#the vow au fic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hamsterclaw · 6 months

Text

Shiner

You've grown to love your emotionally unavailable husband, but part of you wonders if he feels the same about you. The final part of the Vows series, read the rest here.

Pairing: Yoongi x f! reader

Genre: Arranged marriage AU

Warnings: Sex, swearing, Yoongi gets a black eye

Rating: 18+

Word count: 6k

You blink yourself awake and stare blankly at the ceiling, trying to orientate yourself.

Yoongi’s bed. You can tell by the smoothness of the white ceiling, and if you widen your senses, by the feel of the soft, crisp sheets under you.

His smell on the pillow under your head.

You gradually become aware of an ache in your jaw, like you’ve been grinding your teeth.

You turn your head to look at the other side of the bed.

The throbbing headache hits you like a sledgehammer to the temples. You moan a little and close your eyes again, but it doesn’t stop the room from swirling wavily around you.

Oh shit.

You’re going to be sick.

You leap up, stagger to the bathroom, curl your arm around the cool porcelain of the toilet and hurl.

The contents of your stomach splatter into the water, and you groan again, retching until there’s nothing left inside you but bile.

You look up frantically when you hear footsteps.

Yoongi?

He’s meant to be on a business trip.

You fumble for the flush and jump up to wash your face.

Your husband’s seen you in all forms of unattractive but he doesn’t need to see you with vomit on your face.

You splash water on your face, look around hurriedly for your toothbrush.

Just in time.

Yoongi appears around the corner of the bathroom door, nose wrinkled.

‘It smells like sick in here,’ he observes.

‘I’m sorry,’ you apologise. ‘I’ll get it cleaned up.’

Yoongi approaches you.

‘I’m not surprised you were sick, considering how drunk you were last night.’

You freeze with your toothbrush in your mouth and goggle at him.

Questions run through your head.

Why is Yoongi back early from his business trip?

How does he know you were out last night?

And finally, why the fuck does your husband have a black eye?

You rinse and spit, open your mouth to ask, but all that comes out is a whimper.

Yoongi looks at you unsympathetically as you press your fingers over your eyeballs.

‘Come on brat, Mrs Gye made us breakfast.’

***

You reach for the toast in the middle of the table and frown, confused, at your bruised knuckles.

The skin’s split over your index, and the rest of your hand is bruised.

Yoongi says, taking a sip of coffee, ‘you throw a mean left hook, wife.’

You gape at Yoongi.

‘I punched you?’

Yoongi looks at you thoughtfully. ‘Don’t you remember?’

You dredge through the haziness of the night before, trying to remember.

‘Why did I punch you, Yoongi?’

Yoongi gives you a level look.

‘Think hard, wife.’

You realise Yoongi’s skipped all the endearments he usually uses for you.

In fact, he’s been distant with you all morning.

‘I’m sorry, Yoongi, I can’t remember,’ you plead. ‘Can you tell me?’

Yoongi finishes his coffee, gets up.

‘I have an important meeting in a couple hours,’ he says. ‘I need to get ready.’

As he leaves the room you can’t help but feel you’ve done something terribly wrong.

***

A week earlier

You know Yoongi doesn’t like it when you fuss over him when he leaves for business trips, but you can’t help it this time, when he’ll be gone on the day of your wedding anniversary.

It’s not your first wedding anniversary, you’ve been married for years, but it’s the first one since you proposed to him.

Yoongi had laughed when you pointed it out.

‘You and your romantic heart, jagiya,’ he’d said, affectionately.

You’d laughed at his expression, but you’d felt a pang of disappointment in your chest just the same.

You’d changed the subject quickly, and he hadn’t brought it up again.

Now you’re standing on the front steps of your house in your pyjamas to say goodbye.

‘I might come see you in Bruges,’ you say hopefully, as Yoongi leans in to give you a hug.

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Yoongi says, practical as always. ‘I’ll be working flat out.’

He studies your expression, and his face softens.

‘I’ll be back soon enough,’ he promises you.

He lowers his lips to yours, wraps you in his arms.

‘Eat well when I’m gone, ok? Look after yourself.’

‘I will,’ you reply. You reach out for him again, but he’s already stepping away, getting into the car.

You wave him goodbye with your best smile.

***

Your phone lights up in your peripheral vision as you’re getting ready for bed.

You grab it so quickly it flips out of your hands onto the floor.

You swipe quickly.

Your husband’s beautiful face fills the screen. He’s got one hand loosening his tie as he sits back.

‘Hey,’ you say, teasing. ‘Do I know you?’

Yoongi smiles at you. ‘Forgotten me already? Don’t worry, I left you something to remember me by.’

You tilt your head at him quizzically.

‘Check the bedside drawer, jagiya.’

‘How’d you know where —-‘

‘You always sleep in our room when I go away,’ Yoongi replies briskly.

‘You don’t know me,’ you mutter, out of habit.

Yoongi just laughs. ‘Go on, check.’

You reach over and pull it open, pick up the gift box and card inside.

‘Open it,’ urges Yoongi.

You tear open the card.

It’s plain ivory cardstock, with a message in your husband’s familiar, barely legible scrawl.

Happy wedding anniversary. I’m sorry I can’t be there.

The rush of emotion you feel takes you by surprise.

You flip your screen so he can’t see you blinking away tears.

Yoongi’s voice sounds through your phone.

‘I can hear you sniffling,’ he says, dryly.

‘Allergies,’ you reply.

‘Are you allergic to me being a perfect husband?’ asks Yoongi, sounding completely serious.

You furrow your brow.

‘If the card makes you this emotional, wait until you see the present,’ Yoongi says.

‘I’m opening it now,’ you tell him as you unravel the silver bow and lift the lid.

You’re grateful Yoongi can’t see your face as you stare at the delicate bracelet in the box.

It’s beautiful, expensive, tasteful.

You have no idea why it makes you feel so flat.

You muster up as much enthusiasm as you can as you say, ‘It’s beautiful! Thank you, Yoongi.’

You flip the screen so he can see you.

He looks worried.

‘If it’s not to your taste, jagiya —-‘

‘It’s very beautiful, Yoongi,’ you assure him. You fiddle with the clasp, wrap it around your wrist. ‘I like it a lot.’

You lift your wrist to the camera so he can see.

‘I haven’t got you anything yet,’ you say, worriedly. ‘I was hoping to see you on our anniversary —-‘

Yoongi says, quietly, ‘I’d love to see you, but I can’t promise you much time.’

‘I don’t care if there’s not much time,’ you say. ‘I can take care of myself, Yoongi, I’d love to see you too.’

‘Let’s think about it, ok?’ Yoongi says. ‘We can decide tomorrow.’

Now he sounds tired too.

You feel guilty for pressing when you know he has a lot on his plate.

‘Sure,’ you say, trying to turn the mood of the conversation around.

You smile brightly. ‘Thank you for my gift, Yoongi.’

‘I’m glad you like it, jagi.’

‘I should let you get some sleep.’

He doesn’t protest.

‘Good night, Yoongi.’

‘Good night.’

***

You and Yoongi never actually agreed that you would fly in to see him, and you feel a twinge of nervousness as you step out of the airport in Ostend.

This close to Christmas, the weather’s chilly, and although it’s early evening, it’s already dark. You wrap your scarf around you as you wait for your car.

At the hotel, you realise you don’t know Yoongi’s suite number.

You bite your lip nervously as you wait for Yoongi to answer your call.

The dial tone rings out.

You’re trying to decide what to do next when he walks into the hotel.

Your beautiful, polished husband, skin glowing and flushed with cold, his dark hair and eyes in striking contrast, his perfectly fitted navy coat unbuttoned over his perfectly fitted suit, walks in with his media director Park Gyuri.

His stunning ex-model ex-girlfriend Park Gyuri.

Your stomach drops, and it’s at that exact moment that he looks over and sees you.

He blinks at you, open-mouthed, then he’s changed direction and is walking over to you.

‘Jagiya,’ he says, as soon as he’s close enough.

He wraps you in a hug, and you hold him tightly to give yourself time to gather your composure.

You’d known that Gyuri was going to be on his business trip, she and Yoongi travel together often, she’s a core part of his team.

It was one thing knowing it, and another to see them walk in together.

Belatedly you realise the rest of Yoongi’s team have arrived too.

Yoongi pulls back to plant a kiss on your lips, and you hope he can’t feel the hammering of your heart.

‘It’s so good to see you,’ Yoongi says.

You meet his gaze.

Your husband is stunning, of course, but he also looks tired.

‘I hope it’s ok that I came,’ you say.

You sound formal even to yourself, and Yoongi frowns a little.

‘Of course it’s ok, I’m happy you made it,’ Yoongi tells you.

‘I’m free this evening, we can have dinner together. I’ll get Sungho to make a reservation, ok?’

Yoongi glances around, looking for your bag. ‘Did you bring any luggage, jagiya?’

‘I have to leave tomorrow,’ you tell him. ‘I didn’t bring any pyjamas, is that ok?’

There’s a spark in your husband’s eye. ‘It’s ok, I’ll keep you warm.’

‘That’s what I hoped,’ you say.

Yoongi laughs, grips your hand firmly. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he says, dropping a kiss on your head, and the tightness in your chest finally starts to ease.

***

By the time you step out of the shower, Yoongi’s sprawled out on the huge sofa, so quiet and still you know he’s asleep.

You sit yourself next to him. Like this, his face is at ease, the frown line between his brows that you’ve seen more often lately smoothed out.

You rarely acknowledge to yourself how much you love him. You’re scared it might be too much.

You run a hand down his chest, and he grunts softly, shifts so he’s flat on his back.

Your hand catches on his belt.

You undo it deftly, because it must be uncomfortable sleeping with a belt on, right?

You don’t really have an excuse for why you undo his suit trousers, apart from that you know your husband wouldn’t mind.

The scritch of his zipper unzipping makes him crack an eye open.

‘Jagiya,’ he says, voice so deep it makes you shiver, ‘what are you up to?’

You look up at him through your lashes.

‘I’m taking care of you Yoongi,’ you tell him.

You press a kiss to his tummy, right above the waistband of his boxer briefs. ‘Can I?’

Yoongi’s looking at you, eyes darkening as you tug down his waistband, expose him.

‘I had plans for us,’ he says, as you curl your hand around his semi-hard cock.

You smile at him. ‘Me too.’

Yoongi lets out a long breath as you nudge your nose along his cock, breathing in deep.

You take him in your mouth, tongue against the underside of him, sucking a little, enjoying the way he swells up for you.

Yoongi’s got his head back against the back of the sofa, throat working as he reaches full erection. He moves his hips under you, grasps your shoulder.

You reach out to his hand, splayed on the sofa, and knit your fingers through it.

If you were looking at his face, you’d see Yoongi’s expression change, the tenderness in his expression as he squeezes your fingers gently.

You’re not, you’re looking at his cock, all your attention set on giving him as much pleasure as you can.

He’s hard, and you can feel the way he jerks as you undo the tie on your robe to reveal that you’re bare underneath it.

You tug your hand away from his so he can touch you, well you try to, but Yoongi holds on to you.

He murmurs ‘jagi’ on a sigh, his voice beautiful like this, deep, mellow, rich.

You glance up at him, and he’s watching you, his dark eyes so intense you don’t want to look away.

You pull away, and his hips rise, as if to follow.

‘Make me messy, oppa,’ you say.

Yoongi smiles, wolfish, a flash of teeth. ‘Come sit on me.’

He unbuttons his shirt because he knows you like it when he’s bare-chested, reaches to steady your hips as you climb on top of him, like you’ve done so many times before.

He tugs your robe off your shoulders, slides his hand under, his hand warm against your skin.

He hisses through his teeth as you start to move.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he tells you as he runs his hand over your front, making your nipples peak, pinching, kneading your flesh.

‘Yeah?’ you say.

There’s an unwanted flash in your mind, the image of him and Park Gyuri walking into the hotel.

You push it away.

‘I always miss you,’ Yoongi says.

‘Don’t be romantic, Yoongi, it’s not your style,’ you say, teasing.

If there’s a tug at your heart when you say it, you hope it doesn’t show on your face.

Yoongi says, quietly, ‘I’ll be as romantic as you want me to be, jagiya.’

You can’t look at him, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s been rubbing his thumb over your clit, doing something with his hips that’s pulling you out of your feelings and into a tide of pleasure.

You moan, deep, and Yoongi grunts, lifts his head to suck the tip of your breast into his mouth.

You come with a cry of his name, and Yoongi groans. ‘That’s my girl, fuck.’

He utters your name, stretched out, over stuttering breaths, and you realise he’s coming too.

When your breathing slows and your heartrate settles you realise that he’s still holding your hand.

***

You wake, with a start, to your alarm alerting you to the fact that you’ll miss your flight home if you don’t haul ass.

Yoongi, beside you, is turned away, his back to you.

The regularity of his breathing tells you he’s still asleep.

You get dressed, and sit on the edge of his side of the bed to say goodbye.

He’s always been beautiful, your husband, but he also looks so tired you haven’t the heart to wake him. He hasn’t stirred the entire time you’ve been getting ready.

You press a kiss to his cheek and make your way out of the hotel room.

***

Your best friend Nara’s always been on your side, supporting you in the best ways. When you and Yoongi were estranged in the early years of your marriage, she helped you plot some of your more elaborate stunts.

