Eight Arms to Hold You (Mer! Otto Octavius/Reader)
Monster march prompt for the 21st is: Merperson. This fill is NSFW.
Thank god for aunts who never married and clear June skies.
The former is the only reason you can lay claim to a house with a path down to the beach; Aunt Peg never had kids, just investments, and one of them paid off for her to live comfortably overlooking the Pacific ocean. When she died, she left the place to you with a note reminding you how good sea air is for clearing the mind.
The latter is the reason you’re hauling your paddleboard down the calm bay you live by; one more week and the place will be swamped with summer visitors flooding down from the beach parking lot and all along the shore. For now, you have it all to yourself.
Well, almost to yourself.
It’s September, and you’ve only been in the house a few weeks. Your new job hasn’t started, and money is tight, even without owing anything on the house. So you’ve gotten creative and taken advantage of the fact you live next to the sea, AKA a place humans have gotten food from for millenia.
Trouble is, someone keeps taking your crab pots (you found them in the garage). Which is especially frustrating, since you took the time to paddleboard them into prime spots.
Both are still in place when you get there. As you’re hauling the first onto the board, the second quickly moves away.
What the hell? Does a seal have it or something?
You turn the board fast enough to grab the top and pull. Whatever’s below you pulls back.
You pull harder. It yanks, and you’re in the water before you even know what’s happened.
It’s only up to your shoulders, but it’s cold and murkier than usual due to a coming storm, making you shiver. You’re still holding the crab pot, and clutch it in surprise when a mans face emerges from the water. His short dark hair is a mess from the waves, and deep brown eyes glare at you from a face that’s at once noble and soft. Your heart does a little flip in spite of your annoyance.
“That’s mine.” He tips his chin at the pot.
“Yeah, no.” You step back, “I put it out here, it’s got my name on it, and you just saw me hauling in the other one. You want to crab, there’s plenty of places in town to get your own.”
“It’s mine because it’s on. My. turf.” He swims closer, the movement smoother than any you’ve ever seen. His arms aren’t even pushing the water.
“Excuse me? No one owns the beaches, or the bay. And if we’re going by houses” you jerk your thumb over your shoulder, “mine is literally right there.”
He smirks, rising up to show a broad chest and handsomely fat midsection,“No one told you the stories about this spot?”
“If you’re going to pretend to be a mermaid you’re gonna need some…proof…” You tense as a tentacle coils around your ankle.
“You were saying?” He smirks.
You swallow down your nerves, “Please don’t untether the board while you’re down there.”
He tugs on the cable connecting you to the drifting paddleboard, still smirking, and then the tentacle retreats.
Just to be safe, you take another step back toward shallower water, “If you’re a merman, why take my traps? You’re built to hunt under water.”
A red tentacle, the kind you associate with the pacific octopus in the local aquarium, rises from the water and touches your shoulder. Another mirrors it on your other side, and under the water you feel one settle on either hip.
“How many do you count?”
“Four.”
“And how many should I have?”
“Eight.”
“Good.” The smile is condescending, “I was in an accident and the four I lost haven’t grown back. Until they grow back, I can use some help getting lunch.”
“How long will that take?”
“What’s it to you?”
You sigh, wondering if you’ll regret the favor you’re about to offer, “Because I want to know how long I’ll be splitting my catch for.”
The answer turned out to be, “about a month.” Any day you set traps, you’d meet with the mer, Otto, in the evening to divide them up. His business-like sorting of the crustaceans gradually moved to curiosity about what you were doing in the house and why you were always out on the board.
“I have to keep in shape; the place in town that does paddle and kayak rentals hired me on as an instructor and a guide.”
Otto, you learned, was a researcher. Apparently a well-regarded one in the field of marine energy generation. The fact he knows professors at the small college a few miles down makes you wonder if students there sign NDAs about their instructors.
He announced his healed tentacles in a startling way.
“Ah!” You laugh as the board rocks from the cargo Otto just deposited; a sizeable tuna, still twitching.
“Only seemed fair to bring you one.” Four tentacles grip the side of the board as you carefully sit down to talk with him. The ones that have regrown came in mottled black and silver; you’ve never seen anything like them.
“Don’t know what I’ll do with my evenings if I’m not out here splitting crabs with you.”
“You still have to get them for yourself.”
“Uh.” You smile, sheepish, “My job started like a week and half after we met. I’ve been getting paid. But I didn’t want you to be hungry.” You manage a charming smile, “Besides, you’ve grown on me.”
A silver tentacle settles across your hand; it’s the first time he’s touched you since his initial attempt at intimidation, “I can come on the beach long enough for a picnic. Tuesday nights? At least until the weather turns.”
“Is that your way of saying I can’t make you eat in my bath tub?”
He flicks water at you with his hand, “Depends. Is it roomy?”
You have not, so far, attempted to fit Otto in your tub. Instead, on Tuesday nights you haul a blanket down to the shore. Sometimes you build a bonfire to cook the clams or fish that Otto caught that day. Other nights you bring down whatever you made for dinner, or surrender to a long day by ordering pizza (this does lead to what the two of you refer to, with shudders, as the “anchovy pineapple incident”).
When the winter weather hit, you bought a one-person pop up shelter. It worked most days, although during the King Tides you and Otto simply raised your plates in cheers from a distance before he sunk back into the sea and you closed your window against the spray and wind.
Since the start of spring, when tide and weather allow, you take your coffee on the beach as Otto lazes in the shallows, talking back and forth about the plans for your respective days.
You’ve spotted him at work, too. He usually stays under the water unless there are other people swimming or wading in the bay. The first time he did it, you had a mild heart attack seeing a human face staring up from the waves. Now you easily pick up the colors of his tentacles, hair, and skin flashing in the water beneath you.
If you’re holding still he’ll tease you, sneak a tentacle up around your ankle or set a very confused crab onto the board just to make you laugh. You hold onto those moments on the days when he’s listless, when he waves at you and disappears just, “so you won’t worry I’m dead.”
(You’ve never worried that. You chalk it up to projection).
On clear, calm days like today, it doesn’t take him long to appear. You bring the board to a stop and sit down, legs dangling in the water as you watch the seagulls squabble on the bar and the pelicans splash down after their lunch.
It’s warm enough that you’re in your swimsuit, a teal two piece with boy short bottoms and a halter top that ties around the neck and your lower back. Your tits seem hell bent on falling out of it. When you work, it doesn’t matter; your life jacket covers it.
Really, it doesn’t matter today either. There’s only one other set of eyes around, and you know he likes the view.
A tentacle coils around your ankle. You smile.
“Hey, sunshine.” Otto tosses the seawater from his hair as he lightly rests his arms on the side of the board. His elbow rests against the very bag that earned you your nickname.
“Maps, a whistle, a compass” you count off the contents of the floating case secured inside the mesh bag at the front of your board.
“All that just to be out here?” He gestures to the bay, the mouth of which is very far from your current spot.
“It’s technically required by law to have it on me.”
“Including the signal mirror?” He points to it through the plastic.
“....I have that in case I get swept out to sea and have to signal a plane or boat. What?” You furrow your brows as he laughs.
“Well you’re just a little ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”
“Enjoying the weather?” Otto continues.
You nod, “How were classes yesterday?”
“Tiring. It’s so hard to get them to focus sometimes…”
As he describes his latest lessons, you watch his tentacles. The longer you’ve known each other, the more you notice they act without him seeming to notice. Like they’re tapped into his subconscious.
One of the silver ones slips behind your back, toying with the knot. Otto, busy describing the fusion of hydro and solar power, doesn’t notice until you clear your throat.
“Something on your mind?”
“No” Otto retracts the offending tentacle to your knee.
You look around; still no other people in sight. No time like the present for an experiment you’re dying to try.
You undo the back knot on your top and pull the fabric off.
“Well, hello there.” Otto is fully taking in the view even as he keeps his tentacles to himself.
“May as well enjoy the privacy before the high season, right?” You reach into your bag and pull out sunscreen.
Otto watches you rub it into your tits. You exaggerate the motion, feel yourself up as you tip your head back with a sigh. Basking in both the sun and his gaze warms you from head to toe.
“If I lay down, can you get my back?”
“Of course.” Otto takes the tube of sunscreen with one tentacle as you carefully shift chest-down on the board. Otto’s hands are cool from the water, trace your back in tidy swoops as he rubs the sunscreen into place. He finishes by skimming his fingertips along the top edge of your shorts.
Resting your cheek on your folded hands, you murmur, “Thanks.”
His face comes back into view, now mere inches from your own.
“Were you just stopping by to say hi? Or can you stay and chat?” You watch water droplets bead and roll on his shoulders as he bobs next to you. You want to chase them across his sun-warmed skin with your tongue.
“I can stay.” He settles two tentacle tips on the board along with his hands.
You gingerly run a finger over the tentacle closest to you, “I’ve been wondering, are these exactly the same as an octopus?”
“Not quite. They’re not as prone to leaving marks on skin, and we can’t hold as much of our body weight with them. There's a lot of debate in mer scientific communities about whether our traits, like tentacles or fins, are because we share a common ancestor with fish or convergent evolution.” He coils one around your fingers, “we do get a lot of sensory input from them.”
“Oh?” You press a single kiss to the tentacle, “tell me more.”
Otto licks his lips, “They provide additional” he gasps as you drag your tongue along the tentacle, the texture alien but not unpleasant, “information in a way that's hard to, to explain to a human--sunshine if you keep doing that you're going to end up in here with me.”
“Like you have a reflex that’ll make you flip the paddleboard or…?”
“Like I'm going to pull you in with me and do some very thorough exploration of my own.” He purrs.
You sit up, continuing to kiss the tentacle that’s now squeezing your hand, “you're quite the flirt, Otto.”
A tentacle wraps around each of your thighs, yanking you into the water. You laugh, manage to throw your arms around his neck and wrap your legs around his waist with minimal flailing.
“Hey.” You smile as more tentacles coil comfortingly around your back and legs, keeping you afloat.
“Hey yourself.” He rests your foreheads together as he his hands caress your sides.
“Are mers generally pretty forward?” You nuzzle his cheek, “or are you just bold?”
“I’m bold. You’re the one who started undressing.” He pushes your hair away from your shoulders to kiss them, “to answer your question, usually there's a lot of emphasis on chasing or otherwise "pursuing" the other person. I was never much for literal interpretations but I did pursue Rosie other ways. Like reading poetry.” He blushes.
“I do like a man- –merman?-- with a romantic streak.”
“In that case, let me show you something.” He lays a tentacle, one of the silver ones, across your chest. Except it’s not grey mottled with the black anymore; it’s the same teal as your swimsuit.
