that you would go under the mask and touch him there, and the gesture reminds you of an animal exposing its vulnerable areas, baring its very throat in submission. 

Braving a quick peek down, you notice that the buckskin cloth is stretched high and wide. His whole body is tense and immobile: you could cup him through the soft animal skin and he would probably shoot his seed from a single stroke of your palm. 

If this is not a virgin, you don’t know what is...

In a way, it would perhaps be wise to shove your hand down and disarm this man. That way, you would be safe for a few more minutes. Instead, you lay your palm over his chest, right over where his heart should be. 

“So do you, Bull of Crete...”

His gaze flickers.

The darkness hesitates, widens, nearly swallows the azure pools whole. But he doesn’t look irate or wild... Only shocked.

It’s an impasse. A thicket. His hand on you, your hand on him.

He surrenders first: the underworld budges before the utterly pure. You bless him with grace the instant he withdraws his hand from between your legs – slowly, reluctantly, like leaving a place that belongs to him. Or to which he belongs…

“I promise I’ll help you, Minos Tauros. But I need you to give me something in return.”

You remove your hand too. Softly, slowly, like a horse master who trains and tames wild things. All words seem to have escaped his tongue: he only grunts, unsure of what a beast like him could give you in return for your help.

“You must promise to be kind to me.”

“Kind...?”

“I need you to behave,” you explain. “No bad things on the way up... No fucking.”

Everything else, he seems to accept, but during the last sentence the Minotaur blinks at you, utterly confused.

“But... You smell like you want to fuck.” 

Your jaw drops open a tiny bit. Then you remember that a priestess of Hecate doesn’t gawk.

“I don’t–How would you know that…?”

The beast only shrugs. Then he leans forward and takes another sniff as if to prove it’s true that you want his cock inside you.

“You smell good,” he grunts. “Different... Female, not afraid.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to…”

He even raises his hand to inspect the slight wetness there. Fascinated by the thin film on his fingers, he rubs his thumb in it, probably thinking about bringing it under his mask to get a good sniff of your juices too.

You grab his wrist without thinking, mortified to your core by the prospect of him getting high on your slick. 

“Look. We need to leave before the candle burns out.”

The obsessive stare threatens to swallow you once more, so you let go of his wrist and steel your resolve. Scooting down to grab your things, you try to ignore the violent erection still pointing straight at you.

Hecate keep you from offering yourself to this man out of your own free will...

And you don’t have a torch, only a candle and a skein of blood-red yarn, but you know the way out, so there’s hope. There’s always hope.

“I need you to promise me,” you turn at the mouth of the tunnel, seeing that he’s still standing there, in the place where he almost took you like his first whore. As if waking up from a thrall, he straightens to his full height, picks up his sword and looks like a half-human, half-bull once more.

“I promise,” comes a booming voice from under the animal skull. “No fucking… I’ll behave.” 

You nod. There's a sense of trust in the air. A promise of hope... It's mutual, invigorating -- life-giving, like the sun and blood in your hands.

You don't know if the son of Minos has ever smiled in here, but from the quick glint in his eyes, you suspect that he's smiling right now, the man under that animal mask. Somehow, it reminds you of the stars in the sky.

“Lead the way, maiden.”

[the-kaedageist]

I can't stop thinking about the developing dynamic between Essek and Fearne, especially since Fearne seems to have discovered a particular joy in needling him, possibly because a lot of his sarcasm has been aimed at her.

But then there was that little moment where Fearne said, "I thought you said don't touch anything" and Essek gave her that little smile and replied, "I'm not touching it, am I?", and I thought - oh. He's starting to like these little shits, especially the faun who won't stop giving him trouble. From Fearne's reaction to this - the mocking that turned into a grin, calling him cheeky - you can see her starting to understand Essek's particular brand of humor in return.

It would be so hilarious if Essek comes out of this adventure having been adopted by an entirely new adventuring party who have forced friendship on him. I can think of nothing I'd wish for him more than that.

[faunabel]

so like... is it a system thing to be listening to music and have one part of you like a song and one part of you hate a song and which part is more dominant varies and you can pause and focus in on the different parts and their varying opinions or does everyone experience this?