It’s always worked both ways, of course, you were the first to support her design house, wearing her creations to all the most high-profile society events, backing her financially when her family threatened to cut her off for not going into the family business.

Nara’s always been the practical one, the shrewd business mind to your impulsive nature, providing balance. You’re an effective combination, and before your reconciliation, Yoongi had borne the brunt of your antics.

You’ve always marvelled at the way he’s never tried to reciprocate.

Nara eyes you over your cocktail.

‘What did Yoongi do now?’ she asks. ‘I thought he’d be thrilled to see you in Bruges.’

‘He was happy to see me,’ you tell her. This much you know, that he had been pleased to see you. You wish you’d been able to spend more time with him, but he’d said from the beginning that he’d been busy.

‘Gyuri was with him.’

Nara blinks. ‘She’s part of his team.’

Her statement is blunt, factual, but there’s sympathy in her eyes.

You down the rest of your cocktail.

‘You can never trust chaebol sons,’ says Nara, gently, ‘we grew up with enough assholes that we know that.’

You signal the waiter for a refill.

‘But Yoongi is less of an asshole than the rest,’ Nara concedes. ‘Not like that fucking Kim Seokjin.’

You choke on the water you’ve just taken a sip of.

‘You never did say what happened after you and Seokjin went to see Lee Sangcheol,’ Nara says, raising an eyebrow.

‘We’re gonna need more drinks,’ you sigh.

Five cocktails in, you’re watching with drunken amusement as Nara takes apart a hapless would-be suitor with her razor sharp wit.

Unlike you, Nara’s tolerance for alcohol is legendary.

You?

The room’s dim and wavy around the edges, and you’re feeling maudlin about your trip to visit Yoongi.

You look up, blinking curiously, as a man approaches you.

He looks vaguely familiar, in fact he looks like your husband, but you’ve been seeing shades of Yoongi in almost everyone in this bar tonight.

God, you miss him so much.

***

Yoongi can tell by the way you’re holding yourself rigidly upright that you’re drunk.

You look up at him, no recognition in your eyes.

Yoongi nods to Nara and turns back to you.

‘Would you like some water?’ he offers, signalling to the waiter.

‘No thank you,’ you reply. ‘I’d like another cocktail.’

Yoongi orders you both a refill and some water.

Your wedding ring sparkles as you lift the glass to your lips.

Yoongi’s vaguely amused to see that you chose to drink water first.

‘Are you having a nice time?’ he asks.

You consider his question carefully.

‘Yes, my friend and I are having a great night,’ you reply, finally. ‘And yourself?’

‘I’m not usually out at this time,’ Yoongi replies, honestly. ‘This is a rarity for me.’

‘Ah,’ you say, looking at him with interest. ‘What’s the occasion?’

You still haven’t acknowledged him with anything other than politeness, and Yoongi realises, with a flash of clarity, that you’re so intoxicated you don’t recognise him.

‘I wanted to support a friend,’ he answers. He guesses it’s true, at least this way Nara won’t be responsible for getting you home tonight.

You glance fondly at Nara. ‘Friendship is important.’

You smile at him for the first time. ‘Where’s your friend?’

‘Ah, they’re busy.’

You’re steadily sipping your way through the rest of your cocktail.

‘You’re very beautiful,’ Yoongi says, neutral.

‘Thank you,’ you reply. ‘You’re very good looking yourself. I’m sure if you’re looking for company, you won’t be short of offers.’

Yoongi swallows a laugh at your encouragement.

‘Can you keep me company?’ he asks.

‘Ah sorry, it’s girl’s night,’ you say, still polite. ‘Also I’m married.’

‘He’s a lucky man,’ Yoongi says.

You smile. ‘I’m not sure he’d agree,’ you say, lightly. There’s a note of melancholy in your voice that makes Yoongi look at you carefully.

‘Oh, I just mean I’m a terrible wife,’ you clarify. ‘I’ve done some awful things to him.’

Yoongi pours you more water.

‘Whatever you’ve done, it can’t be that bad,’ he offers.

You scoff, and he bites back a smile as you look at him scornfully.

‘I’m capable of extremely terrible things,’ you insist.

Helplessly endeared by your solemn, drunken expression, Yoongi touches your face.

‘Do you really not recognise me, jagiya?’ he asks.

You jerk away from his hand, nearly lose your balance.

Yoongi pulls you into his arms to stop you from falling.

He hears your gasp of outrage, and a moment later, the crack of skin against skin.

Even through the flare of pain, Yoongi’s stunned at the realisation that you’ve just punched him in the face.

***

Present day

By the end of the day, Yoongi realises he hasn’t heard anything from you all afternoon.

He heads to your rooms, knocks on the door tentatively.

When there’s no response, he pushes the door open anyway.

You’re sitting curled up on the floor, leaning against your bed, facing the patio doors.

As he approaches you, you grimace. ‘Stay away, I’m probably contagious.’

Yoongi takes in the clamminess of your skin, the way your hair’s stuck to your forehead.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling ill? Have you been like this all day?’

He’s concerned, but he can see the way you flinch a little at the harshness of his voice.

‘I’m fine, Yoongi, I drank too much and my head hurts.’

‘Seems like more than a hangover,’ Yoongi says. He brushes your hair back from your face. ‘Have you taken any meds?’

You gesture sadly towards the dressing table, barely six feet away.

‘Everytime I move, the room spins,’ you tell him.

Yoongi frowns. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling so bad? Come on, get into bed.’

‘I can’t,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll be sick if I move.’

‘You can’t stay like this,’ Yoongi says, exasperated.

‘Stop scolding me,’ you mumble, closing your eyes. ‘Go away.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Yoongi says. He takes a breath. ‘You shouldn’t drink so much.’

‘It was you,’ you say, suddenly. ‘It was you who groped me at the bar last night.’

Yoongi’s outraged. ‘I didn’t grope you, I tried to stop you from falling!’

‘You touched my face!’ you complain. ‘I thought you were a stranger.’

‘At least I don’t have to worry about you looking after yourself,’ Yoongi muses. ‘You can beat up anyone who comes on to you.’

‘Damn right,’ you agree.

Yoongi sighs. ‘I’m going to get you some water and meds and then I’m going to put you to bed, ok? Can I do that, or are you going to punch me again?’

‘Just don’t grope me,’ you warn.

‘You recognise me now don’t you? You never complained about me groping you before,’ Yoongi points out.

‘Stop scolding me!’

‘I’m not —’

Yoongi huffs out a breath. ‘I promise I won’t grope you if you promise not to punch me.’

‘My hand hurts,’ you whine.

‘You want sympathy?’ asks Yoongi, unsympathetically.

He sighs. ‘Wait here. Let me get you a drink.’

‘Gin and tonic,’ you mutter.

Yoongi ignores you.

***

Yoongi’s trying to finish reading the specs his product development team has sent him, but it’s difficult to concentrate.

There’s something weighing on his mind.

It’s you, which isn’t unusual, but what is unusual is the way he feels.

Uneasy, like he’s missing something.

There’s a knock on his study door.

‘Dinner in fifteen?’ you ask, peering around the heavy oak.

You look very pretty today, Yoongi notes to himself.

You’re already closing the door when he calls, ‘Hey.’

You look at him enquiringly.

‘You look pretty.’

You smooth your hand over your hip self-consciously. ‘I feel better.’

‘I was worried about you,’ Yoongi tells you.

You gesture vaguely to his face. ‘Your eye looks better.’

‘Come kiss it,’ Yoongi says.

It always amuses him, the way you get a little flustered when he asks for affection.

Yoongi pushes away from his desk as you approach him.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say, softly, as you cup his face and press a gentle kiss to his brow.

‘I deserved it,’ Yoongi replies. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t around for our wedding anniversary. I know that it mattered to you.’

‘It was silly,’ you say, but he can tell by the way you drop your gaze that he’s touched a nerve.

‘It’s not silly, of course you want to celebrate being married to me,’ Yoongi says.

You scoff. ‘You want two black eyes instead of one?’

Yoongi reaches for your hand, presses a kiss to your still-bruised knuckles.

‘Don’t break your hand on my hard skull,’ he says, very gently.

‘I have a company dinner next week,’ you say, in an obvious attempt to hide how flustered you are.

Yoongi says, ‘Are you asking me to accompany you?’

You blink at him. ‘Would you like to?’

‘I’d love to,’ Yoongi tells you.

***

You fiddle with the clasp of the stunning bracelet Yoongi gave you for your anniversary.

Objectively, it’s perfect, the diamonds sparkling like stars even in the flattering low lighting of the ballroom at this wedding Yoongi and you have been invited to.

You’re trying not to think too much about why it leaves you feeling so empty.

He’d clearly spared no expense, you’ve seen this exact bracelet in the pages of a glossy magazine, and the workmanship is incomparable.

Yoongi’s voice makes you look up.

‘They’re cutting the cake,’ he murmurs to you. ‘We should head back to our table.’

‘I’ll meet you there,’ you tell him. ‘Save me some.’

You head for the ladies room to compose yourself and touch up your makeup.

You’re retouching your lipstick when one of the doors opens, and Park Gyuri walks out.

She smiles when she sees you, nods a greeting. She takes the sink next to yours, and as she unclasps her purse a fiery sparkle draws your attention.

On her left wrist, a bracelet identical to yours.

It’s beautiful, you think it suits her better than it does you.

Now you know why the bracelet’s been bothering you as much as it has.

It represents everything about the chaebol life both you and Yoongi were born into, but though your husband seems perfectly at home in this microcosm, you’ve never truly felt like you belonged.

It makes you feel like Yoongi sees you as someone you’re not, and by extrapolation, that he doesn’t know you as well as he should, despite all you’ve been through.

As well as you want him to.

You force a smile at Gyuri, make yourself walk on legs that feel oddly stiff to exit the bathroom.

Back at your table, Yoongi rises to pull your chair out as you approach. Something in your expression makes him lean closer, voice low and worried.

‘Jagi, are you feeling ok?’

You nod, the smile on your face so frozen it feels like a rictus, a caricature of happiness.

You can feel Yoongi’s eyes on you, but you don’t think you can give him anything else right now, stricken as you are.

His hand finds yours under the table, and you draw comfort from his touch until the hurt and anger recedes and the tears retreat from behind your eyelids.

***

You’re not sure what’s changed, but Yoongi’s been so attentive lately it’s starting to make you feel uneasy.

You’re trying to zip up the back of your cocktail dress, and before you can even look in his direction, he’s behind you, hands warm on your bare back as he helps you with the zip.

You turn around, look him in the face.

‘What’s up, husband?’

Yoongi raises an eyebrow at you. ‘You seemed like you couldn’t reach.’

‘Not the zip,’ you say, testy. ‘Why are you so —’

Yoongi waits, like he genuinely doesn’t know why you’re so tetchy.

‘Why are you paying me so much attention? I swear, I’m not plotting anything.’

Yoongi looks like he’s trying not to smile.

‘I don’t think you’re plotting anything.’

‘Then why?’

‘Why can’t I pay you attention?’ Yoongi asks. ‘We’re married.’

‘You never paid me this much attention before,’ you point out.

Yoongi’s brow furrows. ‘Do you want me to ignore you?’

‘Yeah.’ You wave a hand. ‘Go back to ignoring me.’

‘Do you really want that?’ Yoongi asks. He glances in the mirror, straightens his tie.

‘I like asshole Yoongi,’ you tell him.

Your eyes meet in the mirror.

‘I can be an asshole,’ Yoongi says, finally. ‘But I don’t want you to be unhappy because of me.’

‘Since when do you care?’ you say, teasing.

Yoongi sighs. ‘I’ve always cared. I don’t like it when you’re sick and you don’t tell me, and I sure as hell don’t like it when you’re unhappy and don’t tell me why.’

‘You make me happy,’ you tell him. There’s a fluttering in your chest at his words, your taciturn, coolly detached husband isn’t normally this expressive.

‘I’m glad, because you make me happy too.’

Yoongi glances at the bracelet he got you, that you’ve got ready to put on.

‘Don’t wear that,’ he says. ‘You won’t tell me why, but I know you hate it.’

You stare at him.

‘Don’t deny it,’ Yoongi says. He gives you a look, a challenge in his eyes.

‘You don’t know me,’ you mutter, out of habit.

Yoongi rolls his eyes. ‘I do know you, wife, and that’s the problem. You’re a brat.’

You scowl at him. Yoongi looks supremely unmoved by your pique.

‘Come on, I don’t want us to be late for your company dinner.’

He takes the liberty of slapping his palm against your ass as he ushers you out of the door, and you don’t even have it in you to pretend to be mad about it.

***

Yoongi’s by the bar, waiting to be served, watching idly as you converse with your social media team.

He’s never been to one of your company events before, it’s rare that you invite him, and he likes seeing you with your colleagues.

You’re well-liked, everyone seems to want to talk to you.

He’s trying to suppress the urge to pull you into a corner and kiss you silly, because you look so pretty when you’re smiling and confident like this, when a conversation catches his ear.

‘I’m pretty surprised that Min Yoongi’s here – I thought they were estranged,’ says a woman by the bar.

‘Everyone knows he’s fucking Park Gyuri,’ says the man next to her, with a casual cruelty that makes Yoongi’s hand itch to slap him.