“When mers have their eye on someone, they start color matching. Sometimes it’s on purpose, other times it’s a subtle change.”
“And which is it this time?”
“On purpose.” He cups your face, runs his thumbs along your jaw, “I’ve known for a while that sharing the bay with you is what made the last year bearable. The other day, you were paddling out on your own, sun in your hair, and all I could do was watch you and wish you were in the water with me, letting me show you exactly what I can offer a mate.”
You trace a finger through the dark hair on his chest, “Is now the time to admit I’ve been measuring the few dates I’ve had this year against you?”
“Is that so?” He plants slow kisses across your face, “how do they stack up?”
“Badly. One thought my job meant I was stupid, one was just too bony for my taste” you grope his belly, “neither held my attention the way you do. Or brought me fresh caught seafood, but I think you have a natural edge there so I didn’t count that as a strike against them.”
“Bet neither of them are as good at pearl diving as me.” Two tentacles yank your shorts off and Otto’s fingers find your clit.
“I, I don’t think that’s what the term means.”
“I’ll use my mouth another time. I need it for something else.”
He pulls you into a kiss, salt on his lips and moans on his tongue when you kiss him back. Kissing Otto is like conversing with him; it feels easy, like you’re in sync, and when you’re done all you want is to do it for at least another hour.
“Tell me what you want.” You roll your hips into his touch.
“To fuck you.”
You nip his lower lip, “I don’t want to kill the vibe but can we even–oh, oh” you moan as something soft but solid rubs at your entrance.
“I asked around. Turns out the answer is yes.” He looks immensely pleased with himself.
“Oh good, oh god, is it fucking prehensile or something?” You squirm as his cock easily slides into you.
“Just very flexible.” The tip curves along the roof of your cunt. When it presses against your G-spot, you moan and wrap your legs more tightly around him.
A tentacle wraps around your ankles, “Just to make sure you can’t swim away.”
“Not a chance, fuck, Otto.” You tangle your hands in his hair as he mouths hungrily at your tits. After a moment, he decides that isn’t enough, and tentacles curl and tease at every inch of them his mouth isn’t savoring.
As his cock presses and writhes inside you, your odds of ever being satisfied by a human lover again continue plummeting; his hands play with your hair and caress your neck, while the remaining tentacles squeeze your ass, pet your thighs, and otherwise make you feel like the most coveted treasure in the sea.
A flick of red; tentacle number eight coils around your board, making sure it doesn’t float off.
“Such a thoughtful mate.”
Otto groans happily, barely raising his mouth from your chest to reply, “You know it, sunshine.”
A rough squeeze on both your tits makes you gasp, only for a sensation between your legs to draw your attention. Something cool and flexible is teasing your folds and your clit, little tendrils coiling against your skin.
You giggle at the pleasingly novel sensation, “It’s like it’s trying to cover the whole thing.”
“It is. More to the point, it’s making sure nothing spills out. And that you can’t get away before I’m done laying in you.”
“I, I’m sorry did you say-”
“It won’t happen today.” He kisses your cheek reassuringly, “it’ll only ever happen if you ask me to. Even then, conditions have to be just right.”
“But it doesn’t know that. Fascinating.” Your nails dig into his shoulders as the tendrils stroke your clit, “Fuck, fuck that’s good, okay if I black out when I cum you have to promise not, not to let me drown.” You bury your face against his neck as you cum, his cock thrusting more vigorously as you tighten around it.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart, I’ve got you, god I’ve been dying to feel you do that.” The cock inside you pulses, thrusts, then pulses again, “my mate, my sunshine, yes.”
The tentacles tighten almost uncomfortably for a moment as he hides a moan in your chest. Slowly, his cock releases you and he slips free.
“Y’know” you murmur, petting his cheek, “you’re making a really good case for me keeping you in my bathtub.”
“I’ll consider it.” He gives you a teasing smile before kissing you again. The expression turns embarrassed, “uh, you may need a swimsuit top with more coverage from now on.”
You glance down; your tits and upper chest are covered in sucker marks.
You kiss his cheek as you float in his arms, “Worth it.”
Since I gave you a taste of my work in progress for the Dafoeverse fics I've been writing last week, I decided to give you a dose of what I have written for the Molinaverse fics that have been put on indefinite hiatus.
Because I love yall, I appreciate your patience with my ever changing phases (like I'm the goddamn moon), and I've left you on read for far too long.
Also, side note, if any of you have suggestions about how I should go about continuing any of these WIPs, please let me know in the replies, my ask box, or DMs. Thank you! 😘
---
Covert Affairs (this one goes out to @freddiefredfive)
Rafi was talking to Donnie when they walked back in and Leo was nowhere in sight. Kazia figured he was back upstairs with Jeanine, so didn't think anything of it.
But the remaining brothers were talking and laughing loudly and didn't even notice that Tadeusz and Kazia were in the room until Rafi noticed the young woman.
He was staring offly hard with his big brown eyes that perfectly complimented his baby face and reddish cheeks.
He looked like Leo, but had skin as smooth as a baby's bottom and his hair was curly and styled nicely on his head.
Kazia could immediately tell that he probably thought highly of himself, since the threads he was wearing were of high expense and quality.
"Well, hello," he said seductively before he realized that Tadeusz was standing next to her.
Tadeusz scowled at him before he nervously laughed and put his head down.
But next thing he knew, he was grabbed by his collar by the older, taller, stronger man.
"Kazia's mine, got it?" he angrily said before he plucked his head.
"Yeah, yeah. I was just playing, buddy. You know Layla is my girl. I love her so much...I just wish she wanted to marry me..."
"I don't care," he sternly said. "Now, let's have a chat."
He dragged the poor young man away, much to Kazia and Donnie's horror.
"You like them rough, huh?" Donnie teased after.
"Not usually," Kazia admitted before pushing a strand of hair behind her ear and blushing. "But Tadeusz is different."
"If you say so," Donnie moaned.
Meanwhile, Tadeusz brought Rafi to one of the backrooms and threw him down before he closed and locked it behind them.
"Who's that Rudy guy?" he sternly asked.
"Tadeusz, do you have history with him or something? Why do you care?"
"My punching fist might be out of commission, but I'll use my other on your pretty little face if you don't answer what I asked you!"
"Okay, okay," Rafi flinched. "He's just a friend of mine. Well, actually he knew Layla first. They have mutual friends and when she introduced him to me, I knew he would be a perfect fit for our familgia."
"Oh, I see," he softly said as he paced. "So we don't even properly vet members anymore. Oh, silly me. Now, tell me Rafi, why do you think you can trust him?"
"I mean I am a good judge in character."
"Yes, Layla is a lovely girl," Tadeusz sarcastically said. "But you really aren't cut out for this life. What would you do if your brothers' lives were snuffed out...one by one? What if you had no one to hold you hand?"
Rafi was about to reply before Tadeusz cut him off again.
"Because I was once naive like you. I thought seeking quick, easy money would be heaven in Belarus...but it wasn't. I was betrayed many times and every time it became harder and harder to take their lives away," he coldly said.
"Until it wasn't anymore. It was just something that had to be done. You cross me, you die. It's as simple as that. So I say all of this to say, Rafi, you better watch that Rudy fella or I'll be forced to take both of you out, painfully...very painfully. Got it?!"
"Yes, of course."
"Good, glad we had this talk. Now come on. You didn't properly introduce yourself to MY Kazia."
"Right," he moaned as he trembled while getting up.
But Tadeusz just yanked him again and brought him back into the room by his arm. He dropped him again and the young man fell so hard it made both Donnie and Kazia jump.
"Hello, Kazia," he greeted. "I'm Raphael Scaglioni, but everyone calls me Rafi. Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too," she softly said as he got up.
She shook his hand and then he went over by Donnie.
Kazia looked at Tadeusz confused, but he just put his hand on her shoulder and kissed her cheek.
"Nie przejmuj się. Chciałem tylko zapytać go o Rudy ' ego." (Don't be alarmed. I just wanted to ask him about Rudy), he told her. "Rozumie tylko siłę." (He only understands force)
"Nie jestem zaskoczony," (I'm not surprised), she replied back. "On naprawdę wydaje się trochę przytłumiony." (He really does seem a little dim)
"To dlatego, że jest." (That's because he is)
"Prawo." (Right)
"Everything alright, Tadeusz?" Donnie asked as his little brother still hid behind him.
"Yes, everything is fine," he softly said.
Donnie didn't believe him though. He only spoke Polish, usually to himself, when he was angry or frustrated around them. Kazia nervously giggled before her stomach started growling.
"Sorry."
"No need to apologize," Tadeusz assured with another kiss on her cheek. "Well, if you would excuse us, I'm gonna take Kazia back upstairs to eat and meet Layla."
"Of course," Donnie said before they both headed back up the secret staircase behind the replica Trevi Fountain.
The secret door closed by itself behind them once their feet touched the hardwood floor of the cafe and when it did, it startled Marla and Layla. They both jumped before they both smiled at the young couple.
Tadeusz and Kazia smiled back but Kazia noticed that Jeanine and Angelo weren't there anymore.
But there was one customer at one of the tables by the painted Union Jack that was munching on a croissant while watching videos on their laptop.
This person was wearing noise canceling headphones, so they were completely unaware of what was going on around them.
---
Jealousy
"I don't know what I want to wear," Alice whined as she frantically looked through all of her clothes hanging up in the closet.
Her husband, meanwhile, was sitting on their bed, just watching her.
He began to worry that she was gonna have a panic attack again, so he tried to lighten the mood.
"I don't see why you can't wear what you have on now. You look gorgeous."
Alice giggled.
"Thank you, Aldie. But I want to make a good first impression and an red and brown plaid overall skirt and creme shirt just isn't gonna cut it," she said. "I want to wear something a little fancier."
"I don't see what the problem is. We met Rodney before and in overalls."
"I know, but he has Shaye with him. I do want to start making some friends around here."
"She's no friend until I vet her," Alden grumbled.
"Of course," Alice quickly agreed. "I trust your judgment."
The way she said that made Alden worry again since she sounded like she was about to cry. So he got up and walked over to her, rubbing her shoulders again to comfort her.
"Alice, it's gonna be alright," he whispered. "Although we are safe, I still can't help but be cautious. I don't want anyone to hurt you the way he did again."
"Oh, Alden. It isn't that. I just...even far away from home I still feel unsafe. I hate that I can't just trust people anymore."
"Not all people are untrustworthy," he said before he moved his hands down to her midsection. "Just take a deep breath."