[hiyyihrts]

The way he starts the scene so intently looking at her with not admiration but almost gloating, in a sense, because he’s told her that he missed her and her letters, so of course Penelope being Penelope she’ll just faun and look bashful and maybe mumble a line out to him, but it shifts to a 180 when she starts saying she’s the laughing stock of the ton and that she knows he’d never court her no matter what she ‘changes’ about herself to fit the ton’s needs and wants. You can see he avoids her gaze and looks anywhere but directly into her eyes, because she’s no longer praising him and awarding his own thoughts by amusing him. I think here he realizes that what she’s saying is true and he’s embarrassed/maybe even a little ashamed to admit that he’s also thought that or thought something similar. But I think he also realizes, once she says he’s cruel and just like the rest of the ton, that he’s taken Penelope for granted. She’s always indulged in his adventures and whims and travels, all of his family troubles, all of his internal-self issues, etc. and that she’s always been nothing but “kind” to him, when in reality she wasn’t revealing everything she probably wanted to say or felt at the time, because how could she ever hurt Colin or do something to take the good-natured smile and easy going wiles away from him? His Penelope would never do that! But she’s becoming her own person for once and entering into her own agency, and he’s not sure how to maneuver through it, let alone with her through it. So I feel as though he looks at her with a sense of shame and regret as she walks away- so much he wants to deny and refute but not being able to because he believes some of it to be true as she believes as well.

[uesp]

"Possibly most curious of all was the utter lack of female Fauns. They may be more magical than I initially thought, or they have a way of reproducing that differs from the traditional process, or perhaps they keep their females well hidden from prying eyes."

--The Flora and Fauna of Galen

[lightwing-s]

𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍

pairing: peter pevensie x female! reader

requested: yes. summary: war times are complicated and feelings tent to get overwhelming. when jealousy hits peter, he doesn't know what to do, you don't know what to make of it, and you two end up... "confessing".

word count: 1,3k warnings: light swearing, battle themes, anxiousness

a/n: it was supposed to be a short blurb but i got excited.

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ! ♡

⌜masterlist⌟ ⌜requests: open⌟

Hordes of narnians worked frantically on preparing weapons, armors and other supplies for the incoming battle against the telmarines. The sounds of metal hitting metal flooding the hollowed tunnels of Aslam’s How, giving Peter the eerie and anxious feeling he was growing unused to while in England, the one he always felt before a fight.

He had been looking for you, wanting to talk about battle plans, contingencies, numbers. Or just talk about anything at all. He needed to clear his mind, especially after what had just happened with Jadis and Caspian, after the failed battle at the telmarine’s castle and the growing tensions of a war. 

Truth is, he didn’t know if he could do it. He didn’t think he could win it this time, not in the state their army was, shrunken and weakened. Not without Aslam.

He needed to find you, talk to you. He needed you to tell him it would all be alright and you’d win this battle no matter what, like his mother did to soothe him down. Like you once used to back in your first time in Narnia.

“Have you seen Lady Yn?” He interrupted a faun’s work to question about your whereabouts, not managing to find you anywhere.

“I believe I saw her with Prince Caspian, your majesty.” the faun replied after standing from a bow.

With Caspian. Yet again.

You’d seemed to spend an awful amount of time with him lately, something Peter hadn’t imagined would piss him off so greatly as it did. Every time he’d come looking for you, or every time he spotted you around, somehow, Caspian would be by your side. Sometimes sharing laughs, others with your arms interlaced. It drove him furious.

He didn’t understand why you had to be around him so much. He wasn’t hurt or in need of help, he wasn’t your friend like he was. What was it you two talked about so much? And why was it that it drove him so insane to just think about?

Asking for instructions on where he’d last seen the two of you, Peter lets the faun return to his work, not managing to hide his unsatisfied look before heading out in your direction. Torch in hand, he followed through the empty and darkened tunnels until he found you and the prince sitting by the Stone Table, deep in conversation, so much so that you didn’t notice his presence at all.

He stood there, watching you two chat. Caspian’s arms moved everywhere in front of him while he explained something that had your eyes glued on him, an amused smile creeping to show up on your face.

His blood boiled. His face reddened, and it’s muscles curved into a frown. Spinning on his heels, he returned to where he came from. It wasn’t until you heard his heavy footsteps walking back into the tunnels that you noticed him, the torch fire reflecting on the walls and disappearing along with him.

Excusing yourself, you screamed his name and rushed after him, not understanding what was going on at all. The quick glimpse you had of his face showed you a displeased frown, leaving you worried something might have happened while you and Caspian discussed battle plans.

“Peter, wait!” you screamed after him, almost begging him to stop and talk to you. “What happened?”

“What happened?” he suddenly stopped and turned on his heel to face you. “Nothing happened, Yn.”

His anger ridden voice only confused you more, your head bobbing to the side to stare at him in deep thought. “Then why are you upset?”

“I’m not upset,” he argued. “It’s just that we’re preparing for a battle and you’re just hanging out with Caspian and…”

“That’s what this is about then?” you cut him mid sentence. “Me spending time with Caspian?”

“It’s not about you spending time with Caspian.” Peter rolled his eyes.

“Then what is it?”

“It's not… I-it’s…” he failed to come up with an explanation, opening and closing his mouth several times. “I’m just worried for my family’s and your safety, thinking of countless plans on how to keep everyone safe while you two are just chatting away.”