Yoongi steps out in front of them, levels them with a look.

‘I’m not fucking anyone apart from my wife,’ he says, mildly. ‘Although I fail to see how that’s anyone’s business but ours.’

There’s a stir, but Yoongi’s lost interest. He turns away from the bar, heads straight for where you are in the middle of the room.

The smile on your face when you see him does a lot to curb his irritation.

‘Yoongi,’ you say, hand on his arm. ‘They’re about to serve food.’

Your touch eases his annoyance, soothes him the way it always has.

‘Let’s get you something to eat, jagiya,’ Yoongi says.

He holds out his arm, feeling the familiar sense of connection thrumming through him as you slip your hand in the crook of it.

It’s everything.

***

Yoongi pulls out of the hotel, signals to turn towards home.

‘Did you have a nice time, Yoongi?’ you ask.

You’re leaning back against the seat, face tilted to his, half-shadowed in the darkness of the car.

‘I liked it,’ Yoongi replies. ‘You should invite me to more of these things.’

‘You’re welcome to come anytime,’ you say.

‘I will,’ Yoongi says.

‘I heard that you stood up for us at the bar,’ you begin, a little hesitant.

Yoongi glances at you in the rearview mirror.

‘You know about that?’ he asks, quietly.

‘People talk a lot of shit,’ you say. Yoongi doesn’t know if you’re consciously doing it, but your shoulders are squared, and there’s a stubborn tilt to your chin now.

He’s never loved you more.

‘They do,’ agrees Yoongi.

You’re both quiet as he drives.

It’s only when he parks up, at your home, that you speak again.

‘Thank you for coming with me,’ you say.

There’s a beat, two of searing eye contact.

Then Yoongi reaches out, cups the back of your head, and takes the kiss he’s wanted all night.

You melt into his arms like you’ve been waiting for exactly this.

‘Let’s go to bed,’ Yoongi murmurs, lips against your skin.

***

Yoongi’s different tonight, holding you with an urgency you haven’t felt from him before. He’s focused completely on you, and as much as you love it, love him, you can’t help but wonder if there’s something behind it.

You cup his face as he leans over you.

‘Hey,’ you say. ‘You know we have all night?’

Yoongi’s hand stills on your side.

‘Am I rushing?’

‘I’m just saying I’m here, Yoongi, I’m not going anywhere.’

Yoongi closes his eyes, leans into your hand, shudders out a breath.

‘What’s wrong?’ you ask. ‘Is there a game on you don’t want to miss?’

Yoongi doesn’t even crack a smile.

‘Do you love me?’

You blink at his question. ‘What?’

Yoongi waits.

‘I don’t hate you,’ you say, trying to inject some levity into the situation because his seriousness is scaring you.

Yoongi drops his head, groans into your neck.

‘I love you,’ you assure him. You roll your hips under his. ‘I don’t put out for just any chaebol asshole.’

Yoongi lifts his head, searches your face. ‘I don’t deserve you,’ he says.

‘That’s true,’ you say airily as he kisses his way down your neck.

His mouth skims over the skin of your sternum, lips soft, reverent.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me if I love you?’ he asks, lips poised over the round of your breast.

His question pulls you out of your pleasured haze.

Again, the image of Yoongi and Park Gyuri flashes into your head.

The truth is, you’re too scared to ask. You know, in your heart, that you would love Yoongi no matter what, and you’re not ready to face that truth right now.

So you smile at your husband and say, ‘Just show me.’

He does.

***

You’re passing by Yoongi’s study when you notice the door is ajar.

Yoongi raises a brow at you. ‘Come in, I have something for you.’

You frown at him suspiciously. ‘Is it your dick?’

Yoongi says, ‘Always, but I have something else too.’

You take a seat next to him on the sofa you always sit together on when you visit him.

Yoongi reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, hands you a jewelry box.

You meet his gaze apprehensively.

‘Is it a matching necklace?’

Yoongi just shakes his head. ‘Open it.’

You lift the lid on the box, and stop.

It’s another bracelet, except this one is exquisitely carved jade, delicate and so perfect you’re afraid to touch it.

Yoongi says, quietly, ‘I got this and the other bracelet at the same time. I chose the other one to give to you, but this one’s always reminded me more of you.’

You blink up at him. ‘Yoongi, it’s perfect.’

‘I know you like jade,’ Yoongi says. He picks up the bracelet, and you hold out your wrist as he clasps the bracelet around it.

‘It reminds me of my mother,’ you say.

Yoongi’s hands are gentle on your wrist.

You catch sight of a sheet of note card under the silken lining of the box.

It’s a list, in your husband’s handwriting.

‘What’s this?’ you ask, skimming through it, curious.

‘Didn’t you make one like this, a couple years ago?’ Yoongi asks. He’s not looking at you now. ‘It’s all the things I have to make up to you.’

Your heart stops.

Thoughts race through your head, you can barely see the words on the card even though his handwriting is neat, beautiful.

You’ve never asked him the question in your heart, and your husband’s answered it anyway.

He knows you better than you ever thought he did.

You press your lips together, trying to hold back the tears.

‘I didn’t write them down,’ you say, finally. ‘I just worked off the top of my head.’

‘Yeah?’ Yoongi asks. He’s leaning close now, so close that if you turned your face your lips would meet.

‘Yeah.’

Yoongi says, ‘I’m not sure what order to do them in. Can you help?’

You turn into his kiss, and it’s as lovely as it ever was.

God, you love him.

‘Yeah, I can help you with that,’ you tell him.

You can feel the curve of his lips against yours, the rumble of amusement in his chest.

‘Great. We should get started,’ he murmurs against your skin. ‘I need to win your heart, because I really don’t think any of this is worth it, without you.’

‘Goddamn it, Yoongi, looks like you’re a romantic after all,’ you tease.

Yoongi reaches out, thumbs the tears off your cheeks.

‘Looks like you’ve made me into one,’ he agrees.

©hamsterclaw 2023

#bts smut #yoongi x reader #yoongi smut #yoongi fic #vows au

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ethereal-night-fairy · 15 days

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Broken Vows and Promises

Eventual Ghoap x Female Reader

Excitedly awaiting on the arrival of your boyfriend, you get yourself ready in the hopes of receiving a wedding proposal. But you didn't even make it out the door before your world comes crashing down. (This will be a dark fic read tags)

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

(pictures are for aesthetic purposes only)

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sisterdivinium · 5 months

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You know, for a show with so many female characters that so many of us love given how they all get time in the spotlight one way or another and they fill that time up rather wonderfully since they are deeper and more developed than what we're used to seeing in general media, it is peculiar (to say the least) to see so few "alternative" ships to the main one.

I'm not saying the canon ship doesn't deserve its attention -- I'm wondering instead why the canon ship and it alone seem to guide the WN fans who just so happen to enjoy writing/reading fic or fanart or whatever.

You'd think all these cool women would inspire more ships or combinations thereof, but those of us who aren't invested in avatrice just... Float along, around one another, ignored (and, yes, mostly undisturbed too; being unpopular does have its advantages and that includes a lot less weirdos leaving you strange or awkward messages -- it does not, however, shield us from people flooding our goddamn tags on AO3 with fic that has nothing to do with our little ships and I do wish such negligence of the pairing itself meant we didn't have to deal with this spam...)

I am also not saying that fandom activity should be based solely on shipping (and recently someone on Reddit was rather confused by the fact that a lot of it is, which is quite an interesting topic to discuss in itself -- after all, there is more to fan creativity than shippy fic... Or there used to be), merely that, here, it appears that a canon relationship can outshine interest in the other, non-canon ones. It's already there and it was doubtless well-done by the show, so it's natural that it should claim people's attention, sure. It's just that being canon was never the parameter for whether people were interested in these or those two (or more) characters maybe being involved and trying to explore what that could mean through fanwork.

There has always been a complaint haunting fandom spaces concerning the minuscule amounts of f/f fic, art, discussion, w/e based on how few (interesting or sympathetic or relatable) female characters there are in media at large. So what I'm curious about is why fan creations made around WN -- a show that finally gives us a whole cast of female characters that are what we have been craving for decades -- don't also reflect its diversity.

There are alternative ships (I'm here, all happy in my tiny Doctor Superion bubble, and I know there are Camila/Lilith, Ava/Lilith, Mary/Shannon, Mary/Lilith shippers out there, so a warm hello to you if you're reading this), but go on AO3 and compare the numbers of things tagged with these proper pairings to the grand total of WN stories. Better (or worse) still, do so with the "otp: true" trick or simply by excluding avatrice from the search to see how many are left.

It's... A considerable difference. And a mystery, at least to me.

#tagging this as #warrior nun #simply because i'd like to talk about this and maybe some of you have thoughts or theories about it #i just ask you engage in good faith if you do. i'm not pointing fingers at avatrice people i think they're fine and dandy #i'm just -- to reiterate -- surprised at how little interest there is in other ships when the potential is all there #(is it because they're nuns? that never stopped avatrice so why should it stop others...)#(besides lilith is hardly still a nun after s2. bea left. mary didn't really take vows did she? you really thought i was a nun she says...)#meta fandom talk i guess #then again about the nun thing... i have noticed a lot of people just go for aus. i can't recall ever being in a fandom with SO many aus #is the religious aspect an issue by any chance? i also recall someone commenting on how little a part religion played in these aus #curious. very curious.#i imagine some of you are wondering why i care when i don't even read fic but --#-- to quote jillian salvius herself i am a curious person and well you are a curiosity lol

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twisted-tales-told · 1 year

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It’s an old instinct—probably his oldest—to protect Sirius and Regulus.

He doesn’t really know what changed. He swears things didn’t used to be so sharp between them, not even when Sirius and Regulus were fighting—not even when they weren’t speaking. James was always middle ground, or at least he felt like he was.

Vows Made of Wine: Chapter Two: Fear of Gods

#vows made of wine #jegulus fic #jegulus #regulus black #james potter #iwwv au #sirius black #marauders fanfic #I love them so much sirius is really trying so hard u guys you don't even know #So is James

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mihrsuri · 3 months

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just thinking about how OT3 verse Thomas Cromwell is like, he’s the secret! He has to be the secret - he can never openly claim any of that which he is given - his younger children, his crown, his marriage. He is in the shadows, the night, the one who no one can know of. He cannot even be buried openly with his loves!

And then four hundred years later, in the world that he helped build - the kindest world, he is bought into the daylight. He is added to the royal family, the royal marriages. People visit the tomb that now bears his name alongside his husband and wife. He is a father to eleven now. His quiet devotion is known - it is seen. The chapel that Henry had wanted named for both his spouses is named. The picture books one of his sons wrote and illustrated for his grandchildren are printed and loved.

He is seen.

#lil and her ridiculous aus #ot3: political power trio #fic #just getting emotional thinking about how in the end there will be people quoting him in marriage vows #they are all seen their love is known

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zmediaoutlet · 1 year

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oh man the idea of constant vow au dean having to show up to collect sam at stanford in his girl body is SO good. the constant vow is so perfect as is but it is really fun to think about the what-ifs

"Hi," the woman says, smile stretching wide and too-friendly and fake, eyes skipping down Jessica's body from face to chest to feet. "I'm Grace. Sam's cousin."

"Cousin?" Jess says. "Oh -- I didn't know you had --"

"Yeah, family's not that close," the woman says, shrugging like what can you do, and then she says, "Man, Sammy's punching way above his weight class with you, huh? Way to go, man."

There's this weird adrenaline-surge tremble in Sam's bones. Waiting behind a gravestone for a ghost to show; lying to a cop's face and about to find out if it'll work. "Grace," he says, voice even by some miracle, and her eyes sweep up to his -- green, long lashes -- freckles over the bridge of her nose and cheekbones -- nose just barely crooked, like it got broken years ago, in a fight with a werewolf that almost didn't go their way, and it set a little funny, and the response was a shrug, and, hey, chicks dig scars and shit, right?

"Sam," she says back, when Sam's just staring. Full mouth, pink and pretty, that tugs into a smirk. "Need to talk to you. Alone. Family stuff," she says, with an apologetic little moue at Jess.

In the corner of his eye he sees Jess look up at him, confused. "Jess," he says, "give us a minute," and the woman's smirk spreads into a smile.

"Almost three bucks a gallon?" Dean says. She shakes her head, leaning her ass on the rear passenger door. "Don't know how you do it out here, Sammy."

"Don't have a car," Sam says. He's going through the box of IDs. It's split in two: the girl staring professionally at the camera as a sheriff's deputy or forest ranger or state trooper under the names Grace Slick, Christine McVie, Chrissie Hynde. The other side of the box are the same fake titles with a set of fake male names but with pictures of his brother. His brother.

"Don't know how you do it," Dean repeats, and then a slim hand folds the box lid down, and Sam looks up, and the sun's behind her but he can still see that impossible, familiar face. "Hey. We still got like three hours to Jericho. You going to have a breakdown?"

"Are we pretending like this isn't weird?" Sam says, and she rolls her eyes, flops back against the door, and Sam stands up, stares at her even if she won't meet his eyes. This filling station in the mountains is basically abandoned but for the crusty clerk inside; just as well, for what Sam can feel bubbling up his throat. "Are you kidding? You just show up out of nowhere, and you're -- you're--"

"Pretty as a picture, huh?" she says, sweet with acid underneath, and Sam bites his lips between his teeth, hard, breathing in through his nose. She glances up at him, away. Mutters, "Were you always this tall?"