Alice did as she was instructed and as she did so, she suddenly felt herself being picked up and brought over to their bed.
She kept her eyes closed though and allowed Alden to put her down on the middle of the bed.
"Keep deep breathing," he instructed before he hiked her skirt up and slowly took her panties off.
Once discarded, he began to softly kiss her inner thighs before he finally went for the kill. Alice was still trying to keep her deep breathing up during all of this, but then her breath hitched as soon as she felt his tongue inside her.
She, at first, gasped before she got her breaths back up and began to deep breath again. Her heart was beating so fast in her chest as her lover kept going, teasing an amazing orgasm out of her. She tried to hold it back and tightly gripped the sheets below her, but eventually she broke and loudly moaned as she climaxed.
But she didn't just climax, she also squirted a little which amused her husband. She could clearly hear him giggling between her legs, before the sound of joyous slurping invaded her auditory sense.
"I'm sorry," she nervously apologized.
"Don't be," he whispered before he kissed her lower lips. "I haven't gotten you that excited in quite some time."
She giggled.
"Yeah, I haven't had that reaction since before...the first time...he appeared..." she realized before she started to cry. "I'm sorry, Aldie. I just...I just..."
Alden immediately picked himself up and grabbed Alice before he held her in his lap and began to sing to her again to calm her down.
"It's alright, Misu. I won't let him hurt you. I won't let him get near you ever again."
Alice didn't respond, she just kept crying with her head nudged on his shoulder. He gently rubbed her back, still singing a little to her.
But as he sung, his mind went dark...real dark.
He knew he would gain so much joy taking away the life of the man that hurt his wife so. But he had to stop himself.
He had to.
He couldn't risk going to jail. It wasn't worth it.
But yet, it felt so inticing. It felt like a sure fire way to get rid of him once and for all, but he knew Alice would be against it. It was her battle to fight, after all he was her old flame.
She never wanted to put Alden in the middle of this, but now here he was. Here he was miles away from the place he used to call home, consoling his anxious and brow beaten wife in their so-say dream home.
The man took everything from them. So was he in the wrong to want to cause him the most harm he could?
He still kept his singing up, well until Alice stopped crying and moved her hand to his cheek.
He just looked at her before she leaned over and kissed him.
"I love you so much, Aldie," she softly said.
"I love you too, Misu."
She lightly smiled and was about to kiss him again before her phone began to ring.
Alden kissed her cheek and reached for the phone that was closer to him before he handed it to her.
"Hey Nick," she greeted. "What's up?"
"I just finished watching your first local interview," he started. "I love the storefront. It's gorgeous."
"Thank you," Alden smugly said. "It makes a perfect bookstore."
"It really does. Nice taste, man," he said with a laugh. "Also I can't believe Lori Amato is your cousin."
"That's what I'm saying! I was fangirling a little too hard. But she's so nice," Alice chirped. "His whole extended family is so sweet. They've been nothing but friendly."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that. I also see that you have a lot of new fangirls, Alden. There are a lot of thirst comments on this video."
"I don't see why. I'm not the stern Dr. Bertanelli of Middleburg University anymore."
"So," Alice huffed. "You're still handsome and fine as hell and these girls agree with me."
"You're not mad?" he asked.
"Why would I be? I don't get jealous like you do," she joked. "They can say whatever they want, but at the end of the day, you're sleeping next to me."
He chuckled and kissed her nose.
"Also, I noticed that the amount of views and comments on our first video with Alden performing with us as Java Joe's has gone up by a lot."
"Really?" they both asked.
"Yep, really. We also have a lot of returning reviewers to our second performance with Alden. Most of the viewers are from Navassa, of course."
"Wow, well maybe we'll have to get the band back together...for the sake of the fans," Alden said.
"I'd be down. I'm sure Quinn would be too. Adam's a father now so it might be a bit difficult and then Mitzi and Maisie have their own band, Ungaii, now but maybe I could intice them."
---
Ring Around the Rosie
"Dinner's ready!" Sabrina called from the stairs while Otto and the actuators were setting up the dining room table and bringing the stew and the freshly-baked soda bread to the table.
As soon as Flo placed the last fork down, Rosie came down with Mallory in her grasp, while Margaux clung to her free arm.
She was giggling with them which made Sabrina smile before Rosie put Mallory down for both of the girls to greet their mother.
They both hugged and kissed Sabrina, then ran to the table and took their seats.
"They're such wonderful girls," Rosie told Sabrina as they walked to the table together.
"Yes, yes they are," Sabrina chirped before she took her designated seat.
Otto led Rosie to her seat while Harry cut the bread and Flo and Moe helped scoop the stew unto Margaux and Mallory's bowls.
"Daddy," Margaux asked.
"Yes, Rosie Posie?" he answered back while he took his seat, watching as Flo and Moe went ahead and put the stew in the adults' bowls too.
She giggled.
"What's this?"
"It's Irish Stew and Soda Bread," Otto answered. "Thom Donaghue's recipe."
"Who's that?" Mallory asked.
"My father," Rosie excitedly answered with a big smile, making the girls giggle. "And your father learned the recipe and now he's able to make it for us."
"He's never made it before," Margaux admitted.
"I wanted to make it for Rosie. To welcome her back into our family," Otto explained.
"It was my favorite meal my father would cook for us," Rosie added. "It was also the first meal he had with my parents. He was so nervous to meet them but then he and my father bonded over Tolkien."
"Who's Tolkien?" Margaux asked.
"He's a wonderful author. He wrote fantasy novels. His literature was a great escape for me when I was younger."
"He wrote The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings," Rosie added. "Are you familiar with those books?"
"I didn't know they were books. But I know of the movies," Margaux answered.
"Otto, you need to get them into the books," Rosie nudged. "Have I taught you nothing? They love literature. I'm sure they wouldn't mind sharing your love of Tolkien with you."
"How many books did you read to them upstairs?" Sabrina suddenly asked.
"Just three. But they are so inquisitive and curious. They're two bright little girls. Well advanced beyond their age."
"Thank you!" they both chirped.
"Would you be interested in learning more about Tolkien?" he asked them.
They both nodded, so he said, "Well, alright. Guess we're gonna be taking another trip to the library."
The girls both cheered.
"But until then, we can watch The Hobbit tonight if you would like. We do have Family Movie Night on Fridays. And Rosie, you're welcome to watch the movie with us."
"Where can we watch The Hobbit?" Otto asked Sabrina.
"We have a subscription with the parent company of our SmartTV. You can rent it or buy it on their website."
"Oh, well guess we have our movie for movie night!" he cheered.
Rosie giggled after taking her first bite of the stew.
"Otto, you really outdid yourself. This is really good."
"Thank you," he said with a genuine smile.
"You're welcome," she said before taking another bite.
"I suppose he used to spoil you too with his cooking."
"We would switch nights to cook, but when it was his turn. He always blew me away. I'm not surprised though. Maria was a wizard in the kitchen. She always had the best side dishes at my family's parties."
"Maria was close to your parents?" Sabrina asked Rosie.
"Oh, yeah. After his father died, she would come around all the time. We loved having her."
"How nice," Sabrina cooed.
"Sabrina," Rosie started. "I must say I love the way you decorated this home. Otto told me you picked out most of the decor and I'm impressed. Also I love the crushed flowers hanging on the walls in the guest room. It just takes me back to our old apartment and my old office at the university."
"I figured you would," she said. "We actually bought those for our old apartment when it was just us two. Otto told me how much you loved crushed flowers so I decided to get them since I love them too."
"My mother and I used to make scrapbooks of different flowers we would find around the yard," Rosie started. "I would pick them and show them to her before we would crush them and add them to the book."
"Small world," Sabrina chirped. "That's what I used to do with my grandmother back in Atlanta."
"No way!" Rosie chirped. "Well, now we have another reason why Otto fell for you."
"I guess so," she joked. "But wait, are you from NYC?"
"No, no. I'm from Rochester but moved to NYC when I got accepted to Columbia University."
"Oh, gotcha. I'm from Atlanta originally, but moved here to pursue my dreams of being on Broadway. Of course my dreams changed when I met Otto and especially when we had the girls, but I love my life. I wouldn't change a thing."
"Glad to hear it," Rosie said. "It's funny because my dreams changed too when I met Otto on those steps. I was planning on moving to Belfast and being a professor there, but then he knocked me off my feet with his science know-how and dorky smile."
"Am I that charming?" he asked before blushing.
"Don't flatter yourself too much," Rosie warned. "No one looks good with a big head."
"Fair," he moaned before taking a bite of his soda bread.
"Mommy," Mallory asked.
"Yes, Muffin?"
"Can Rosie stay with us?"
"Yeah, can she?"
"Well, I hope she can. Your father did set up the guest room all nice for her."
"Rosie?" Margaux asked with big puppy dog eyes. "Would you like to stay with us?"
"I would love to," she answered before looking at Otto. "I see she has your puppy dog eyes."
"Yeah, she's my little twin."
"Daddy, can she tell us a bedtime story tonight?" Margaux asked.
"Am I not good enough to read you a story anymore?" he asked with a whiny tone. "I thought you liked Story Time with Sailor Aubrey."
"We do, daddy," Margaux assured. "But we..."
"Margaux, how about this. What if Sailor Aubrey had a first mate? How about we have Story Time with Sailor Aubrey and First Mate Annie?"
"Anne is her middle name," Otto whispered to Sabrina, noticing her confused face.
"Yay! I like that! Can we do that, daddy?"
"Sure we can, Rosie Posie," he told her. "Thank you, Rosie."
"Of course. I hope you don't mind, Sabrina."
"Oh, no. I don't. I let Otto handle story time. I handle bath time."
"Okay, good. The last thing I want to do is ruin your groove."
"Oh, no, you're fine, Rosie. Thank you for being considerate though."
"No problem," she said. "So what's for dessert?"
---
Jolly Ol' Saint Otto
Imag'n Toy Boutique was not too far from their Chelsea townhome, so it was a quick, quiet drive.
Their parking lot was behind the building, so Otto slowly turned the corner and parked in the empty space next to the back entrance.
He got out of the car first, taking in the crisp cool air as his breath was first taken away in a wisp of cold smoke as he took a first.
His actuators, who were once out and free huddled next to his vehicle's heater, quickly tucked themselves tight inside his big coat, jittering from the cold sensation they were forced to feel.
And although Otto was freezing and shaking in his coat, he couldn't help but adore how adorable Sabrina's reaction was to the snow.
The whole ride there she was silently humming Christmas carols while watching the snow fall, making his heart skip a beat.