“Outrageous!” you exclaimed. “Peter, if me and Caspian are spending any time together is with this fucking battle in mind because you’re so damn stuck in your own head that you won’t listen to anybody!”

“I fucking always listen to you.!” he stated in return, moving forward towards you but you didn’t even flinch..

“Yes, but what about Caspian? Your own brother? They all care about this too, they all want to bring the Narnians to safety, not risk their lives again.”

“You know it wasn’t my fault.” he defended himself, clearly getting what you were hinting on.

“I know!” it was your turn to approach him. “I know you never intended to lose them like that, I was there with you remember, I saw it in your eyes.”

You could've sworn you felt a single tear escaping from your eye, but you weren’t sure and either way, you weren’t too attentive to it to care. “But you’re too stuck in your own head, too worried if you can or not do it to listen to people that actually believe and want to help you. And what was it with the White Witch?! What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.” he let out quietly, you barely managed to hear. The space between you a mere inconvenience now, as you both neared each other as words spilled out of your mouths.

“And if you think that I don’t care about your safety too, you’re so wrong because I worry about it day and night. I can barely sleep thinking about your safety and if we’re going to make it out alive, because I know how impulsive and stubborn you can be, Peter, and I can’t even fathom the thought of losing you to Miraz a-and…”

Cupping your face in his larger hands, Peter ended the last bit of space between you by pulling you forward into a kiss.

At first, you didn’t know how to react, how to respond to it, simply staying put and letting his lips touch yours, too surprised by an action you’d never expected from Peter. Your Peter, the stubborn and annoying Peter that made you lose your mind constantly with crazy battle plans and insufferable jokes, now making you lose it with his lips in yours.

His warm breath hitting your cheeks and the soft caress of his thumb on your skin melting you into his embrace, returning the kiss with careful and passionate movements. Your hands tugged on his shirt bringing him, if possible, even closer.

Growing needier, hotter, more desperate, you continue your kiss without breaking for air. His lips dancing above yours, your breathing getting shorter and your chest speeding away. You felt the tip of his tongue sliding inside your mouth, touching yours in a sensation you’d never once felt before, but that you now felt desperately hungry for.

And just when you were about to return the action, stumbling steps and rolling stones broke you apart from each other.

“I-I…” Caspian tried to muster, sliding his back against the painted walls of the tunnels, feet rushing away from you two. “... Just need, erm, to be somewhere.”

Peter had pulled you closer, hiding you in his chest like a protector of your virtue, and you laid your face in it, smelling his strong and woody scent emanating from his skin. His hand rested carefully on your waist now, as he watched Caspian disappear into the shadows over his own shoulder.

“He really admires you.” you called back his attention, wrapping your arms around his torso in a comfortable embrace. “You should listen to his ideas.”

“I know,” he simply replied. “I will.”

And like that you stood for a few more minutes. Wrapped around each other, lullying to the sound of each other’s breaths. A brief moment of quiet, peace and solitude in the chaos that was battle prep.

A moment for you two, that Peter prayed with all his heart wouldn’t be the last.

[oosleepyfaeoo]

A Kiss Is All I Need

Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Chapter Two

Summary: 2 months ago, Alys, the love of his life, broke up with him. Their relationship of five years gone by a simple farewell note that she left on their, well now his, penthouse. 2 months crying and feeling like shit but that all stopped when he meet you on that dreadful clothing store.

Warnings: Nothing much yet, just little fluff.

Words: 1,167

Masterlist / Series Masterlist

Taglist: @zenka69 @cryptid-l0ver @saelwen-shy-elf @aemondsdelight @shari-berri @kckt88 @watercolorskyy @dae7tina @saturnssrings @dixie-elocin @arabis-world @tulips2715 @reedmurdock @ladythornofrivia @tssf-imagines @eeeeeevesstuff @venmondiese @bellaisasleep @darylandbethfanforever9 @snh96 @liv-cole

Aemond took a deep breath as he stood in front of your bakery. ‘The Faun Cottage’ was the name of your store. The display window was decorated with beautiful green leaves and antique books which served to hold cakes and baskets of bread.

He was dressed in a light white shirt with a leather jacket, black jeans, and super comfortable Doctor Martens, which he wears almost every day. His long hair was tied in a low ponytail.

Looking down at the watch on his wrists, he saw it was 2 pm already. “Here goes nothing,” he murmurs as he walks into the bakery. “You better be right, Aegon.”

The scent of fresh bread and coffee along with a sweet herbal smell hit his nose like a train. Inside the shop, it was warm and cozy. Green vines are climbing the walls into the ceiling and some ancient runes are painted on the stone walls which looks like a mix of cottage core with Celtic/Viking vibe. A faint medieval music played in the background. It looks like something from an ancient era.

There are some people seated eating their food, others reading or working while drinking their tea or coffee.