Her ears are pink. Pierced although she's not wearing jewelry beyond what pinged to Sam first, in the blurred confusion of shocking an intruder in his apartment less than twelve hours ago, as familiar -- the amulet he gave his brother; a silver ring, though on her thumb instead of his brother's finger. A black t-shirt and a purple flannel shirt and a leather jacket and jeans and boots. All familiar, except they're on a woman who's maybe 5'8, a gently curvy bottom-heavy hourglass, instead of...

"What happened," Sam says.

"I told you."

"No, you didn't," Sam says, and her chin drops down to her chest, a sigh heaving out. "A witch? You've got to give me more than that. How the hell do you go back and forth? Does Dad know? Is that why--?"

"Dad knows," she says. Neutral. The gas pump clicks and she pushes off the car, walking back to the trunk. Hips swinging. Sam tears his eyes away, watches her face as she crouches, pulls the nozzle out. "Happened -- shit, two years ago? Of course he knows."

Two years. When was the last time he heard from Dean? Sam opens his mouth, thinks better of it. Swallows.

She screws the gas cap back in place and stands back up and sets the nozzle back on its hook. "Stop staring," she says.

"Dean," Sam says, helpless. Her eyes close, tight. "Is that -- do you want me to call you something else? Grace, or --"

"Grace Slick is righteous," she says. She folds her arms under her breasts, turns around. Levels a look at Sam that he has no chance of reading. "So I'm gonna say some stuff now, and I don't want you to ask me about it again for at least twenty-four hours, because we got a job to do and this crap isn't important." Sam opens his mouth and she holds up a hand, and then holds out one finger. "First of all, I'm not a chick. So, get that through your head. But I recognize I got the T&A and the pretty face and the emergency tampons in the trunk, so -- I don't know what I am, really. But I'm Dean, okay? Your big -- sibling, no matter what, who can kick your ass to Kansas and back no matter what shape."

Sam had her on the floor of the apartment, gasping, her wrist slender and breakable under his hand. He swallows. "Got it."

"Good," she says. Another finger. "Two: I know you got a hundred questions about how this whole thing works, what happened, yadda yadda. We don't have time for that, man. Just telling you, I'm gonna be girl-shaped for the foreseeable, so for now -- Deanna's fine, if we're in front of people, or -- whatever, in the car too, I don't care. I'm me. Doesn't matter what you call me."

Deanna. She tucks a wavy lock of hair behind her ear. Presses her lips together and takes a deep breath, then looks away from Sam, back out at the highway. A third finger, briefly extended and then dropped, her hands sliding into the back pockets of her jeans. "Nobody knows," she says. Chin high, eyes on the road. "Not other hunters, or anyone. When -- it first happened, Dad and me, we... we tried everything. Dad killed the witch but that didn't stop it. So. We figured out to live with it. Kinda useful, actually. Sometimes. Even if I gotta keep two sets of clothes in the trunk, ha." She licks her lips. "Anyway. I thought about calling, but... what would I say, huh? Plus, not like I expected it to come up."

"You didn't think it'd come up," Sam says, finally.

Her eyes flick back to him. "Two years," she repeats. His teeth click shut. Her mouth curves, ironic.

Sam sits back down, the passenger side of the bench sinking familiarly under his weight. Two years and a two-part sibling, driving all over America, and he never knew. They hadn't talked but somehow he assumed he'd find out if something happened -- if either Dean or Dad were hurt bad, or if they'd gotten arrested, or if god forbid the worst happened -- he'd know, somehow. This isn't the worst but it seems impossible that it's just -- been happening, somewhere, and he was oblivious, going to school and studying and pretending like the nighttime world didn't exist, while Dean --

Deanna nods, her cheek sucked in on one side. "Anyway," she says, again. She fishes the keys out of her jacket pocket. "Couple more hours to Jericho. I got a state trooper ID that works. We've got to find out what happened there."

"Yeah," Sam says. Deanna walks around the car, folds herself into the front seat. The engine turns over. He's staring at the ground between his sneakers. Bright morning. He should be in class.

"Dude, get the lead out," Deanna says. Sam swivels on the seat, closes the passenger door.

She squints at him across the bench and says, "Put a tape in, would you?" He reaches down and finds the box. "No Jefferson Airplane," she says, and gives him a crooked smile. First real one he's had, since she broke in -- since he walked out of the rental house four years ago, and his brother had given him that terrible smirk and said see you when I see you, Sammy.

"How about Jefferson Starship?" Sam says, trying, and she snorts her way into a laugh. The car leaps forward.

#my writing #the constant vow #...ish #boy oh boy is sam not prepared to learn how she turns back #but this is mostly just to keep my hand in #i'm so out of practice that i just need to write literally anything #so. au ficlet of an au fic. let's get some layers in this bitch.

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ravendruid · 7 months

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Be In My Eyes - Chapter 22

You can read the previous chapters here or on AO3. I'm so sorry it took me over a month to update. I got extremely busy and overwhelmed in September. I'm not sure when the next chapter will be posted because I have a few projects that I'm working on at the moment. But keep an eye open for updates. Cozy up, it's loooooong. Summary: Keyleth's date with Kashaw ends abruptly when a mysterious woman calls him. Luckily for Keyleth, an unexpected savior comes to her rescue from the torrential rain.

The cold and slightly damp autumn wind blew against Keyleth’s face and slithered down the lapel of her jacket and inside her turtleneck, making her shiver. She assumed her father’s jacket was warm enough to handle Emon’s fall weather since it did wonders for her back home, but something about the crisp air of the city made her rethink her options. If this is what it felt like, only one month into fall, the months leading up to winter were about to become unbearable soon. There was something about the ocean breeze that seeped deeper into her bones than the mountain cold. Maybe it was because Zephrah was conveniently tucked between two large mountain ranges, protected from the stronger winds and chill, while Emon’s arms were wide open to receive the sea-salted air.

Thankfully for Keyleth, the dark green awning of the coffee shop became visible just as she turned a corner. The sight of it and the promise of a warm coffee made her smile and quicken her step as she wrapped her brown jacket further around herself. This was not her usual locally owned coffee shop, the one she spent hours in, studying with Percy and the girls, but a franchise chain that Keyleth didn’t care much about. Due to Keyleth’s town being isolated, big franchises like this coffee company didn’t usually bother to open up shop. Because of that, she grew fond of locally and family-owned businesses and preferred those to the big corporations whose wages were barely enough for their employees to survive. The interior was sleek and modern, in wood and glossy black tones, with some green accents that people learned to associate with the brand.

Keyleth cringed at the loud noise of people chatting, the machines steaming and pouring drinks, and just at the overall racket of the environment. Her stomach dipped as she looked around, seeking Kashaw among the crowd. She finally spotted him at a table not far from the large window that overlooked the main street, hunched over a paper cup of coffee and his phone. Keyleth sighed and took a tentative step toward the wooden countertop, where a female employee with shock-blue hair and the look of someone who was dead inside greeted her with a very fake smile and cheerful voice. Keyleth stumbled a little on her words, halfway looking at the immense chalk-like menu behind the counter as she perused her options. The woman at the counter stared at her, never breaking that annoying fake smile, but her nails tapped impatiently on the counter, making Keyleth’s anxiety worse. When she finally realized they didn’t have any of her favorite drinks, she merely asked for a regular latte. Keyleth didn’t have to wait long for the drink. She had barely finished paying for it when her name was called, and the same white and green paper cup as Kashaw’s was placed on the counter next to the register. She picked it up, glancing a smile at the barista who, by now, was already scrambling to prepare the next order. Keyleth shrugged and walked to the table where Kash was still buried in his phone. She cleared her throat as she got within hearing distance, and only then did the man look up to greet her.

“Hey,” Kashaw said, setting his phone down on the table and smiling at Keyleth.

“Sorry I’m late,” Keyleth wasn’t late. She had arrived five minutes before the scheduled time, but she still felt like apologizing for making him wait.

“No worries,” Kash waved his hand. “Take a seat.”

Keyleth nodded, set her cup on the table, and peeled off her jacket, draping it over her lap as she sat on the wooden chair on the other side of Kash, who was now sipping on his coffee. From the way his head tilted back, Keyleth figured his coffee cup was practically empty. She asked if he had been waiting for long, but Kash shook his head at her. Yet she didn’t feel relieved. Keyleth finally brought the plastic lid of her cup to her lips, tasting her coffee. It was too sweet, and she quickly regretted not asking for plain black coffee.

“Not up to your liking?” Kash chuckled. He must have seen the look of offense on her face as she set down the cup.

“It’s fine,” She lied. Why was she lying? It’s not like Kash made the coffee himself.

Keyleth started rotating her cup in her hands, head bowed in silence as she analyzed her nails. It had been a while since she had them done. Maybe she should treat herself to a manicure to celebrate the end of the midterms. Perhaps Vex and Pike would like to join her and make it a girls’ day thing, although she had a feeling if they extended the invitation to the boys, they wouldn’t say no—perhaps Grog would—since they all seemed to take good care about their appearance. The awkward silence that settled between Keyleth and Kash was interrupted by a low snort as Keyleth pictured Grog at a nail salon, his large frame trying to fit into the small lounge chairs as he got his feet and hands taken care of. On second thought, maybe Grog would also like the pampering. He has lived with Pike since they were children, after all. She has got to have done some makeovers on him growing up.

“What’s so funny?” Kash finally asked with a cocked smile.

“Oh? Nothing,” Keyleth offered, sipping on her coffee. “Did you get rain on the way here?” She saw the still-damp umbrella hanging from the back of Kash’s chair.

“Uhm? Yeah, I did,” He answered, peering over his shoulder and back at her.

“It seems like I got lucky then. I only realized I’d forgotten my umbrella by the time I was in the elevator. Thankfully, it stopped raining when I got to the atrium, so I was able to get here without getting drenched.”

Kash hummed in response with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. They looked at each other for a while, not knowing what to ask until Keyleth finally settled on starting with the basics.

“So, what do you do? Do you only work for Gilmore as a barman?”

“No. I’m in community college studying business management. Gilmore’s is just a part-time job to pay for tuition. I also work at a tattoo shop, but the money wasn’t enough,” Kash explained.

Keyleth sipped her coffee again and said, “That sounds cool.”

“It’s okay. It’s whatever. It’s actually pretty boring sometimes.”

The conversation moved on from school without Kash asking Keyleth what she was studying. In fact, he didn’t ask her many questions at all. Keyleth led the conversation, asking him about what he liked to do in his free time, to which Kash told her he loved playing soccer.

“Do you play regularly?” Keyleth asked. She wasn’t really interested in sports, but she was trying to be nice, and asking Kash about what he was passionate about seemed like a nice thing to do.

“No. I wanted to try out for the college team, but their schedule conflicted with my classes and work.” He answered with a shrug.

Keyleth nodded and took another sip of her latte, which did not get better the more she drank. She figured she could change the subject when Kash didn’t develop further, this time picking questions about his likes. Kashaw told Keyleth about being a huge music fan and how he had been playing guitar since he was younger, going as far as having a band in high school. Keyleth thought she finally found common ground with the man, deciding to ask him further questions about his musical interests and about his band, which he had no problem answering. However, much to her disappointment, Kash didn’t seem to care enough to ask her about her music interests, or even if she heard of the bands he mentioned (which she did, one of them was actually her favorite, but he wouldn’t know that because he didn’t ask and didn’t let her speak).

The conversation flowed decently from thereon, with Kash talking the entire time. Keyleth felt her anxiety and insecurity grow with every sip of her coffee, which didn’t take long for her to finish, thanks to Kash not allowing her to say anything other than a couple of questions related to whatever he had been talking about at the moment, and not asking Keyleth any questions about herself. An hour later, when Keyleth’s eyes were glazed on the empty cup she kept rotating in her hands, Kash’s phone started vibrating on the table, interrupting his monologue about the time he and his friends decided to explore an abandoned house that other people claimed was haunted. On the screen was a picture of a woman with vibrant red and white hair and a menacing look. Keyleth didn’t have time to see the name before Kash picked up the phone and answered the call, but her curiosity had been peaked by whoever this mystery woman was who made Kash forget all manners.

“Hey Z. What’s up?” Kash answered, not paying Keyleth any mind. She squirmed on her chair and looked around. A couple was chatting and holding hands across their table not far from the window. Keyleth felt some jealousy in seeing them. One of the women was leaning with her elbow on the table, watching and hearing her partner talk with so much attention and care. It must be nice to have someone who wants to hear everything about one’s day or what they have to say. Keyleth spared a glance at Kashaw, whose phone was glued to his ear. From it, she could hear a woman’s voice, although she couldn’t discern what she was saying.

“I was just grabbing coffee. I’ll be there soon, Z,” Kash told the woman on the line. Keyleth’s stomach turned as she realized he hadn’t mentioned her or that he was on a date. Did he not consider this a date, then? Had Keyleth been putting the cart ahead of the oxen?