Slowly, he opened her door and helped her out. She giggled and twirled around in the snow fall after she was released making her cold husband laugh in delight.
Swiftly, he joined her before she ran over and hugged him. He tightly hugged her back, enjoying the fluffinest of her coat as well as her natural warmth before he remembered the task at hand.
"We should have a snowball fight," she cooed as they walked gloved hand and hand to the front entrance.
He chuckled and answered, "After we finish shopping. I think there's probably enough snow in the parking lot to do that."
"Okay," she happily chirped.
They didn't even manage to fully get through the front door before the owner jumped out from the back to greet them.
She had a very happy attitude with a big white smile to boot. Her very curly red hair was bouncing in the reintroduced wind that the open door brought while her blue-green eyes twinkled in the bright lights about her.
"Hello, welcome to Imag'n!" she cheered before she realized who was standing in her doorway.
It was like she lost her train of thought as she stared at her customers, immediately noticing the actuators popping out of the bottom of Otto's coat to enjoy the warmth from the store's heater.
She squealed and ran over to them.
"Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. I can't believe you're in my store. I'm such a big fan, Sabrina."
"Oh," she chirped. "Would you like..."
"Yes!" she immediately answered before she took her phone out of her pocket. "I just want a picture."
Sabrina nervously giggled and replied, "Okay."
Flo moved over by them and picked up the woman's phone much to her surprise. Meanwhile, the others came over to observe her before Otto told them to come back by him.
Reluctantly, they obeyed and Flo was able to take the pictures in peace. She took three and then handed it back to the woman, but her claw stayed opened with a faint glow of yellow.
"Ooh, these are really nice," the lady chirped. "Who knew the tentacles were this good at photography?"
All of them screeched at her comment before Sabrina pet Flo's claw and corrected her.
"They're called actuators. They hate being called tentacles," she said before the other three came by her and pet her cheeks in response.
"Wow, they really like you," she observed. "Not that I should be surprised. I watch your podcast all of the time and they're always all on you."
"You're an Actuatually fan?"
"Am I? I started watching it after I saw you perform as Giselle. You were amazing. And honestly, you two make such a cute couple. Relationship goals."
"Thank you, I think," Otto responded.
Sabrina giggled.
"Oh, where are my manners?" she jokingly asked. "I'm Elinor Whittaker. But you can call me Ellie. I'm the owner of this establishment."
"Oh, we know," Otto remarked. "I read about your grand opening in the Post."
"Funny, I thought you would have said The Daily Bugle."
"I don't read that trash," he grumbled.
"Right," she moaned. "Well, I assume you're here for the little one. I heard the news. Congratulations. You two are gonna be wonderful parents. Now if you just follow me, I'll take you to the baby toys."
"Actually, we're here for..." Sabrina started before Otto stopped her.
He insisted that Elinor take them to the baby toys, despite Sabrina's look of frustration at him.
Elinor didn't notice though and led them to the back of the store nearby the many Lego building sets that were displayed based on difficulty.
The baby toys, which were on the adjacent wall, were displayed flawlessly with each type of toy being put in a certain place.
The sensory and teething toys were right in the center of a buyers focal point while the educational toys were to the right and the plushies and dollies were to the left.
But Otto's eyes lit up when he noticed a plastic toy boat that looked a lot like the one he had as a child.
However, he reserved his excitement until Elinor finally left them alone to browse.
After she left, Sabrina started to softly tease him about the fact that they weren't there to look for toys for Margaux. But he was so fascinated with the boat that he didn't even register her teasing.
Slowly he grasped it in his leather gloved hands and just took in the amazing craftsmanship of it.
Although it was just plastic unlike the wood carved one his abuela gave him decades ago, he still could admire the beautiful paint job reminiscent of his old toy.
He hypothesized that whoever made this really want to put a nice little touch on it.
Sabrina soon noticed his fascination and the little admiring twinkle in his eye, which made her warmly smile.
Leave it to Otto to find the simple, little things in life so intriguing, she thought.
But she did admire that about him as well though.
"Starlight, we should get this for Margaux."
"Octi, we came here to shop for..."
"I know, I know," he playfully huffed. "But I want our little girl to have a piece of my childhood."
"Piece of your childhood?" she asked curiously.
"I used to have a toy boat just like this," he happily explained. "But it was handmade...wood carved. My abuela made it for me. She painted it almost exactly the same."
"Your abuela was a woodworker?" she asked in a surprised tone. She knew that his mother, Maria, was half Spanish so the fact that he called his grandmother 'abuela' didn't confuse her, but what did confuse her was how fondly he spoke of her.
He rarely talked about his family other than his mother, but it was a welcomed info-drop nonetheless.
"Yeah," he said with a bright smile as he kept looking at the boat in his hands. By then the actuators also fully crept out of his big coat and admired it too, their lights glowing as pink as Otto's pale face.
"She was a woodworker and a potter. Her mother was gifted in the work of clay and her father was a carpenter. She was the third of five girls and my great-grandfather was afraid that he wouldn't have anyone to pass the skill on to. But she grasped it real fast and helped him at his shop until she met my Opa. He was on a European tour and they met at a Cafe. They fell in love and eventually moved here. My mother grew up not too far from here."
"You never told me that."
"It never came up," he said with a chuckle. "Maybe I'll show you on the way back home."
"I would like that," she replied. "So I guess you really loved that boat."
"I did. I took it every where I went when I was little. My Opa was an boating enthusiast. He had his own boat that he would take me on all of the time and we even participate in some boat races near the Hudson. We won a couple of tournaments."
"Hmm, so that's why you're so good with your hands," she hummed. "It was all in your hereditary."
He chuckled.
"Yes, well that and many summers with abuela and opa."
---
If you haven't seen my Dafoeverse WIPs and are interested in reading them, you can read them here.
Stay tuned for some Otto & Sabrina and Alden & Alice fics that I shelved until further notice. As well as my long-overdue WIP for Closing Time!
I put it to a vote on several discords as to what I'd write as a holiday fill. Penguin/Reader was the winner! Heads up: this fill is NSFW and uses the trope of sex pollen in a dubcon context (it doesn't stay dubcon for long
Thank you to @bellafarallones for playing in this space on Discord.
The Christmas tree in Gotham City Center is many things; a symbol of holiday cheer, a photo opportunity, the centerpiece of every big ticket celebration from now until New Years Day.
It’s also fucking up your patrol. It’s so big that even from your vantage point on the Tribune building, large portions of downtown are blocked from view.
Ah well, if anyone tries anything on or around the tree, it’ll be a big enough to-do that Batman will deal with it. No one tries to blow up the city center as a means of luring the Shrike into a trap, that much you know.
You tap the side of your glove, bringing up your security alert map. You’ve got every big target on it, as well as locations that attract repeat villain attention for random reasons (proximity to hideouts, favorite restaurants, etc). With the tree-lighting in progress, odds are high someone will pull a robbery, banking on the Bat and his friends being too busy to intervene.
Two minutes later, an alert flashes for the Gotham History Museum.
You summon your wings as you step into the air.
Okay, so technically they’re a physical manifestation of your ability to manipulate gravity, but it took you months to perfect the shape to mimic a raptors. You’ll call them whatever you fucking please.
What most villains, and a lot of heroes, forget is that most museums put windows in their bathrooms to avoid that grim public transportation hub vibe. Which makes entering without tipping off an adversary easier than, say, crashing through a skylight. So you slip in, emerging in the east wing of the museum with no one the wiser.
You make it to the “gems of the medieval world” exhibit be you pick up any movement; improved vision is one of the upsides of your “accident.”
Staying in the shadows, you take in the banners outside the exhibit. The ones announcing the presence of the world-famous “Peacock Diamond.”
Wait, Peacock…
“Seriously, Penguin?” You mutter.
“Deeply so, my dear.”
You see him in the doorway just as ropes pop from the walls to ensnare you. The snap of several others in the distance tells you he was determined to trap you.
“You’re not one to go rushing in. I figure this will teach you a valuable lesson in not skulking about.” He must have goons with him; he’s in his long coat and fedora as well as his tux. He never does that if he expects to do his own fighting.
“How’d you know it’d be me?”
“Because you can never resist a visit with me.” He smiles at you, teeth the tiniest bit sharp.
“Because you keep picking heist locations in areas you know I patrol.” You bat your lashes, “almost like you want a beautiful woman with anger issues to kick your ass. You know you can just pay people for that, right?”
“Such crass language.” He saunters toward you, eyeing you up from your boots to your mask, “and last time it was your behind that took the brunt of an attack.”
“Real polite way of saying you hit me with that fucking umbrella several times.”
He tuts, stroking your cheek as you glare at him, “You deserved it for the bruises you left on my stomach with these” the umbrella draws down your leg and taps your boot.
“Uh boss, we’re-” the newest henchman stops when he sees the two of you, “do you need us to get her out of here? River’s right there-”
“Just get the car started, uncultured clod.” He snarls, watching the man like a hawk until he’s scurried out of sight. Then he turns back to you with a smile that means mischief, not business, “why put yourself in the path of such brutes, hm? Why not retire while you’ve still got a life to live-”
“Not this again-”
He bends down, nose nearly brushing yours. You heard him refer to it as “a fine, Roman nose” once. Pompous bastard.
“Why not let a refined and worthy bird build you a nest? I could forgive all you’ve subjected me to if you’d let me make you sing-”
Rather than let him notice you blushing, you dart your head forward and bite the end of his nose. His affronted yelp of pain is worth taking the umbrella to the ribs and hearing his voice go cold as he wishes you a good night and tells you the cleaning crew should come in ten hours to untie.
Once he’s out of view, you trigger the claws on your gloves, making short work of the rope. Did he really think this would hold you?
You roll your shoulders and crack your neck; you hope he took the limo. It’ll be fun to drop through that roof to get the diamond back.
The best part of working in the Gotham Zoo is that the route from the staff gate takes you right past the elephant pen. And there’s nothing cuter at 8:30 on Thursday than a baby elephant trying to make sense of new concepts like “rain” and “the frog that hopped in through the fence.”
Reaching your desk, you find a little box, wrapped in black and white paper. Your heart moves through an interpretive dance you’ve given up on understanding as you open it.
A dainty brooch in the shape of a barn owl is waiting for you, along with a note that simply reads, “dinner and a show tonight?”
Technically, not even staff should wander the exhibits this late. But you’ve stayed at work until ten pm to finish this speech that the zoo director wants to give to the funders. That earns you some time watching your favorite residents.
“Hello, my beauties. Did you get lots of sun today?”