“Mommy! Mommy! My Prince is here!” Emily’s voice echoed through the shop, grabbing his attention. This time she was dressed in a simple brown dress with some hand-painted runes on it. Her black hair was braided, and two small antlers rested on her head.

Aemond smiles down at her and kneels to shake her tiny hand. “Hello, Emily.” He greets her gently. “And what do you suppose to be today?”

She gives him a little twirl and grins. “I’m a druid! I talk to animals and cure people's booboos with my magic!” The girl grabs his hand and pulls him towards the door behind the counter, saying a quick hello to the guy who was attending to a client.

Aemond chuckles and lets the girl guide him. “Hmm, I see.”

Emily opens the door and leads him inside. It was an office by the looks and by the desk full of papers and a laptop, stood a very stressed woman.

“Mommy! Look who’s here!” Emily chirps happily.

You looked up from your papers and gave him a tired smile. “Aemond... I’m happy to see you. Please take a seat.” You try to make your office table more presentable, putting all the paperwork in cases. “Sorry for the mess. It’s been a busy day. Maria needed the day off so I took over her work and... it didn’t go well.”

Aemond sat on the wooden chair in front of you while Emily went to the corner to play with her plush animals. “It’s no problem... Here’s my papers, all the training I did.” He gives you the case. “By the way, you have a lovely bakery. Very creative.”

The grin you gave him made Aemond’s heart almost burst out of his chest. Your eyes brightened at his compliment and how the dimples on your cheeks made you look so cute and innocent.

“Thank you! It was a lot of work to make it the way I imagined but it was worth it.” You say taking a seat on your chair. “So, shall we start with the interview?”

Aemond nods.

“Okay! So, your brother said you had experience with children. Your nephews, right?” Aemond nods again.

“Yes, my sister's children. Twins, a girl, Jaehaera, and a boy, Jaehaerys, of 8 years old, and toddler of 2 years old, Maelor.” Aemond smiled gently at the thought of his nephews.

You took notice of his gentleness as he talked about his nephews, which made you feel more relaxed with the idea of him taking care of Emily.

“They all have beautiful names.” You speak. “I’m not going to lie but it seems you are perfect for Emily. You have basic first aid training and CPR certifications.” You look down and read his papers. “Also, it seems Emily is already attached to you.”

You nod towards your daughter, who has her gaze fixed on Aemond while she plays. Aemond grinned at her which made the girl giggle and run towards him, showing him her favorite plush animal.

You pull up the documents for him to sign and put them in front of him. “It seems you got the job! You can read the agreement and then sign down here.” You smile. “I drive her to her school every morning. So, 3 pm you can go pick her up and she is all yours until 7 pm when I get home.”

Aemond nods and signs the paper. Opening the drawer beside you, you take a small notebook along with a key.

“Here.” You give him the book and key. “In here you will find all her allergies, her school, and our apartment address. That’s the key to our home.”

Aemond takes the book and the key from you, his pale fingers brushing gently against yours. “Thank you, Y/n.”

The way your name rolled through his tongue made your loins curl in a familiar feeling. You cough and look down to your laptop, a faint blush adorns your cheeks. Get a grip, Y/n!

There’s a small pregnant silence between you too. Aemond admires the way your face flushes so easily. Even tired, you look beautiful.

“Huh... Well! Ready for your first day?” You stand up and smile, trying to end the awkward silence.

Aemond also stood up, looking down at a very excited Emily. “Ready as I can be.” He gently grabs the girl's hand while putting her backpack on his shoulder and walks out of the office with you following close behind.

You kneel and give a big kiss on your daughter's cheek, making her giggle excitedly. “Have fun and behave.”

“Yes, mommy.” She grins and kisses your nose.

As you stand up, Aemond quickly pulls his wallet out and takes his business card. “I completely forgot to you give my card.” He says with an apologetic gaze. “My phone number is there in case you need something.”

You nod and take his business card. Emily pulls Aemond’s hand and jumps up and down. “Can I have an ice cream on our way home? Pretty please?”

Aemond looks in panic at you to which you laugh. “Yes, but only this time. Alright?”

“Yippe!” Your daughter squeals happily and pulls Aemond’s hand again. “C’mon! C’mon! Let’s go!” Aemond chuckles and lets the girl guide him while waving a small goodbye at you.

You waved back and watched them turn around the block, disappearing out of sight. You feel tears stinging in the corner of your eyes, the feeling of your daughter's absence drives you to panic.

“Deep breath, Y/n.” You whisper to yourself. “She’s going to be okay.”

Taking a deep breath, you look down at the business card in your hand. Your eyes widen as you see a familiar red logo. A three-headed dragon.

“Wait! He’s THE Aemond Targaryen??!!”  

I hope you guys like this chapter!! Feel free to like, comment or reblog!