After another moment of silence where Keyleth focused her eyes on her hands to avoid looking at Kash, he ended the conversation with, “Okay, I’ll get you coffee. I’ll see you soon.” Keyleth finally lifted her gaze to him, offering a timid smile that Kash didn’t see because he was still staring at his phone, texting someone. After sending whatever message was more important than acknowledging Keyleth’s presence, he finally lifted his gaze with a slight look of surprise as if he had forgotten all about Keyleth.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” He said, getting up from his chair and grabbing his umbrella. Before Keyleth could open her mouth to answer, he continued, “It was nice hanging out with you, Keyleth. Text me if you want to hang out again!” Kash didn’t wait for a reply. He strolled quickly to the counter to order a coffee before Keyleth had time to process, and by the time she finally replied, “Likewise,” Kash was already out the door.

Keyleth stared at her empty cup. The annoyance it had brought her earlier was now completely forgotten in the back of her mind. In fact, her mind felt empty, and her senses unfocused. The noise of chatter and espresso machines was suddenly gone, as were the people who occupied the tables around her. Keyleth stared at the emptiness, hands still on her lap, not thinking about anything. It was not a good silence. It was a silence she tried to escape. A silence that preceded a panic attack. Only when a clap of thunder roared outside did Keyleth realize she had been staring ahead. The cacophony of sounds rushed back so hard that she felt an overwhelming need to run away somewhere quiet and isolated. But, as Keyleth turned her head out the window, she saw the pouring rain outside and knew she was utterly screwed without an umbrella.

“Fuck,” Keyleth swore between her teeth. She grabbed her phone, willing her hands to stop shaking, and opened the apartment’s group chat. She wrote something, then deleted it and typed again. She couldn’t find the right words. What was she supposed to say? ‘My date left me hanging in a really loud coffee shop, and I don’t have an umbrella to return home. Please, someone, come save me before I start panicking’? No. They would surely make fun of her—especially Scanlan, who had teased her endlessly the previous night at the bar once he found Kash flirting with Keyleth. She deleted what she typed and wrote instead, ‘I forgot my umbrella, and it’s raining. Can anyone bring me one? I’ll buy you a coffee”.

Keyleth barely had time to lock her phone when she received a text from Vax asking her where she was. Once she recovered from the initial shock, she texted him her location, to which Vax replied, “I’ll be there in five minutes. No coffee needed”. Keyleth’s shock still locked her on the chair as she stared at the message for longer than she intended. Although Vax had claimed he didn’t need a coffee, Keyleth paid him no mind and ordered a black coffee as payment for him and waited for Vax outside, underneath the green awning.

Vax kept true to his word—as Keyleth knew he would—showing up five minutes after sending the text and not a minute later. Although Keyleth was expecting him, she was still taken aback by the sight of her slender friend—or roommate?—approaching her in a hurried step, with his hair up in a ponytail and wearing a very different attire than what she had seen him earlier. In fact, Keyleth was so stunned that she didn’t hear Vax say hi to her because all she could pay attention to was his lilac button-up shirt and a vibrant purple umbrella with golden dots.

“Keyleth, hello?” Vax was still standing under the umbrella, just out of reach of the awning where she had been waiting for him. Only when Vax waved right in front of Keyleth’s eyes did she realize she hadn’t said anything.

“I didn’t know you owned colored clothes,” She blabbered. Oh no. That’s not—I didn’t even say hi. Keyleth’s cheeks reddened once she noticed. However, from the chuckle Vax let out, he didn’t seem to mind.

“It’s Gilmore’s. He lent it to me,” He answered.

Oh. Gilmore’s, Keyleth thought. “Oh, that’s—okay,” She said.

“I heard you needed a way home.” Vax cocked his head in amusement.

“Yeah, I forgot my umbrella,” Keyleth replied bashfully.

Vax’s gaze moved down from Keyleth’s face to her free hand, where she was indeed missing an umbrella. He then saw the coffee on her other hand, and the corners of his mouth curled upwards. When he returned his attention back to her face, he did so very slowly, looking at Keyleth, wrapped around the jacket that was at least one size too large on her, the soft make-up she had done, and the braid that fell past her shoulder landing with a dark red elastic above her breast pocket. Keyleth swallowed hard at his piercing gaze, feeling a familiar pull in her navel. It had been a while since Vax had looked at her—actually looked—and she realized she missed it. He never made her feel uncomfortable when he did it and never felt disrespectful towards her, unlike other men. Maybe that was why Keyleth’s cheeks grew even warmer as Vax’s lips curled up, almost in approval at what he saw.

“I–I got you a coffee, like I promised.” Keyleth finally handed him the warm cup. Vax shook his head, saying, “I told you you didn’t have to,” but he still took it from her and sipped it carefully.

“Sorry if it’s not that good. They—” Keyleth looked above her shoulder to the interior of the shop and then back at Vax with a grimace, “—don’t have a huge selection of coffees for such a famous franchise.”

“Yeah, I prefer the coffee shop on campus.” Keyleth nodded, agreeing with him. “Shall we, my lady?” Vax offered his arm. Keyleth took it, wrapping her arm around his, and stepped under his umbrella. He positioned it so she was fully covered, even if that meant he was slightly exposed. As they started walking home, Keyleth couldn’t help but wonder what this date would have been like if it had happened with Vax. He would have waited for her, ordered his coffee with her, and asked her so many questions about herself. Vax always took an interest in her and what she was interested in. He was always patient and showed curiosity in her opinions. And not to mention, Vax drank every word Keyleth said as if he needed it like water to survive. Vax would have probably pulled her chair or opened the door for Keyleth and wouldn’t have ever left her in the middle of the date to bring another woman coffee. No. Especially that.

Keyleth was so buried in her own thoughts she didn’t realize the awkward silence that had settled, only disturbed by the thick rain pattering on the umbrella, until Vax spoke to her in an uncertain but curious tone, “How was your date?”

Keyleth opened her mouth to answer but realized she had never told him she was going on a date. In fact, her exact words were, ‘I’m going to meet a friend for coffee.’ So, how did he know about it? A bulb lit up in her head. Vex had told her brother, of course.

“I think it was okay,” Keyleth finally said.

“You think?” Vax looked at Keyleth over the rim of the plastic lid of his cup, confused.

Keyleth shrugged and replied, “Yeah. I have never been on a date before. I don’t have any terms of comparison.”

“I wouldn’t either. I’ve never been on a date.”

“Are you kidding?” Keyleth asked, stopping on the sidewalk and pulling Vax’s arm with her.

Vax shrugged and offered a sympathetic smile. “Is it that shocking?” He asked. Of course, it was. He had to know that, right?

“A little,” Keyleth replied bashfully.

“Why?”

Keyleth blushed and looked for somewhere to hide, but they were still stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

“I—” She stammered. Someone walked past Vax and her, giving them an annoyed side-eye, to which Vax replied with a scowl. However, the message was clear, so he moved Keyleth to the side, under a balcony. It took Keyleth all the courage she had to say it, and when she finally spoke, she didn’t dare look at Vax, opting to stare at their shoes, “You’re good-looking. I would assume you’ve been on tons of dates.”

Vax’ildan choked, and his spine stiffened. Keyleth felt it from how his arm tensed around hers. She finally dared to peek at him and saw a timid smile on a very, very scarlet face. When his eyes found Keyleth’s, she swallowed hard. He had pushed her against the cream-colored wall of the apartment building when he had moved them and was standing close enough to where they were both fully covered by the umbrella. His coffee cup was inches from Keyleth’s hand around his arm, warming her cold fingers. She could practically hear his heart beating fast in his chest and wondered if he, too, could listen to hers.

“T–thank you, Kiki,” He said bashfully.

Kiki. Her eyes widened at the term of affection. She hadn’t heard it in so long. Keyleth missed hearing Vax call her by the nickname. She forgot how he said it with such sweetness and love. Love.

“So, how come you’ve never been on a date?” She found the courage inside her to take her eyes away from his just so the flame that had lit up within her would ease.

“I’ve never been in a serious relationship before,” Vax explained. Keyleth cocked her head, daring to look at him again—a mistake. That was a mistake. She quickly averted her gaze before her legs gave out on her. “I’ve had hook-ups and one-night stands with people but never a long-lasting relationship,” Vax finished with a shrug.

“I can’t blame you. Relationships are complicated,” Keyleth mumbled, now looking at Vax’s calloused hands holding the umbrella between them. His black nail polish was flaky and lacking in a lot of places. Keyleth wondered if he did his nails and make-up or if Vex’ahlia had a hand in it. She had never seen Vax without his signature eyeliner, so seeing him without it was weird. He must have been in a rush to go get her. But he mentioned his shirt was from Gilmore, so maybe he had gone to the barman after their meeting by the elevator that morning. ‘I’ve had hook-ups and one-night stands,’ the words echoed in Keyleth’s mind. She couldn’t help but wonder if Gilmore had been one of those hook-ups or one-night stands.

“Yeah, they can be,” Vax agreed with her.

“One day you think you’ve found someone you trust, and that might be ‘the one’—” Keyleth looked up at Vax, rolling her eyes at the expression, “—but then something happens, and they are gone.”

Vax gave Keyleth an apologetic smile, lowered the hand holding his coffee to brush his fingers against hers, and said softly, “Keyleth, all relationships have highs and lows, regardless if romantic or platonic. There are moments of suffering and fighting, but if it is a strong relationship and a relationship that is meant to be, then it’ll work out.”

“Sometimes things that are out of your control happen, and you end up suffering. Like your partner dies, and you’re left with a five-year-old kid that you now have to raise on your own, not really knowing how,” Keyleth’s eyes filled with tears. She had never spoken about this feeling out loud to anyone, not even dared to dwell on it for too long. With one hand still around Vax’s arm and his fingers affectionately brushing her other hand, Keyleth allowed her tears to fall down her cheek as Vax gave her a look of recognition and compassion.

“I’m sure they loved each other very much,” Vax whispered, pulling in closer to Keyleth. He stopped brushing his fingers against her hand and shifted around to unwrap his arm from hers. Keyleth looked at him, confused for a moment, but then he wrapped both arms around her waist, pulling her closer so her head rested against his chest.

“They did, but I don’t remember it,” Keyleth’s voice was slightly muffled by Vax’s shirt. It felt warm and comfortable, and she missed being held like this—especially by him. Although his familiar scent still lingered on his hair and body, the smell of lavender and patchouli from his shirt overwhelmed her. Keyleth considered not pulling away for a moment, not while his arms surrounded her with such softness and his breath puffed against her temple. But she was starting to get a headache from the scent, so she straightened up, looking at Vax in the eyes. Even without eyeliner, they were still mesmerizing and sharp. Keyleth didn’t step away from him or remove his hands from her waist. That was his step to take since he had been the one to take the initiative to hold her. Instead, Keyleth stood there, watching him intently, and continued, “All I know are the tales my dad told me growing up. They’re not my memories, so sometimes they don’t feel real.”

“I know how you feel,” Vax let go of her but didn’t step back either. His eyes shone with fear as if he was scared he had overstepped his boundaries with Keyleth. “It was real, though. Was it not? Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here today. You wouldn’t have been born if your parents didn’t love each other.”

He was right. Keyleth knew that, but she still shrugged in silence. She looked above his shoulder, her eyes tracking the rain that fell just outside their cocoon of safety. Keyleth forgot how safe Vax made her feel. Even if they were in the middle of the street where anyone could hear their conversation, Vax made her feel like they were alone, in a bubble of silence.

“I don’t know what a happy relationship is either. My parents never got married,”

Keyleth turned her eyes back to his and saw sadness mixed with anger. “Oh?”

“It’s a really long story,” Vax explained. Keyleth waited, but when he didn’t add on, she didn’t push any farther. She nodded and wrapped her arm with his again.

“Let’s head back,” She whispered with a soft smile. Vax nodded and followed her.

“Was the date that bad?” He asked a few minutes later.

Keyleth snorted and gave him a look as if to say, ‘You have no idea.’ With her attention focused on not tripping or stepping on a puddle, Keyleth finally told Vax all about the date with Kashaw: how he didn’t seem interested in her at all, how he only talked about himself, never asking questions about her.

“He didn’t even say I looked good,” Keyleth all but groaned, moving her free hand to point at herself and gesturing it up and down her body.

“What? That guy is an asshole,” Vax grunted. Keyleth felt anger radiate from his body.

“Yeah. He kind of is.”

“Are you going on another date with him?” Vax asked, avoiding looking at her by sipping on what was left of his coffee. Keyleth smiled at the blush on his cheeks.

“He told me to text him if I wanted to,” She narrowed her eyes in anticipation of Vax’s reaction.

“Are you going to?” He asked, nervously biting his lower lip. Either Vax noticed she was looking at him and was ignoring her on purpose, or he was too embarrassed to acknowledge her because instead of looking at her, he threw back the rest of his drink.

“Probably not.”

Keyleth felt it before he spoke, the slight flame of hope that lit up in him. She smiled, looking ahead at the approaching campus gates. “Do you think he will text you for another date?”

“I doubt it. It’s not like it was a romantic date or anything.”

Vax stopped in his tracks just under the metal archway that said University of Emon. Keyleth stopped and turned to him, surprised to see him smile. “It wasn’t?” He asked with a gleam in his eyes.

“Of course not, Vax. I barely know him. I just met him at the bar last night, and at first, I thought he was trying to be nice. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to know him better as a friend.”