The pair of California Condors regard you long enough to see if you have food, then return their attention to preening. They’ll probably sleep soon. You should, too, but right now it’s nicer to watch them in the scant light and summer air.
You don’t register anything wrong until the door to the aviary opens. A normal person wouldn’t be able to hear it from this distance, but you can. Just like you hear a voice, one that was insulting you two days ago for chaining him to a lamp post, admonishing someone.
“...in there, they have their own exhibit.”
You hide behind the trashcan. When the door opens, you wish you had your gloves on you, or literally any weapon. If it comes to a physical fight you still like your odds, but your secret identity will be toast.
“Alright gentleman, I’ll deploy the sleeping gas, then it’s two men per bird.” The Penguin coos, “it’s alright my friends, we’re going to take you somewhere far nicer.”
Is he fucking serious?
You’re so indignant on their behalf it overrides everything else.
“Is your “somewhere far nicer” climate controlled? And this size?” You stand, crossing your arms, “will you be bringing in a vet on this scam when they get sick?”
The Penguin frowns, cocking his head, “And who would you be, my dear?”
“I’m head of the education department. Which is why I can tell you there are fewer than 600 of these in the wild, and that each of these birds was hand-reared from a chick to be part of species preservation breeding program” You notice two of the henchmen getting closer, only for the Penguin to hold out an arm, stopping them.
“Anything else you wish to lecture me on?”
“Who’s going to care for them? Even if you treat them like pets, do you have a care plan in place if you get, y’know, arrested? Again?”
“Well-”
“Do you really want to end up responsible for something so incredible dying? Just because you wanted it all for yourself?” You glance at the birds, one of whom is now asleep, then back at him “you have a lot of money right? You could come and see them any time you wanted.”
You don’t mean for your voice to go so soft. The Penguin does something odd in reply; he smiles. It’s not the cruel smile you saw when you met him as the Shrike. It’s charmed and charming, and you have a sinking feeling you want to see it again.
The condors stay put.
You run your fingers over the brooch. If you put it on, when you leave work today there will be a car waiting to take you on a date. It’s a different gift each time, but the code has been consistent since your second meeting.
“I’m moving to fucking Omaha.” You cower with three other presenters behind the speakers table. And here you’d been so pleased that the Peregrinators Club was willing to have you present in spite of the unforgivable sin of being a woman. One of three invited to speak, in fact.
The Penguin announces he is there to relieve the club of several rare bird taxidermies. You can’t bring yourself to be mad about it; not like that many people get to see them in here.
“Now, that leaves me with one more thing to collect.” He turns casually about on the stage, “which one of you charming ladies would be so kind as to accompany me for the evening?”
“Fuck no.” The woman next to you shakes her head, “ew.”
That part confuses you; the Penguin isn’t small, in fact you’d call him handsomely fat. His nose is a bit beaked and crooked (you’d bent it yourself two days ago by headbutting him). To be honest, you haven’t paid much attention to how his face makes you feel. The smell is more familiar; hints of cigar smoke and some kind of cologne, clothes that have been dry cleaned and starched.
The other woman has her hands over her head like she’s in a duck and cover drill.
You sigh and stand. The Penguin grins when he notices, “Excellent. Come along, my dove, don’t be shy.”
He escorts you to a limo, taking your hand as you sit next to him, “I was rather hoping you’d volunteer. If not, I was going to do it for you.” He pats your hand as you narrow your eyes, “the taxidermy was a nice bonus, not the specimen that I was truly after.”
“Watch it.” You pull your hand back, wary, “how do I know this isn’t just payback for the condors?”
His smile is brittle, “Not the glass half full kind, I see.”
“That’s not an answer.” You’re trying to sound unsure and afraid instead of annoyed. He seems like the kind of man that works on.
He rests his hands between his legs, posture sagging, “I wanted to see you again. I’ve been thinking of you ever since the zoo. I feel we may be...birds of a feather. Abduction means you won’t be mistaken for an accomplice.”
An amused smile creeps across your face, “You kidnapped me to hear more bird facts?”
“Not solely.” He gingerly takes your hand and you give it willingly, “permit me an evening to make my case for companionship, starting with dinner. Name the place you wish to dine and we’ll go.”
“Is the Red Rose Lounge really as good as everyone says?”
He grins, “Let’s find out.”
It was the nicest evening you’d had since moving to Gotham. Oz (you called him that in case he recognized how you said his last name or villain title. He beamed when you did) hung on your every word, and had more than a few stories of his own to share. He had wine but didn’t push you to share it, and your palates aligned shockingly well. By the end of the night, you were giddy enough to kiss his cheek. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen a man look so surprised. Or delighted.
You made him promise to come up with a way of asking you out that didn’t involve kidnapping. You found the box with the vulture-shaped stud earrings on your desk two days later, with a note telling you to put them on if you wanted to see him that night.
You pin the owl brooch into the lap of your sweater and start in on your to-do list. It’s not yet winter break, so the zoo is slow, and no one is clamoring to schedule educational events or visits so late in the year. You end up completing an updated script for the bird show until it’s time to go.
Oz is waiting for you in a black, vintage Cadillac. You’ve ended up on the hood of it several times as the Shrike; this is the first time you get to enjoy the interior.
“Hi, Oz.” You lean in and kiss his cheek.
“I’m so glad you accepted my invitation, my dove.”
“Do I get to know where we’re going?”
“Our favorite haunt for dinner. Then to the Aladdin theater for a Hitchcock double-feature.”
“What are they showing besides The Birds?”
“Your favorite; Rear Window.”
“Oooh, I can’t wait to see it on the big screen.”
The waiter at Heron and Reed is expecting you, and your usual small booth in the back corner is mercifully near the fireplace.
Oz clicks his tongue as he clasps his hands over yours on the black tablecloth, “you’re chilled. Here, take my coat-”
“Oz, I’m okay. I just run cold.”
He undoes his pin-striped scarf and loops it over your shoulders, “At least take this.”
“Even if it blocks the view?” You tuck it into your sweater, savoring the warmth carried from his skin to yours and covering any hint of cleavage.
“Chivalry requires sacrifice.” He re-takes your hand, keeps his thigh in place when yours bumps it. He orders the usual; blackened salmon for him, wild mushroom pot pie for you. It’s not an exaggeration to say you dream about the stuff.
Not that it’s the main thing you dream about.
No, that honor goes to the man beside you. In spite of never seeing him in less than three layers of clothing you’re certain that naked, he’s a sight to behold. You know what it feels to like to cuddle up to him (or get the jump on him), but your brain eagerly offers up theories of what it would be like to be in his lap, or beneath him in bed, how he’d sound as he fucked you, what he’d say as he buried himself in you.
The first time you had one of those dreams after a fight instead of a date, it worried you. You considered refusing any future dates, then cracked after ten days without seeing him. For now, you’ve made your peace with it; Batman is always hooking up with Catwoman and she’s not exactly law-abiding.
Besides, you’re pretty sure dating Oz does more to deter his criminal behavior than thwarting him does. He’s out with you at least once a week, you know for a fact he picks all your gifts in-person which must mean a lot of shopping, and more than once you’ve spotted him at the zoo, watching the condors.
(He also confessed last month, after a bottle of Chardonnay, that he’s lost more than one afternoon to, “laying on my bed and daydreaming of ways to woo you”).
By the time you’re done with dinner and seated in the theater, personal space is a faraway concept. You raise the armrest and nestle against him. A soft, odd coo leaves his throat as he wraps his arm around you. As the lights dim, you’re once again faced by the question that’s been hammering in your head for weeks.
Why hasn’t he made a move? He hasn’t even kissed you. It’s been six months!
Meanwhile, any time the Shrike hunts down the Penguin he seems ten seconds from ripping your costume off and fucking you over the nearest flat surface. He nibbled your ear when taunting you two weeks ago, for fucks sake.
“My dove?”
His voice pulls you back into the theater.
“Sorry, my mind wandered.” You toy with the scarf as you smile at him, “I’m so cozy and full from dinner, little worried I might fall asleep on you.”
“The faux pas will be safe with me.” He kisses the top of your head as the lights dim.
Halfway through The Birds, you’re reminded of yet more reasons to move to Omaha.
Killer Croc barrels through the screen, one of the Bat family in hot pursuit. The wiring sparks as they fight, and all too soon the sprinkler system kicks on, soaking you before Oz can get his umbrella open.
“That scale-brained troglodyte” Oz growls as the two of you make for the car in the freezing wind, “I’ll skin him the next time he shows his face. Then make him into a handbag I can gift you in apology for this disastrous evening.”
“N-no” you shiver as Oz opens the car door and shoos you in, “no need to skin anyone on my behalf. Just” another shiver, “get me somewhere warm, please.”
“Your wish is my command.”
Oz is an aggressive driver. An upside of this is you reach your destination in outer Gotham remarkably fast given traffic.
“My humble abode.” Oz bows, opening the door of a shiny apartment building, “well, I suppose the base of it. Come along.”
The elevator deposits you at the penthouse door.
“The penguin door knocker is a nice touch.”
“I thought you might appreciate it.” Oz guides you inside, taking your soaked coat and hanging it next to his on the hooks by the door. You follow him deeper into the apartment; it’s the color scheme you expected, black and white with metallic accents, but instead of sleek or modern furniture, the chairs and sofas look built for comfort.
Oz flicks a switch on the wall of the living room and a fireplace blazes to life, “I promise to give you a full tour another time. The first order of business tonight is a hot bath, to address both the chill and the tension from our interrupted evening. I’ll have it ready in a moment” His hand lingers on your cheek even as he turns for a darkened doorway.
You give him points for creativity; getting you nice and relaxed in the tub before making his move is more interesting than just insisting you take your clothes off to avoid catching cold.
When he calls for you to join him, you expect to find him already in the tub. Instead he’s still fully clothed, one hand dipping into the water of an immense Jacuzzi tub that’s at risk of overflowing with bubbles.
“You’re not joining me?” Your fingers hesitate on the hem of your blouse.
“No. Although I’d very much like it if you permitted me to keep you company from out here.”
“Be my guest.” You start undressing, curious about what he’ll do. The answer is: examine the ceiling until he hears you enter the water.
You moan happily and he quickly drags a small chair in from the other room and sits so he’s facing you. Some small part of you still braces for him to tell you that your wet clothes mean you’ll have to spend the rest of the night naked. Or that he wants you to slip your hand between your thighs and give him a show.
A much larger part of you wants to suggest it yourself.
But you talk like you always do as the room fills with orange blossom steam. Until you idly lift your leg from the suds to stretch and Oz’s train of thought loses its track mid-description of a boyhood trip to the botanical gardens.