“Oh,” Vax said before he turned back onto the paved road that led into the campus residential area. He swerved to one side of the path, dragging Keyleth with a soft yelp so he could throw away his empty cup into a trashcan. “Well, that’s—” He started but trailed off, not finishing the sentence. Keyleth chuckled and closed the distance between them, patting his hand affectionately on her arm.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the short walk that took them to arrive at Greyskull Keep. However, just as Vax closed his umbrella and they walked through the atrium doors—welcomed by a warm wave from the central heating—he turned to Keyleth with a flirting look and said, “For what is worth it, I think you look really pretty, especially with those boots. They look amazing on you,” He winked.

Keyleth blushed and mumbled a thank you. She wanted to bury herself in her jacket and not see his face or that darn look he was giving her. “They’re Vex’s.”

Vax cocked his head, not surprised because he probably could tell Keyleth didn’t own that kind of shoes, but in expectation of further explanation. Keyleth shrugged and said, “She told me not to wear my yellow sneakers. I don’t know what’s wrong with them.”

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with your yellow sneakers, Kiki,” Vax said, offended that his sister had expressed that to her. “I love them.”

Keyleth chuckled and bumped her shoulder against his. “Well, at least one of the twins has good taste,” She joked. Vax joined her laughter as they reached the elevators. Keyleth stopped before he did and looked at Vax, still laughing lightheartedly. It was a rare sound, without a doubt, one she had only heard enough times to count on one hand’s fingers. Because of that rarity, Keyleth absorbed every second of it, like a plant absorbs sunlight.

“Do you want to know something funny?” Vax asked her once the elevator doors closed behind them. Keyleth nodded, leaning against a wall as Vax leaned against the opposite, their feet meeting in the middle, boot to boot. “I completely forgot I had set up with my sister to do Trinket’s monthly bath today, and you won’t believe who she asked to help her instead.”

“Who?”

Vax gave Keyleth a knowing look, wiggling his eyebrows before he spoke, “Percy.”

“No way,” She said, surprised. “He went to help Vex?” Vax nodded in response, and Keyleth snorted, “He totally has a crush on her.”

“Oh, yeah. I know that.” Vax said nonchalantly.

“Wait, how do you know? Did he tell you?” Keyleth asked, pushing away from the wall and standing closer to Vax as the elevator approached their floor.

“Yep. Percy told me last night. We had a… heart-to-heart conversation about feelings,” Vax replied, stepping away as soon as the doors opened.

A ‘heart-to-heart conversation about feelings’? What does that even mean? Keyleth scowled at Vax’s back so intensively she forgot to exit the elevator. Thankfully for her, Vax noticed and pulled her out just before the doors closed, and she got taken to another floor.

“That motherfucker,” Keyleth cursed, taking her arm from Vax’s hand with a scowl that was not directed at him but at her other best friend. “He didn’t tell me he told you.”

Vax laughed and started heading out for their apartment door, but Keyleth grabbed his arm and dragged him onto the door that led to the stairwell. “Has he told Vex yet?” She asked him, closing the door behind her. They were so close to each other again that she could practically feel his body radiating heat.

“No, because he doesn’t think she feels the same way,” Vax lowered his head, but Keyleth couldn’t tell why.

“Vex totally has a crush on him.”

“Do you think so?” Vax looked at her, worried.

“She could have asked anyone. Why didn’t she ask Grog?” Keyleth arched an eyebrow.

“Maybe he was at the—” Vax started to say, but Keyleth interrupted him, “Please. Grog is the most logical person to help give Trinket a bath. Vex would have thought about him first if it truly was for help. Besides, Grog loves Trinket. I’m sure he would easily skip the gym to help Vex if she asked him. Have you seen how those two snuggle on the couch all the time?”

“I guess you’re right,” Vax mumbled. Keyleth noticed his cheeks were growing redder with each word that she spoke.

“She also invited Percy to study with her all the time this week. She’s totally smitten by him.” Keyleth smiled mischievously. Vax merely nodded, looking everywhere but at her. Keyleth tried to search his gaze, but he still avoided her until she asked what was wrong.

“Your hands are freezing.”

“What?” Keyleth looked down. She hadn’t noticed that she was still holding Vax’s hands from when she dragged him into the small area. Her cheeks flared up as red as his, and she took her hands away as if she had burned herself. “Shit, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Vax whispered, looking at her from underneath his eyelashes. Keyleth gulped. “Kiki, I—”

“Thank you, Vax,” Keyleth stopped him. She had a feeling she knew what he was about to say, but she wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. “For coming to save me from the rain.”

“Of course,” Vax shook his head. “I wasn’t going to let you return home in the rain.”

Keyleth smiled and stepped away, opening the door and gesturing into the hallway. Vax nodded and followed her, making the short trek to their apartment door in silence. Only when he put the key in the lock did Keyleth speak, with a fake air of importance, “You’re my knight in shining armor, Vax’ildan.”

Vax chuckled and bowed slightly at her, waving a hand toward the dimly lit apartment, “You’re welcome Your Highness.”

Keyleth snorted and walked in, looking over her shoulder to say, “I’m not a princess.”

“Maybe not in this universe. Maybe you were one in an alternate universe,” Vax winked and closed the door behind him.

“Only if you were my personal guard. Sir Vax’ildan.”

They both laughed as they went through the motions of getting rid of shoes, jacket, and umbrella. Keyleth held the brown coat draped over one arm, stretched the other above her head, and brought it down, only to rotate both shoulders, attempting to relieve any tension on her shoulders.

“Where did you get that jacket?” Vax asked, nodding at it.

“I stole it from my dad.” When Vax laughed at the answer, Keyleth retorted, “What’s wrong with it? Don’t make me take back what I said earlier about at least one of the twins having good taste,” Keyleth scowled at him playfully.

Vax raised his hands defensively, saying, “I was just thinking that maybe that’s what scared Kashaw.”

“Why? Is it that ugly?” Keyleth brought the brown jacket up to inspect it, but when she didn’t find anything unpleasant about it, she scowled at Vax again as if daring him to say so about her father’s jacket.

“No. It’s not. But it might have given off a vibe that it’s a boyfriend’s jacket. Maybe Kashaw thought you had a boyfriend.”

“He didn’t seem to care about it and didn’t ask, anyway.” Keyleth pouted. Something crossed Vax’s eyes. Something that made Keyleth take back her pout and turn her back to, walking him towards the hallway. He followed her, his piercing gaze almost digging a hole between her shoulder blades. Once they reached the door to her room, Vax leaned against its door jam and asked, “What are you going to do now?”

“Maybe stud—”

“Kiki,” He admonished her. Keyleth jumped slightly. Who would have known that the nickname he usually filled with love and care could also be firm and threatening? “We literally just finished exams. Give. Yourself. A. Break.” He punctuated each word with a step closer to her, ending up with his feet against hers and flicking Keyleth’s nose. She almost considered looking offended at him, but then she saw the glimmer and the crinkle of a smile in his eyes and lost it (and the only thing stopping her from pulling him into a kiss was her fast heartbeat and the focus she had to redirect from her brain to her legs to keep herself from falling into a mess, or maybe the fact that they weren’t at that stage...yet).

Oh. Oh, no. Keyleth realized it a minute too late. Vax was already pulling away from her and opening his bedroom door when something clicked in her mind.

“Are you okay?” Vax asked, noticing she hadn’t replied. Keyleth gulped and nodded. Her eyes were still wide in shock at her realization. She shook her head, forcing herself to file that thought away for later, and said, “Yeah. Sorry.”

“No studying?”

“No. I think I’m going to call my dad. It has been a while since we talked.”

Vax nodded, “That’s a great idea. I… I really liked talking to you today. It has been a while since we did that.” Vax admitted bashfully.

“Yeah… it has,” Keyleth looked at her hand on the doorknob. An awkward silence started to settle between the two like a snowflake about to hit the pavement, but Keyleth stopped it before it could land, “I’m gonna go call my dad now. Bye, Vax.”

“Bye,” He replied as Keyleth walked into her room.

The door closed, and Keyleth was left with the gray clouds beyond the window, casting a gloomy light in the bedroom. A tear slid down her cheek when she realized, with a broken heart, exactly how much she missed talking with Vax, how comfortable and safe she felt with him, and how easy it was to say what was on her heart to him. They still had a long path ahead, but this felt like the first stitch to mending her broken heart. A stitch of golden thread, like the lines of fate from the fairytales her mother used to read to her. Keyleth still had that nagging realization from moments ago in the back of her mind, but one step at a time. First, to repair their friendship, and then… then she could think about whatever came after.

Without further thought, Keyleth wiped her tears with the sleeve of her shirt and grabbed her phone, dialing her father’s number. The calling beep sounded three times before a click, and Korrin’s voice said, ‘Hello?’ on the other side.

Keyleth smiled warmly at her father’s voice and readied herself for what was about to come, “Hey, Dad. You won’t believe what happened today.”

#critical role #cr fic #vox machina #vaxleth #modern au #college au #be in my eyes #If I titled my chapters this one would be “They're healing your honor”#This chapter came to me in a dream (literally) and I woke up from my nap to record it on my phone #This chapter is longer than my wedding vows.

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antinfront · 1 month

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Good Omens AU where Crowley and Aziraphale both teach Year 1s who think they're a married couple

Also, Gabriel is the principal

And Michael is the mean deputy Principal

And Hastur and Ligur are the mean groundskeepers

And Muriel is the librarian's assistant who doesn't know what they're doing because of course they are.

#good omens #good omens au #ineffable husbands #also The Them are the Year 1s #because logic #and one day the Year 1s throw them a wedding #you know as you do #and they're just like "Well #so they make up some 'fake' vows on the spot #but they mean it #bc ofc they do #and then later they have the inevitable “what was that and what are we?” panic #is it too much to ask #please #i just want to see Crowley playing musical statues with a bunch of five-year-olds and deliberately losing so they feel happy #and who knows maybe Aziraphale sees it and comments on it #and Crowley is like “You tell nobody about this okay?? I have a reputation as the scary teacher.”#someone write a fic #please i beg

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colour-outside-the-liness · 1 year

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So close to having the next chapter of MoU finished!! It’s only gonna be about 4k words after editing but the next chapter is gonna be a LONG one to make up for the pain of this chapter and the length of it... really hope you enjoy the next two chapters

#damie #damie fic #damie fanfic #dani and jamie #dani x jamie #dani and jamie fic #dani and jamie fanfic #dani x jamie fic #dani x jamie fanfic #dani clayton #jamie taylor #dani bly manor #jamie bly manor #thobm #the vow au #the vow au fic

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hamsterclaw · 7 months

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First strike

You meet a stranger at a wedding and discover that there's more of a connection between you than you thought. A Vows story, read the rest here.

Pairing: Yoongi x f! reader

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Swearing

Word count: 1.5k

You’re at the wedding of a distant cousin, you don’t know why your father insists you come to these ‘events’, like anyone would notice if you weren’t there.

You’re with another cousin who’s just gone to get drinks for you, waiting by the edge of the bar, trying not to look too out of place.

A waiter walks past, too close. You register the tug on the strap of your silky gown, watch with mild horror as the strap falls off your shoulder and down your arm.

You’re lifting your hand to press your gown against your chest, stop it from falling down and exposing you, when there’s a weight over your shoulders.

Warmth, a heady rush of vetiver.

The man who’s put his jacket over your shoulders pulls the lapels close, covering you from neck to hips.

He isn’t touching you at all, just holding on to his jacket.

You look up into intense dark eyes and the most beautiful face you’ve ever seen on a man.

He’s still holding the lapels loosely.

You lift the strap over your shoulder quickly and check you’re covered.

‘Thank you,’ you say, grateful.

He nods.

You shrug your shoulders out of his beautifully cut suit jacket and hand it back to him.

He puts it back on. He’s still so close to you it seems oddly intimate, like you’ve both been getting dressed together.

You’re helping him straighten his collar, when you realise he might not want you to.

‘Sorry,’ you say.

He laughs a little. ‘It’s fine. Do I look ok?’

‘You look beautiful,’ you say, without thinking.

Then you realise what you’ve just said.

‘Sorry.’ You fumble for your composure. ‘I’m Y/N,’ you offer. ‘How do you know Jia and Haru?’

‘Haru and I used to work together,’ he replies. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

Just then, your cousin, Mina, returns with the drinks.

‘Here you go, Y/N,’ she says. She looks politely at the man.

He’s never said his name, you can’t call him an acquaintance yet.

He inclines his head. ‘Min Yoongi.’

‘Han Mina,’ Mina says. ‘How do you know Y/N?’

‘I don’t yet,’ he replies, but leaves the explaining to you.

‘He just did me a big favour,’ you say.

Mina’s curious, but she lets it slide.

‘We should go and congratulate the happy couple,’ she says to you.

You nod.

Yoongi bows his head slightly as you and Mina pass him.

You turn back once.

He’s still looking at you.

You smile, tentative.

A corner of his mouth curls up.

And then you’re greeting Jia and Haru, but you’re still thinking about Min Yoongi and how his eyes seem to see all the way through you.

***

The dinner is long, multiple courses and you were full after the first five. You excuse yourself and head out into the courtyard for a turn in the night air.

Out here, there’s a fountain, the rush of water keeping you company.

You start when you realise there’s a man sitting on the opposite rim of the fountain.

He’s dressed in black, unlike the silver gleam of your dress. He turns, and you recognise the man you met earlier.

You’ve been caught staring at him, so you smile, nod in greeting and turn back to facing away.

Moments later he’s walked around the fountain and sat next to you.

‘Hey,’ he says.

His voice appeals to you, the rasp to it, the low timbre.

‘Hey,’ you say. ‘You’re missing the food.’

‘I’ll probably go back for the tenth course,’ he replies, straight-faced.

You giggle, and he smiles.

‘Maybe the cake?’ you suggest.

‘Maybe the cake,’ he agrees.

He lifts his drink to his lips, amber liquid swirling in his glass.

He tips it to you. ‘Want some?’

Your fingers touch as he hands you the glass.

You take a cautious sip. It goes down smooth, a mellow heat down your throat.

‘Do you have a date?’ he asks.

‘Apart from Mina, no,’ you reply. ‘Do you?’

‘I do,’ he says.

You hadn’t expected him to say that. ‘Where are they?’

‘She’s probably looking for me,’ Yoongi tells you.

‘You’d better go back before they send out a search party,’ you tell him, serious.

‘They’re more likely to send one out for you,’ Yoongi replies. He smiles crookedly at you. ‘Let me escort you back inside.’

As soon as you get back to the foyer Yoongi’s approached by a beautiful woman who looks vaguely familiar.

‘There you are,’ she says. She glances your way curiously, then extends a delicate hand.

‘Park Gyuri,’ she says, and in a flash you realise why she looks familiar.

She’s an actress who retired from acting and earned an MBA before working for the largest conglomerate this side of Asia, Min Holdings.

Which means that the man you’ve just met is one of the Min family.

Min Yoongi is chaebol royalty.

Somehow you’re not surprised.

You recover in time to shake her hand and introduce yourself in turn.

You look up at Yoongi just in time to see the way his expression’s changed at the mention of your full name.

You can’t think why. You’re chaebol too, but your family’s shipping business is small fry compared to Min Holdings.

You smile at Yoongi and Gyuri. ‘It was very nice to meet you both,’ you say, stepping to one side to let them pass.

You watch them go, and it’s only because you’re still looking that you see Yoongi turn back to you.

Your eyes meet, and for a moment you think he’s going to come back to talk to you again.

Then he turns, and you’re more disappointed than you can say.

***

The group of groomsmen are downing shots at the bar, and you’re trying to get past when a tall dude, you think his name is Minjun, says your name.

‘How are you? Come and have a drink,’ he says, touching your shoulder.

You’re smiling, trying to decline the shot he’s holding out to you, when Min Yoongi walks by.

‘Can I speak to you, Y/N?’

You let Yoongi lead you out of the ballroom.

‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ you say, smiling. ‘Minjun and those dudes go hard.’

Yoongi gives you a half-smile. ‘You strike me as someone who can look after herself.’

You can’t disagree.

‘I’m leaving soon,’ he tells you, ‘but I wanted to speak to you before I left.’

‘Yeah?’ you ask, oddly flattered.

‘Have you heard about my family?’ Yoongi asks.

‘I think everyone’s heard of the Mins,’ you demur, wondering where he’s going with this.

Yoongi’s looking intently at you. ‘Has your father mentioned anything to you, about us?’

Now you’re confused.

Yoongi seems to be in the midst of an internal debate.

Finally he seems to come to a decision.

‘There’ve been discussions between our families,’ he says.

Realisation’s dawning, and you’re not sure you like where this is going.

You laugh because it’s ludicrous.

‘What? Next you’ll be saying we’re going to be married.’

It takes you a moment to realise you’re the only one laughing.

Yoongi’s still looking at you, expression unreadable.

‘Is this a joke?’

‘I wish it was,’ Yoongi sighs.

Something about his resignation stings.

You think about his beautiful date, and you realise you’re not the only one who’d be affected by this.

‘We don’t have to agree to it,’ you say, touching his arm.

Yoongi looks at your hand.

‘You should speak to your father,’ he says, quietly.

‘You haven’t agreed to it, have you?’ you ask.

‘I don’t think the terms are unreasonable,’ Yoongi replies.

His lack of emotion makes you feel even more wound up.

‘It’s not a business contract,’ you snap.

Yoongi scoffs, runs his hand through his hair.

‘That’s exactly what it is.’

‘We don’t know each other.’

‘We have time to get to know each other,’ Yoongi points out.

‘You have a girlfriend,’ you protest.

‘Gyuri and I used to date,’ he concedes.

The words come out of your mouth before you can stop them.

‘Did she dump you because you’re a cold hearted robot?’

Yoongi blinks at you.

‘If I were a cold hearted robot I could have not told you anything.’

‘Honest cold hearted robot,’ you amend.

Yoongi scoffs.

‘Is this what you’re going to be like?’

You’re stung, again. ‘Yeah. Better get used to it.’

‘Shit, we’re going to need a big house,’ Yoongi snarks. ‘So we don’t have to see each other.’

‘Yeah, sounds like a perfect marriage,’ you say, bitterly.

Yoongi huffs out a breath. ‘Can we start over?’

‘Nope,’ you snap.

You turn on your heel and start walking away.

When you turn back, he’s still looking at you.

‘You were right about one thing, Yoongi.’

His expression tightens, but he doesn’t say anything.

‘I can look after myself.’

You whirl and nearly crash into Minjun as he leaves the ballroom.

So much for your dramatic exit.

Yoongi’s snicker echoes in your ears long after you’ve left him.

Author note: The next part to this series is the final part, and I’m all in my feelings about these two. I love them to bits. I’m going to miss them!

#vows au #yoongi fic #min yoongi fanfic #yoongi x reader #bts fanfic

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apocalypta-secundus · 8 months

Text

Happy Birthday Yun-Yun!

@yumichikah (FOR THE BIRTHDAY BOI!)

Read Mores are for long posts!

Akina and Ikkaku were working hard trying to get a cake made. Of course, Akina was the one to reach out for help with this endeavor. "I have no idea what he likes!!!" Well, she had some idea for the present, so at least there was that. A cake design? Hell no. Flavor of cake? Nope. "I haven't baked a cake for a birthday before, what makes you think I'm capable of this?!" Ikkaku was stirring up a mess. "Well, you didn't say no." There was a grin on Akina's face watching him getting cake batter on the counters. "Probably shouldn't be that messy about it. We're going to have to clean that up." She herself was trying to get the icing ready for after the cake was baked. "I got sparklers off someone in Squad 5!" Yachiru ran into the kitchen and jumped onto the table to see what they were up to, "What's going on!?" "Shhhh!" Akina put a finger in front of her lips, "It's Yumichika's birthday, try to keep it down!" She wasn't one to talk, she was one of the louder people in the squad now thanks to her guitar. A SURPRISE? Well now, Yachiru wanted to help with that! "This place isn't decorated for a surprise party." She looked around at the bare walls and wondered where they could get banners and streamers for this. "I can go get those!" It took her no time at all to run off, so she could go find something to decorate with.

Akina let out a sigh, who else could ruin this? She went back to trying to get the icing dyed for the cake. At least in her mind, she was trying to go for a peacock design. Was it going to work out? Who knows.

"You're missing vanilla and is that salt?" Lyn had cake batter on her finger trying to figure out what they missed, clearly it was vanilla. But was it over salted, or did someone read sugar as salt.

"Wh-" She turned around, and the fourth seat was standing right there. "No way, we couldn't have screwed this up!"

"If it's just too much salt, double the batch. Ain't that hard to unfuckup a cake." There was a shrug of her shoulders, only stepping in the kitchen because of the commotion. Letting out a sigh, she offered a bit of advice, "an' if you want this to be a surprise... don't be talkin' so loud. I can hear ya over some of the squad mates trainin'. Ya're gonna be lucky he didn' already hear ya."

Akina let out a sigh and had no idea what they really could have screwed up and just doubled the recipe. This cake was going to be bigger than she wanted it to be. Maybe they could just make a three tier cake instead of a basic one? So far, this wasn't turning out to be a very good day.

"I told you I had no experience in baking a cake." Ikkaku complained as he finished stirring the mess they had made at this point. "What the hell are we supposed to do with this now, anyway?"

Yachiru would have returned with streamers and banners for a birthday and sat on Kenny's shoulders to get things taped up onto the walls. "Over there Kenny!" She was pointing places out while trying to blow up a balloon. The common room was emptied out, so they could prepare for this surprise. If it even was one now.

Akina started explaining, "In the pans, pans in oven. Then we gotta wait and then ice them after they're cool. Stack them nice and pretty... hopefully, and then try. Keyword, try. To decorate it with the icing, I got all dyed up."

It was starting to feel like a chance in hell at this point, but she was still trying to get this finished up. When was Yumichika supposed to be back anyway? The pans full of batter were tossed in the oven, and it was going to be a long wait til they were done.

After all of the cakes were out of the oven, she started working on stacking them. Now she had no skill with piping icing, but was willing to try. The living did this, right? There were those who did this as a job and then those who did this for a hobby! This can't be too hard, right?

Ikkaku watched Akina stack up the cake, "you need me for anything else other than someone to stir the cake up?"

"I mean, you can stick around if you want and carry this thing out." Though from his tone, it didn't sound like he wanted to. "Or, go find the others and join them for the surprise part." Akina was going to be a while getting this thing decorated. Her skill was in music, not cakes. Hopefully this wasn't going to look like a kid did it.

To him that just meant to head out, so he went to the common room, helping the captain and the co-lieutenant get ready.

Akina was finishing up her work and let out a long sigh, well. It was done and it looked fine to her. It was a cake with a peacock design on it. The cake looked like an amateur made it, but it was better than what she thought it was going to come out. Now the kitchen looked like an absolute disaster went through it. She stuck the sparklers in the cake near the tail feathers she decorated on. "That'll do, I think?"

"HEY!" Yachiru ran in and grabbed the cake with her little hands, lifting it over her head. "He's coming back!" Apparently, a few squad members saw him walking back while they were training outside. She ran out of the kitchen and to the common room with the cake, popping it up on the table.

Akina jumped and ran to her room to grab the present before scrambling back out to the common room with the others. It wasn't a very big present, but she figured he'd love it anyway! Quickly, she lit the sparklers as Yumichika entered the room. And the entire Squad yelled out, "SURPRISE! HAPPY BIRTHDAY YUMICHIKA!"

#V: Pink Haired Happy Death Machine; Yachiru Kusajishi (Bleach)#V: The glamourous punk rock Shinigami; Akina Ayasegawa (Bleach)#V: Hear me now; It's unavoidable; I've fulfilled my vow; There's no escape; I am unstoppable | Ikkaku Madarame (Bleach)#V: Gonna tear you apart p i e c e by p i e c e; Lyn Domen!Soul Reaper AU (Bleach)#Captain of Squad 11 Kenpachi Zaraki; Ihm folgt der Tod; Die Welt wird rot #Yumichika Ayasegawa; Squad 11’s Proud and Beautiful Peacock #Squad 11; Everything is pure... POWER #Happy Birthday Yumichika!#This was supposed to be a starter but I ended up making a fic instead... uh enjoy?#This is post TYBW; but I go off my headcanons thanks :')#hehe the divider is the peacock nebula ok

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sweetestofchaos · 1 year

Text

The Captain’s Vow Masterlist

➳ Series Info

☠ paring: Captain!Seokjin x OC!Enya | Captain!Seokjin x OC!Amaryllis (w/ a side of Bangtan x oc’s)

☠ genre/au/rating: M (18+), Fluff, Angst, Pirate Au, Strangers to Lovers, Fantasy Au, Soulmate Au (if you squint)

☠ summary: When events take an unexpected turn, Captain Seokjin and the remaining members of his crew from the renowned Abyss seek refuge on an isolated island home to ex-pirates. The young captain has a change of heart there and makes his way back to his native country to hang up his uniform. The royals are furious with Seokjin's decision and condemn him and his crew to death, along with the islanders. Seokjin attempts to escape death with the aid of a young servant before setting out to save the islanders, but it is too late. Seokjin makes a pact with someone who most people would believe to be a devil there on the island, and he swears to exact retribution.

☠ warnings: More in depth included in each chapter - not a lighthearted story. Dead Dove (do not eat). Non-Con, Murder, Blood, Unprotected Sex, Protected Sex (using magic), Violence, Physical/Mental Abuse, Major Character Death(s), Warfare

☠ cwc: 0

☠ other: I understand that I have a million story ideas just sitting around collecting dust...but Seokjin, the mother fucking Kim Seokjin has me in a headlock that I cannot get out of even if I wanted to (which I don’t). His photobook is going to be a masterpiece and because of that, this story has come about. Let me get my shit together and enjoy the ride! As always thank you to the wonderful @eerieedits for creating the stunning banner above. Y’all don’t know how much this brilliant woman has helped me on most of my stories. She brings out my ideas in visual form and it just makes me wanna do better. So, thank you again, hun for the banner. I love it!

➳ Index

☠ teaser - reading map and charting course...

➳ Extras

☠ drabbles/one-shots

☠ moodboards I II

☠ Glossary

#the captain's vow #tcv masterlist #seokjin fic #bts fantasy au #bts pirate au #bts ambw #soc seokjin #seokjin x black!oc

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 2 years

Text

The Vow AU (of the AU) (an alternate ending, if you will)

Had a dream last night about the Vow AU and what the Luthor shenanigans would be as the b-plot. And it is characteristically whumpy and angsty.