His gaze follows the water down your leg. You take your time lowering it as you say, “Can’t remember the last time I took a bubble bath.”
“I find they’re a must after a long day.”
You shift in the water so that your arms rest on the edge of the tub nearest him. You’re pretty sure the bubbles hide the swell of your ass. You’re also well past caring if he sees.
“When I was a kid I’d try to make a tower out of the bubbles. I think my little-kid logic told me I could reach the shower head if I stacked them high enough.” You mound a handful of suds on top of another.
Oz moves from his chair to kneel on the floor, pushing up his sleeves and sweeping a hand through the bubbles. It’s awkward, so unlike his usual dapper bearing, that you can’t help but smile.
“Were you happy as a child?” He draws a circle in the foam. He’s never asked about that part of your life. You assume it’s to keep the conversation from steering into his own past.
“Yeah. I mean, my parents weren’t perfect, but they love me.” You hazard being honest, “the next time they visit, you should meet us for dinner.”
“I would like that.” He rests his hand on your arm. His sleeves aren’t up quite high enough and a damp spot forms on the white fabric.
Before you can ask what else he’d like, he pats your skin, “I have a few things to attend to. I’ve left you a towel for when you’re through, my pretty peacock.”
You linger a few minutes more, then wrap yourself in the large, fluffy black towel.
“I hope you’re not planning to make me take a cab in just this?” You tease as you wander back toward the fireplace.
“Never.” Oz walks into view with a garment bag on a hanger, “I intended this to be a gift for a future date, but needs must.”
You unzip the bag. Waiting inside is a sweater dress, black with swirls of white sequins forming a snowstorm at the bottom.
“It’s so soft.”
“Cashmere. Here, here, try it on.” He eagerly hands the bag to you, once again regarding the ceiling until you say it’s safe to look.
“Can you do this last button on the back?”
“Of course, my pet.”
He doesn’t step away once he’s through. When you turn to face him, you’re practically chest to chest.
“It’s wonderful, Oz. Thank you.” You gingerly set your hands on his chest and place a single, innocent kiss on his lips. His face moves from surprised to delighted, then lands on something you can’t parse. You don’t want to rush him, so you lower your hands to gently hold his.
Oz looks down, then lifts your hands to his lips and kisses each in turn before meeting your eyes, “I think it’s best if you head home. This storm is only getting worse, and I’d never forgive myself if you ended up in a wreck because you dawdled with me.”
It wrong-foots you so completely that you say “of course” without pausing to argue. You spend the cab ride home regretting this decision, and the time you spend getting ready for bed sorting through reasons why Oz made it.
The best you come up with is this: Oz prides himself on being calculating and classy. Maybe you jumped the gun, while he’s waiting to create the perfect evening to confess his feelings. The thought is so adorable it lessens the sting of rejection.
It also makes you slightly less annoyed when, two nights later, you feel a figure behind you during a stake out.
“Has my little bird finally come home to roost?”
You reach back with your right hand and set it on his belly, claws out.
“Stay there, Cobblepot. And don’t flatter yourself; the Iceberg Lounge just happens to be the best vantage spot for this.”
“You’re on my private balcony. One might call that trespassing.” The very tip of the umbrella slowly drags up the back of your right thigh.
“One might. One might also want to stay the hell out of my way if he wants his liver in one piece.” You keep your eyes on the street below, “I’ve been on these five for months. Members of the fucking vice squad.”
“A noble profession.” He muses dryly.
You snicker, bitter, “These ones like to assault the kids they’re ‘saving’ from turning tricks before taking them in. Since most end up locked up anyway for their ‘protection’ these fuckers have easy access to them to do it again. Gordon probably knows and is trying to nail them on it, but I’m sick of waiting.”
Voices from a half-open door on the street. You brace, ready to jump, breaking contact with Oz in the process.
“Careful, my bloodthirsty beauty. I’d hate to see you in a cage.”
“That’s a lie and we both know it.”
He’s much closer now, one hand resting on your waist as he whispers, “You’re right. I’d keep you nice and warm in a golden one, if I could.”
You make the mistake of turning your head to look at him. His eyes glitter in the city lights and for a moment you forget who you are.
Oz makes his move in that moment, grips your chin and kisses you hard. You don’t embrace him, but you can’t bring yourself to push him away and lose the taste of him. You do manage to bite his lip as he pulls back, but the heat fueling the movement isn’t anger.
He touches the bruise on his lip, “I won’t wait forever, my dear.”
You think about bubbles, about cashmere on your skin and hesitance in his eyes.
“I’ll believe that when I see it.” You wink before jumping out into the cold, waiting air.
So help you god, if Oz doesn’t make a move tonight, you’re going to talk to Batman about giving you a course remedial investigation skills.
It’s December 23rd. Oz knows you’re not doing anything for Christmas. His invitation tonight was to his penthouse for a “candle-lit dinner for two.” He suggested you pack spare clothes, “just in case the weather is too frightful to travel and it's safer to stay in our cozy nest.”
If all that doesn’t add up to, “please spend the next several days under me in bed” you don’t know what does.
You arrive in the dress he gave you, complete with a lacy surprise underneath. There’s a bounce in his step as he takes your coat and as he guides you to the dining room. There are only two chairs, one at the head and one at its right, a bottle of champagne in an ice-bucket, and glasses that are genuine crystal.
“I’m nearly done setting the mood. Let me just fetch the centerpiece and then we can begin the courses in earnest.” He pulls out one of the chairs and you sit with a smile.
“You really know how to make a girl feel special.”
“I’ve anticipated tonight with an eagerness I cannot fully convey. I want it to be perfect. Here, my dove, take a look at this charming plant I found for the table.”
He passes you a small pot. The plant within it resembles a bird of paradise on psychedelics, greens and purples on the leaves giving way to a pink flower with pollen so yellow it hurts your eyes.
Your brain puts all the features together into an identification. That’s when interest gives way to alarm; this is Cupids Arrow. A plant that produces what can be best described as “sex pollen.” You’ve read up on the effects and they’re nothing to sneeze at.
Maybe Oz really doesn’t know. Maybe he’s not trying to trick you into getting so horny you beg the nearest warm body for relief.
“It has a fascinating scent. I can’t place what it reminds me of, can you?”
Motherfucker.
You put the pot on the table and push yourself out of the chair like it’s on fire, “You have five fucking seconds to explain yourself.”
“My dove-”
“No, don’t even try it, not after trying to give me the worlds strongest aphrodisiac and lying to me about it!”
“I only meant to– that is, darling, you must understand that you’re in no danger-”
“Right, yeah, sure, this is exactly the kind of stunt safe men pull.” You’re already moving for the front door, “night, Oz. Been nice knowing you.”
A frantic “wait” darts out the door as you close it. You don’t stop.
Is that why he wouldn't kiss you back before? It’s no fun for him if you offer yourself happily, only if you’re tricked into it and helpless to resist?
You thought he cared about you.
That you were birds of a feather.
By the time you’re home, all you can do is lay face-down on your bed while anger and hurt jockey for control inside you.
You want to know why he did it. You want to get him back for it.
(You want to continue the night as planned, kiss him until he’s breathless and you’re desperate, see how handsome he looks naked in the firelight).
Getting an answer out of him, let alone payback, while still wanting him so intensely it hurts, feels impossible for you.
At 8:06 pm, Christmas Eve, you set your plan in motion.
You slip a remote-controlled micro-dart through the keyhole of the penthouse and steer it from outside until you find your target. The thud five seconds after it makes contact with Oz’s neck tells you it’s all clear.
You’re glad for the enhanced strength from the accident; you’re not small, but Oz still outweighs you. Your powers mean you’re not just dragging him like a sack of soil from the living room into his bedroom.
You prop him up in the cushy, black chair by his desk and get to work. His jacket, tie, and vest come off first. You debate removing his burgundy, silk dress shirt too, but the way it stretches over his belly makes you purr. You leave it be for now.
Next come the pants. The black boxers underneath aren’t a surprise, although you chuckle when you see they’re designer. Your Oz; classy to last stitch.
Your initial plan was to use the rope you brought to tie him up. Then you spot a spool of thick, red ribbon on his dresser. He’s been wrapping presents.
Perfect.
You tie his arms, hand atop elbow, behind him. Secure a loop around either thigh to keep them open, then string those strands back and knot them to his wrists.
He comes-to just as you finish collaring his neck with the red satin, tying it off in a nice, neat bow.
“Finally deemed my bower worthy of a visit, little bird?” He smiles
“You could say that.” You step back. He tries to follow you, reach for you, and notices his predicament.
His face changes instantly and he snarls, “Release me at once.”
You shake your head with a smile.
“One of my men is bound to notice if I don’t give orders for a while. And when they find and untie me I am going to wring your pretty little neck!”
“No, you’re not. For starters, your entire staff has the next two days off” when he blinks, confused, you tilt your head at his phone, “you sit by the window when checking your emails. Or entering your passwords. And I have very good eyesight.”
Oz narrows his eyes, “What do you want?”
“Currently I’m just enjoying the view.” You slide your gaze from his chest to his thighs, with a long pause at his crotch, then back up again.
He squirms, turning his head and trying to tuck in on himself. When the ribbons prevent it, he sucks his stomach in, “You mean you’re enjoying humiliating me.”
“I said what I said, Cobblepot. Speaking of humiliation…” you lift the Cupids Arrow from the windowsill, keeping it a safe distance from your face, “a little bird told me this plant has some very interesting effects.”
Oz freezes, brown eyes wide and pleading, “Please don’t, whatever point you’re making you’ve made it, I’ll give you anything you want, information, money, anything to keep that plant over there.”
You cock your head, “Why should I? I know of at least one woman you’ve tried it on.” venom floods your voice, “how many others did you use it on before her?”
“Only her! I’m not a monster!”
“Debatable overall but at the moment I agree, seeing as you’re rather helpless. I think I prefer you this way.”
You gather pollen into your hand and smear it across his nose and mouth. He’s moaning before your glove even leaves his skin. As you peel off your gloves and set them aside, you watch his cock tent his boxers, the wet spot near-instantaneous.
“Now, what to do…”
“Leave me be, you’ve humiliated me enough-” he moans helplessly as you hook a finger under the collar.
“Really,? You want me to just leave you like this?” You brace your free hand on the back of the chair, graze the other down his chest. You don’t even have to touch his cock through his boxers; just the heat of your palm being close to it makes him buck at the air and whine.
“Aw, Oz, do you like me?”