Lena chooses to go back to living in the city, and arranges a coffee date with Kara to kind of talk through where she's at. But before they can meet up, Lena's met on the street by a burly dude in a suit, inviting her to come with him in an imposing SUV.

When she turns to walk the other direction, another suited thug is there to intercept.

"Your brother would like to speak with you," the first man says.

Weighing her options, Lena ultimately decides to go with them. Maybe, she reasons, this will be the time she can convince Lex to leave her be. As soon as the men climb in on either side of her, they stick a needle in her neck to administer a swift-acting sedative.

When she next regains consciousness, she blinks groggily at the surrounds of her bedroom at the Luthor manor. Lex is there, and Lillian, who offers her a sip of water. She all but guzzles it, her mouth and throat dry as a desert.

"Wha's happening?" she mumbles, struggling to keep her eyes open.

"You had a bit of an episode, ace. But it's okay-- we got you home."

"Rest now," Lillian says softly, brushing Lena's hair away from her flushed and clammy forehead. "We'll explain after you've slept."

Lena tries to keep her eyes open, but she doesn't have much choice in the matter. She slips into an uneasy sleep, unable to shake the feeling that something is dangerously wrong.

---

Meanwhile, when Lena misses her coffee date with Kara, Kara immediately knows something is wrong. Lena might have changed her mind about opening the door between them again, but she wouldn't have done it without telling her. There would have a text, a voicemail, something.

But there's nothing.

Nothing when she calls Lena's cell, nothing when she bangs on the door of Lena's new appointment, nothing when she contacts Jack on the wild whim that he might have heard from her.

Nothing.

But now that Jack knows that something's wrong, they work together to figure out what might have happened. Their first stop is the Luthor manor, but are turned away. Lex isn't there, Lillian tells Kara.

"We're not looking for Lex," Kara declares. "Have you heard from Lena?"

"Yes, she's gone to the Maldives with her friend Andrea, to catch up." Lillian looks down her nose at her. "Please, Miss Danvers, just let her go. You'll only be doing yourself a favor."

Kara leaves. But when she reports straight back to Jack, his features crease into a dark frown.

"Andrea is in Paris," he says. "On business. She's been in closed door meetings for the past three days."

So, it's clear that something is very, very wrong, but Kara isn't sure what to do about it. The next time they go to the Manor, after another two days without a word from Lena, Jack is the one who goes to the door, in the hopes his history with Lena will give him an in.

"I spoke to Andrea last week," he tells Lillian-- and Lex, who's present this time. Under their calculating gazes, he plays his hand. "She was on her way to Paris, not the Maldives. Please-- we just want to make sure Lena is okay."

After a moment, Lex steps back, allowing the door to open wider. "We appreciate your concern, Jackie. The truth is, Lena hasn't been feeling well. She asked us to redirect anyone who comes looking-- she didn't want to worry anyone, after everything that's happened."

He motions Jack inside, and the door closes behind them all, leaving Kara waiting in the car.

"She seems to be on the mend though," Lex continues, leading Jack deeper into the house, "and given your history I'm sure Lena will forgive me for telling you. You already know her migraines have been difficult to deal with, even before the accident."

His voice lowers as they near Lena's bedroom door. Lex motions for Jack to remain quiet, then carefully opens the door to reveal Lena sleeping in her bed. Her cheeks are flushed and heated, but her chest visibly rise with steady, even breaths.

"Lena?"

A heavy hand clamps down on Jack's shoulder, silencing him. Lex shuts the door with a quiet click, but not before Jack can see that his call does nothing to rouse his friend.

"It'staken her forever to get to sleep," Lex suggests, though his tone drops danerously low, taking on a threatening edge. "We don't want to disturb her, do we?"

Jack weighs his options carefully. "No," he agrees finally, carefully. "I suppose not."

"Of course, we'll send word as soon as she's able to accept visitors," Lex assures him, leading him by the shoulder back to the front door. "I know she'll be grateful for your concern, but I assure you she's receiving the best of care."

After exchanging curt goodbyes, the door shuts in Jack's face. He makes his way back down the long drive, to where Kara is waiting for him.

"What happened?" Kara demands. "Is she okay?"

"She's breathing," Jack says with a dark scowl. He's known Lex all his life, and knows that the man's congeniality could hide a multitude of sins. "That's all I can say for sure."

---

Their next step is to call in a wellness check, hoping that the arrival of a police officer to determine Lena's status would result in further information being gathered. But the officer comes back with the same spiel Lex gave Jack: recovering, but resting.

When Kara asks whether the officer spoke to Lena directly, the man shakes his head. "No. Her brother indicated that the medications she takes knock her out hard. But they assured me that Lena would touch base as soon as she was able."

Over drinks at a dingy bar that night, Kara scowls. "Something's wrong, I can feel it," she growls. She shares a long look with Jack. "That's two times Lena hasn't been awake."

Jack's eyebrow lifts. "You think they might be drugging her?"

"Is it really outside the realm of what they might do to keep her?"

Jack gazes at her for a long moment, then blinks. "No," he admits. "It isn't."

Shit. Shit shit shit.

"I just don't know what we can do about it," he continues.

As he watches, Kara's features harden. Whe looks at him, lifting one shoulder in a determined shrug.

"Desperate measures."

---

It doesn't take Lena long to catch on to what's happening. She wakes up, her drinks her water, she falls back asleep-- even when she tries her hardest to stay awake. The fatigue that weighs her down is different from that of a migraine, and when Lillian insists she drink even when Lena refuses, Lena groggily realizes the truth.

She's being drugged.

As soon as she realizes it, Lena uses her scant waking moments devising a plan. When she wakes, she's careful to remain still, and buy herself extra moments. Then, one time when Lillian comes to give her more water, Lena sleepily turns away, squirming onto her opposite side.

It's not much of an act-- sleep truely takes her moments later-- but it's enough for Lillian to pause. Then, miraculously, her mother does nothing but release a quiet sigh.

The last thing Lena's aware of before dropping back into slumber is the touch of her mother's hand stroking her hair.

---

That single missed dose proves to make all the difference. The next time Lena wakes, her mind is sharp, and she's able to move like she has control of her body. So when the mattress next dips beside her hip, Lena acts.

Flinging the blankets from her body, she rolls out of the bed and dashes towards the door-- only for a hand to grab her by the hair and fling her back onto the bed. She lands with a cry, and then her vision fills with her brother's face, contorted with rage.

"Lex!" she yelps, struggling to push him off of her. "Get off me! Lex!"

She fights with everything she has, until Lex's palm cracks against her cheek with stunning force. Lena groans, seeing stars. Her brother uses the opportunity to squeeze her jaw open and pour the contents of the water glass into her mouth.

Sputtering, Lena chokes, struggling to spit it back in his face, but soon his hand seals tight over her mouth and nose. Lena desperately lashes out, fingers hooking into claws to swipe at his face. Lex's arms are longer; he simply locks his elbow, pushing against her mouth and nose to pull out of reach.

"Swallow it." Lex's voice is unlike anything Lena has ever heard from him before. It's dark, dispassionate-- cruel. "Or drown in your own bed. Your choice."

Lena holds out as long as she can. But when her breath runs out, and her lungs start to inhale the water trapped in her mouth, reflex takes over. She swallows.

Only then does Lex release her, shoving away from the bed to leave her choking and sputtering to clear her airway between gasps for breath.

"You brought this on yourself," he informs hed. "If you had just stayed the way you were, and done what you were told--"

"Fuck you--!"

Another blow catches Lena across the face. Stars dance across her vision. When she groans, blinking quickly to clear her vision, she hears Lex sigh.

"Now look what you made me do."

Lena looks at him, saying nothing, suddenly very afraid of her brother. She recoils when he steps closer, but can't avoid the hand that grips her chin tightly, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"Will stay here until you learn to behave. After everything this family has done for you, you at least owe us this."

With that, he lets her go and stalks towards the door. Lena scrambles after him, but her legs don't seem to work right. She slams to her knees, the world warping around her.

"Lex, no! Lex, please don't do this!"

The door closes before she can crawl to stop it. She hears the lock click from the outside. When she turns the knob, it doesn't budge.

"Lex! LEX!"

---

Kara's plan is simple. Wait for Lex to leave, storm the manor, and haul Lena out of it.

Jack has a tad more finesse.

When they see Lex's car peel out of the drive, Jack and Kara slip in past the closing gates. Jack pounds on the front door until it opens to reveal Lillian's cold countenance.

"You know this is wrong," Jack tells her, his tone beseeching. "Lena doesn't want this, and you know Lionel wouldn't either."

Lionel had doted on his daughter before his death-- a death that occurred in the five years Lena had lost-- and loved her with every fiber of his being. He would be outraged to know his wife had been party to Lex's mistreatment of Lena.

Calling on her late husband does the trick. Lillian finally steps aside, allowing Jack and Kara to dash inside, thundering up the stairs to Lena's bedroom door, which they find locked with no answer from within when they call for Lena.

"The key," Kara demands, rounding on Lillian when the woman catches up behind them.

Lillian shakes her head, her hands trembling. "I don't have it. Lex--"

With a roar, Kara turns away, throwing herself against the door. The barrier is solid oak, too heavy to result in anything but a sore shoulder for Kara. She kicks at the doorknob, but all it does is create a racket.

"Together," Jack prompts. Kara nods. "Three, two, one!"

Together, they drive their shoulders into the door. This time, the jamb gives way, splintering to send the door caving inwards.

Just inside, the door butts against the bare skin of Lena's legs.

"LENA!" Kara slides to her knees next to her (ex)wife, gently cupping Lena's face in her hands. "Lena, please..."

Fumbling for a pulse, Kara almost sobs when she finds one, strong and steady. One side of Lena's face, however, is swollen.

"He struck her," Lillian whispers. "He's never done that."

Kara stares at her, this woman who had allowed such treatment to be visited upon her daughter. Her anger wilts when she finds confusion mingled with concern as the Luthor matriarch stares at her daughter.

"If she had just obeyed him. If she had just done as he said. It all would have been fine..." Before Kara could fire back a scathing response, Lillian continues. "But I know my daughter... she would never stop fighting."

"Kara, we have to move, now," Jack urges. Kara nods.

Scooping Lena into her arms, Kara pushes to her feet. For all that Alex has teased her for the time spent in the gym following the divorce, Kara is now grateful for it. With Jack intercepting the doors in their way, they make their way back downstairs and to the front door.

There, Kara stops, and turns back to Lillian.

"If you love Lena," she says quietly. "Don't tell him where she is."

Lillian lifts her chin, but in the end it won't matter. "Lex will know where to look regardless."

Kara already knows. They'll have to leave the city, go somewhere far away where Lex would never think to look for them. Kara will uproot every facet of her life to protect Lena, and do it gladly.

With a final nod to Lillian, Kara and Jack make their escape. Jack floors it from the drivers seat, with Kara cradling Lena in the backseat.

Whatever came next, they would face it headon. Together.

#supercorp #the vow au au #this has turned into a thing #its the au of the au #bc i dont think this would happen in a classic movie #this is far too melodramatic for that #but for fic purposes?#its perfect #for the actual au it would probably be embezzlement or something that makes lena cut ties with her family #i might tackle that too #bc it has merit #this just took precedent

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kneelingshadowsalome · 4 months

Text

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

The candle goes out before you reach the surface.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you cold?” You whisper.

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

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

“Good. I need your heat.”

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

“Come take it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...Do what again?”

“Touch me… With your hand.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Then sleep, Bull of Crete...”

…

You wake up to his cock pressing against you.

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

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

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

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

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

“No I don’t,” you hurry to whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, it’s not. We need to get up.”

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

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

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

“You need more heat?” He asks softly.

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

“No… I’m hungry.”

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

“Hmm. No mice up here,” he ponders.

“You eat mice…?”

“Sometimes.”

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

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

“How do you know that…?”

“The air smells different.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gods damn him…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he doesn’t want to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pay? With what?”

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

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

“I will take their heads before that.”

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

“Bulls don’t have kings.”

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

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

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

“You’re the first to think that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“How did you… How did it...”

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

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

“Where is Theseus of Athens?”

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

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

So…

The Minotaur has reached the king.

…

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is the maiden of the crossroads?”

He came back for you, after all…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your body is singing, singing, singing.

It’s not a request… Or a proposal.

It’s a god, taking what’s his.

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your mother was heartless. And wrong.”

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

“But you’re not.”

“...What?”

“Heartless.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you… kill her?”

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

“How could I kill my own maker?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you say so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Beautiful, aren’t they...?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that why you took me?”

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps,” you confess.

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

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

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

“I’ll teach you.”

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

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

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

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

“You know how to please women?”

“No. But you could teach me.”

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

And then…

“Do you know how to fuck?”

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

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

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

“I…”

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

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

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

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

Or a leash.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I hurt you...?”

“No… But this is not mating…”

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

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

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

“Guide me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does this feel good to you too…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you always like this…?”

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

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

“No. It’s just when…”

“When you want to fuck?”

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

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

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

“You’re not a–”

“Keep telling yourself that, little maiden.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” you smile. “This feels right…”

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

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

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

“What? No…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Asterion.”

Starry one…

Of course.

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

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

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

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

“It makes you immortal.”

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

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

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

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

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