“No.” He grits his teeth, then groans as you let his cock grind against your hand, “and you have, have no right to address me so informally, ohgod”
You press your hand more firmly against his cock, “Jesus, is this why you kept the plant around? Because you need help getting enough blood heading south to fill this fucking beast out?”
“It wasn’t for me and you know it.”
“Then why do you have it?”
He looks at you, pupils dilated and expression pathetic, “Please don’t make me say it.”
“Fine. I’ll say it for you. You wanted someone to be desperate for you.” You straighten and he pouts at the loss of your touch, “why use an aphrodisiac instead of just asking her? You’ve never had any issues flirting with me.”
“That’s different. We’re enemies, my buxom butcherbird-”
You laugh and he does his best to glare at you.
“Don’t mock me, every turn of phrase is an effort when I’m in this state.” He keeps his eyes defiantly on yours, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Some of us need all the help we can get wooing our mates.”
Genuine insecurity flashes across his face. For as frustrated as you are with him, that’s all it takes for your affection to claw its way(temporarily) to the surface.
Your voice softens as you say, “You should really pay less attention to what the tabloids say. Or your ‘co-workers’ for that matter. You have your charms, Oz.” You scritch under his chin and his eyes flutter closed.
“Such sweet torment.” He sighs, keeping his chin tilted up, smiling as the touches continue.
“Here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to tell me what you planned to do with the person you tried to use the plant on. As long as you do, I’ll help relieve you, uh, predicament” you set your hand against his clothed cock “you stop, I stop, we clear?”
“I was never going to harm her!” To his credit, he looks horrified at the thought. But that’s not what you asked.
You pull your hand away, “I also stop if you dodge the question.”
“No!” He gasps, pushing his hips forward, “no please, you must believe me. I wanted to make her feel good. To show her why she should choose me. I, I wanted to kiss her…”
“No one uses a plant like that to get a fucking kiss.” You place your hand back, Oz rutting against it like his life depends on it.
“I, I wanted to take her to bed. To undress her and map her body with my hands, make love to her, hear her beg for my touch, my cock, for me. Bring her pleasure in whatever way she asked until she agreed to be mine, to stay” his next words catch, more sob than anything else, “my dove, ahhn, she’d have been wrapped around my finger as tightly as I am hers.”
“None of that explains why you tried to drug her instead of just asking her. Frankly, you’re far more convincing like this.” You kiss his nose and he shudders happily. When you peck him on the lips, it turns to him inelegantly mouthing at your cheek and jaw as he cums with a groan.
His cock is still hard in your palm as he pants, “Am I convincing enough for you to end this charade?”
“Why should I? I'm enjoying myself. Not to mention if I let you go now you'll be waddling around Gotham with a hard-on that can be seen from space.”
The silk shirt is soaked in sweat. He rests his head against the back of the chair, eyes squeezed shut, “You’re merciless, my songbird.”
You kneel between his thighs, flick the knife from the side of your boot and gingerly slice one leg of the boxers, then the other. Pulling the tatters apart reveals a deliciously thick cock, pre-cum sporadically dripping from the head as Oz mindlessly rolls his hips against the air.
“Gorgeous.” You murmur.
“Don’t patronize me-” He jolts hard enough to move the chair as you flick your tongue over the head of his cock.
“Right, patronizing.” You lick a stripe down to the root, kiss his left ball for the fun of it, “that’s definitely what I’m doing here.” You kiss his inner thigh, certain you’re learning what heaven is like.
“You are amusing yourself by seeing me in a ruined state. And showing a cruelty I did not think you capable of.”
“Oh?” You look up to find his expression painfully crestfallen.
“You’re pretending you want this for what it is. Want me for what I am.”
All the heat and excitement boiling in you hardens in a heartbeat and sinks into your stomach.
“You really thought I’d reject you at dinner.” You set your hand on his belly and feel him inhale, “I thought I had ‘please fuck me’ written in neon above my head…”
He looks at you, and as you watch the gears turn behind those coffee-brown eyes, you grip your mask and say, “Please don’t make me regret this.”
You set the black mask on the rug, Oz staring as you do. He’s still staring, face implacable, when you look up again.
“Is…is this a deal breaker?” You gesture to your suit, “if you don’t want me anymore I get it-”
“No! I mean yes! I mean” Oz shakes his head with a frustrated grunt, “untie me this instant!”
You cross your arms, “So you can throttle me?”
“So I can spend the rest of the night in your arms instead of trussed up like a turkey!”
You grin, “I could untie you. Or…” you trail a fingernail under the ribbon on his left thigh, “you could be patient for me just a liiiitle longer.” You look up through your lashes, “won’t you let me really savor unwrapping my present?”
Oz smiles back, “Why should I?”
You activate the invisible zip on the top of your suit, drawing it down to the base of your cleavage, “Pretty please?”
“My devious little dove, however am I supposed to say no to that?” He rolls his hips more pointedly, “come finish what you started.”
You let a squeal of delight escape up your throat as you dive back in. His cock feels perfect in your mouth, like he was made to fit you. If the weight of him gliding along your tongue is an indicator, it’s going to feel amazing when he finally presses into your cunt.
If your mouth is eager, then your hands are greedy. They grope for every inch of him you can get, play with his balls and grip his thighs like they’re shiny new toys for you and you alone. Oz moans and gasps with every touch. When you pull off his cock to kiss his belly, he whines your name.
When you bite down, he simply squawks. The sound makes you laugh and, to your relief, he laughs too as you rest your cheek on his stomach and look up at him.
“Sensitive, baby?”
“It’s been a, a AH!” he laughs as you pepper his stomach with kisses, one hand on his waist and the other pumping his cock, “a long time since anyone saw under my clothes, let alone touched there.”
“That’s a shame.” You drag a kiss up to his pecs, “there’s so much to love.”
“Darling…” he moans as you lap at one nipple and run your thumb over the other, “oh you’re going to be the death of me.”
“I hope not. Kind of getting attached.” You continue nipping and kissing at his chest as his thrusts into your fist turn frantic, “that’s it, baby, all the way, you can cum, I wanna hear you-”
“Fuck!” He drops his head, resting his lips against your hair as cum spatters up your suit all the way to your chest.
“Such language” you coo.
“You bring it out in me.” He pants, fighting to catch his breath as you straddle his lap.
“If I undo these, will you be a good boy and clean up the mess?”
He nods and you reach around the chair to cut the ribbons. The instant they snap, he embraces you, one hand in your hair while an arm loops around your waist. He kisses playfully down your neck, moves the material of the suit aside with his teeth to kiss and lick the droplets from your skin.
“Ah!” You giggle at the sensation, hold his head with both hands and nuzzle his brow, “Oz. You don’t need that plant, you’re amazINGoh” you smile as he releases your ear from his teeth. When he kisses you, this time you relax into his arms, kissing back with six months worth of pent up affection.
“I asked Ms. Isley for it specifically so I…I knew I had a chance with you. I want you so terribly and I knew that if you gave me a chance I could show you it was worth being close to me.”
“Oz, sweetheart, I wore my sexy underwear that night. I was 100% hoping to fuck you.”
“I see that now.” He takes your hands from his shoulders to hold them, “can you forgive me? I let troublesome thoughts cloud my judgement. I ought to have been brave enough to risk rejection, for your sake.”
You squeeze his hands, “I’m sorry too. I don’t get a lot of chances to be mean in my line of work. Think I got overzealous.”
“I’ll forgive it if you promise to let me bind your pretty wings some evening.”
“Done.” You kiss his nose, then nip the end of it, “never try to drug me again.”
“Done.” He runs his hands hungrily along your sides, “did you really wear lingerie last night?”
“Yep. Black and white lace, bought with you in mind.” His cock presses against your thigh, “that perks you up, hm?”
“My dear, that state re-started ten seconds after I made such a mess of you. And it will no doubt continue for some time.”
You rest a hand to his forehead, “Jesus, Oz, you’re burning up. How long does the pollen last?”
“Twelve hours.” He growls, scooping you into a bridal carry as he stands.
“You were planning to fuck me for twelve hours last night??”
“Yes. With mechanical assistance if necessary. I’m not one to arouse a ladies desire and then leave her wanting. No matter the length of the task.” He lays you down on the bed, “are you going to be good and grant me the same attention?”
You fully unzip your top and toss it aside, then start on your boots and pants. He takes that for the assent it is, pulling his shirt free and dropping it in a hamper. When he reaches for the ribbon around his neck, you shake your head.
“I like it on you. It’s cute.”
The blush on his face deepens. He hovers by the edge of the bed, “Do we need anything to, ah, prevent an unexpected visit from the stork?”
“No. The incident that turned me into the Shrike gave me a fucking chemical hysterectomy in the process.” You rest your head on the pillows and spread your legs, “all the same, you should come over here and let your mate take care of you. Since you brought her to such a nice nest.”
He climbs on the bed only to hesitate again, “Are you sure about this position? I don’t want to crush you.”
“Trust me, I can handle it.” You flash him a smile, “I like my men big. And if I didn’t want to see you naked, I wouldn’t have undressed for you. Now come here and do what you’ve clearly been imagining doing for months.”
Oz is on you with a playful growl. He hurriedly presses his cock into you and you moan.
“My, my, you really were enjoying having me at your mercy. You’re beautifully wet.”
“Uhmhm” you hook your legs around his, “Oz.”
“Right here, my darling.” He shifts so you're face to face, kissing his way down one cheek.
You hook your finger under the ribbon and tug him into a proper kiss.
“Mm, just what every girl wants under the tree. A handsome, charming man all for her.”
He coos bashfully and you kiss him again. His thrusts are hard, almost demanding, but his pace is slow and his words are sweet.
“My gorgeous, gorgeous girl.” He gives a sharper thrust and you moan in reply. Oz braces on one arm so he can use his other hand to play with your tits.
“You've a rapturous form my dear, my angel” he squeezes the left side possessively, “I cannot wait to dress it in silk and fur.”
“Not feathers?” You tease, pushing his dark hair from his forehead.
“We shall see. Currently” his hips speed up, “I don’t want to see you in a scrap of clothing until new years.”
“Gonna keep me warm in the meantime?”
“My dove, you’ll be lucky if I move from inside you, let alone atop you.”
“Perfect. Oh, oh” you buck your hips against him, “Oz, right there” the shape of him means your clit rubs against his body as he fucks you, and you feel your orgasm tightening your muscles.
“That’s it my darling.” His hand moves from your chest to your hip, pinning you so all you can do is take him as deep and hard as he pleases, “that’s it, take everything I give, take all of me, oh, ohgod” his hips speed up and you yelp, “such lovely cries, do you think you’ll still have a voice by morning?”
You whimper, shaking your head, and only manage to gasp his name before your orgasm tears through you. Oz hooks one arm under your lower back and the other beneath your arm to grip your shoulder, fucks into you so roughly you kick at the sheets as you moan. When he cums he buries his face into your neck, panting your name as he spills into you.
“Jesus.” You hold him, stroking his back fondly, “fuck, Oz, you’re amazing. You’re so hot and amazing.” You laugh, “and apparently you fucked the rest of my vocabulary out of me.”
He chuckles, raising his head to kiss you sweetly. You have to tense the smallest bit to notice he’s still hard.
“Shall we see what I can accomplish after another round?”
A bell somewhere in Gotham informs you it’s now ten on Christmas morning. You lift your head from Oz’s chest to confirm, then nestle right back down in his arms.
“You’ve presents, you know” he points an elbow in the direction of the living room.
“Dang it. I left mine for you at my place. I can-”
Oz hugs you to him, smiling up at you like you’re a miracle, “Later, my dove. Right now I have exactly what I wished for.”
Prompt for the 19th was: Mafia. This fill is NSFW and mentions blood. Thanks to @bellafarallones for playing in this space on discord.
You’ve been expecting this knock at your door ever since you signed the papers for the Sundance Theater. When you made the choice to buy it, you knew it was a neighborhood under the “protection” of The Octopus.
Far too charming a name for a mob boss, not that anyone asked you.
Still, you thought you had more time before the knock. You haven’t even set up your office; your ankles and knees bang into boxes when you go to answer.
Otto Octavius is more intimidating in person than in the papers. And it’s not like he comes across as a pussycat in the pictures you’ve seen.
His frame is wide enough that you almost miss the four “employees” behind him in the hallway. Dark glasses cover his eyes–you’ve heard rumors about an explosion in one of his venues–and his suit is a deep grey, long coat swaying as he steps toward you.
“Good afternoon, my dear.” He doffs his fedora. The movement would be polite were it not for the glance he casts up your body.
“Afternoon. I’m afraid we’re not open yet. I’m aiming for Friday, if you all would like to come back then.”
Octavius walks past you, dropping his hat on your desk and leaning back against it to study you, “I’m not here for a show. I’m here to talk business.”
“By which you mean how much of a cut you want from my box office?”
A tight-lipped, insincere smile, “Exactly. Ten percent of whatever you make goes to me.”
Fuck, you’ll barely scrape by at that rate. You’ve already run the numbers.
“Six.”
He raises a brow, amused, “It’s not usually a negotiation, sweetheart.”
You bristle at his tone, “keep calling me that and I'll go down to four.”
He pushes off from the desk. You flinch but hold your ground, “My folks ran a movie house back home. I know what my monthly take’ll be, times being what they are. You shake me down for ten percent, you’ll have an empty theater and zero money from it in four months.”
Octavius is close enough that you feel his body heat as his aftershave tickles your nose. When he holds out his hand you flinch again and he laughs.
“No need to be jumpy. I never discipline a first offense. Seven is my final offer.”
“Done.” You put your hand out and try not to think about how it practically disappears when he shakes it.
“I’ll send someone around at the end of each month to collect.” He pulls you closer by your wrist, “have your books ready for a peek. Think I’ll need to keep an eye on you.” His thumb and forefinger grip your chin, “don’t try anything smart. This face will only get you out of so much with me.”
You step back, severing the touch, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The first month you're open, Octavius sends a heavy to come pick up his protection money. On month two, you’re sorting the reels in storage when a body blocks the light from the hallway.
“What did I say about cooking your books?”
Your stomach twists, but you turn with a calm smile, “What makes you think I am?”
“The envelope you left for me on your desk. That’s not seven percent of-”
“It is when plenty of people are pinching pennies and don’t want to pay for the films I’m able to show.”
He furrows his brow, “What’s wrong with them?”
You sigh, “Nothing, but most of the theaters in the city show the same films. It’s hard to compete, and hard to build variety if you don’t have any cash to spare. This place even came with these” you tap the older reels, “they’re pre-code, they’d be a real draw. Until someone on the city council got wind.”
“Leave them to me.” He smiles. You give him a business-like one in return.
“Thanks, Mr. Octavius. If they’re not breathing down my neck I can maybe show a few pictures out of Germany or France, too.”
“A woman of culture, I see.”
“Don’t patronize me. Please.” You barely remember to add that last word, and your tone is flat.
“I’d never talk down to you, little ray of sunshine” He’s much closer now, his eyes dangerously charming.
You snicker, “That’s a new one.”
“Really? I’m surprised; your decoration isn’t subtle.” He gestures a black-gloved hand toward the lobby, with its murals of bright skies over deserts and light fixtures curved like rising suns.
You shrug, “I didn’t choose it. The previous owner must have been into the Egyptian craze. Sun gods and all that. It could really use a touch up. I might be able to pay for one if I made, say, seven percent more a month.”
That same, tight smile, “Nice try, spitfire.” He’s fully blocking your ability to leave the room, to do any of the million tasks needed to keep the Sundance running.
“Look, we’re done here, will you let me-” You cut off with a gasp as your back hits the wall.
“You don’t give the orders. Understood?” His finger jabs into your chest, and all you can think of is what else those hands could do to you. How easily your blouse would rip under them, how much of your throat they could grip, how roughly they could pull your hair as he gave you orders-
Now is not the time for that.
You fix him with a withering look, “Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.” He punctuates the words by brushing his finger briefly over your cheek, “You’ll be showing those older movies in a week.” Octavius moves to the door, then smirks back at you, “save me a seat.”
You show The Mummy first; there’s some old ballyhoo in storage along with the film, meaning it’s easier to draw guests in from the street. You sell out the whole weekend.
When you’re running the projector Saturday night, you peer down and see Octavius in the very center of the back row. He glances up, sees you, and crooks to fingers, indicating you should come down.
You shake your head, pointing at the projector. He nods, understanding, and gives you a little salute.
The next weekend, you’re loading Frankestein into place, brushing dust off your slacks, when your foot catches the power cord. You bend to fix it, facing the doorway, straighten to find Octavius watching you. He doesn’t bother looking away from where your white blouse has popped a button; the damn thing never stays closed across your chest, which is why you only wear it on days when you’ll be hidden away up here.
“Quite the show.”
“I’m glad you liked it.” You roll up your sleeves, continue prepping for the next showing.
“You’ve got great taste, sunshine.” He removes a cigar from his coat pocket, “if Rosie was around I’d be bringing her here every week to catch the imported stuff. Probably appreciate it more than I do.”
When he pulls the matchbook, you reach out and pluck it from his fingers without thinking.
“No smoking in my projector room.”
The cigar is still in his mouth when he quirks a brow at you.
“Half of the stuff here will go up in smoke if you so much as say ‘fire.”
He tucks the cigar away, “Good point.”
You set the matchbook in his waiting palm, “C’mon, you were a science professor once upon a time right? You have to remember chemistry; nitrate plus too much heat equals a lost investment.”
Octavius chuckles a little, coming to stand at your elbow as you finish aligning the reel, “How’d you know that?”
“I read the papers. When I started shopping around for a theater, I read everything I could find about who controlled the areas I was looking in.”
“Pragmatic.”
“I try.” You smile, pleased at the compliment. Feel the expression go shyer than you mean when he meets your eyes over his glasses. There’s a softness in his gaze, the lines and curves of his face becoming all the more striking in the low light of the booth.
“Is that why you keep showing movies about mad scientists? To get under my skin?” He teases.
“Is it working?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to catch a few more, see how I feel.” He steps away from you, sits in one of the chairs against the wall of the room, “Think I’ll see how the show looks from this angel tonight.”
His gaze rolls over you again, but it feels different this time. Like he’s trying to see rather than just look. So you let him, turning back to the projector as the room below begins to fill so he can enjoy the view.
Octavius becomes a fixture in your projection room. At first you assume it’s because that’s the last place someone will look for a mob boss, so he can relax. But when you ask the kid who shares projection duties with you if Octavius ever sits in he shakes his head, confused
Your next hypothesis is that he’s hoping you’ll put out. Except he never moves beyond banter and hungry looks, no matter how empty the theater below you is. The closest he ever got was patting his lap, musing that you looked so tired, kitten, how about curling up here to keep warm.
You jokingly hissed at him and he laughed. You thought about taking him up on the offer the rest of the night. And for at least two nights after that.
All of that is to say that when Octavius doesn't appear for a whole week, you’re worried something happened. You check the papers every day, bracing for a headline about how The Octopus was found in pieces, or how some joke about how not even he can swim with cement shoes.
August nights in this city are miserable, and living above the theater means being in the direct line of the rising heat. Which is why you’re still awake at 11pm on a Tuesday, urging the breeze from your bedroom down the front of your white slip.
A bang from the window in the front room startles you. Your mood is not improved when you hurry in and find a large figure slumped against your wall.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
“Jesus! Fuck, Octavius you scared the hell out of me. Oh Christ, is that blood?”
“Nothing escapes you, sunshine.” Red drips hit the hardwood as he leers at you, “gonna faint on me?”
“No, but you will if you don’t sit down.” You haul him to the sofa and he lets you, his legs barely supporting him long enough to make the short distance.
He’s so pale. When you push his jacket away, blood staining your hand, you see why. His white dress shirt is so wet it oozes when you try peeling the fabric away to see the wound.
“We need to get this off.” You begin unbuttoning his shirt.
He chuckles, woozy, “Gonna let me make some time?”
“I need this open so I can clean up the blood and stop the flow.” You carefully peel the shirt away from his sweat and blood soaked skin. Your stomach roils at the copper smell and the fact there’s a literal hole in his side. That means the bullet passed through and didn’t hit anything important. You think.
“Y’know” his head lolls to one side, glasses slipping down his nose as you ease him onto his back, “M’a married man. Was a married man. My Rosie…”
You let him talk, it’ll keep him awake, “I’m going to get some hot water. Stay. Still.”
You fill a dish with water, grab every towel you have, and grab the alcohol you use to treat cuts from your bathroom cabinet. Kneeling by the couch, you carefully dab at the wound; once it’s covered you’ll call for help, there’s no way he’s getting out of this without stitches, but all that’ll be moot if he fucking bleeds out in your apartment first.
He’s still babbling, something about the sun in his hands, when you press the alcohol to torn skin. He snarls in pain and contorts, grabbing your hair at the root.
“Ow, ow, Otto please that hurts-”
“Hurts? Hurts?! You think this hurts? You don’t know the first goddamn thing about hurt!”
He’s pulling you closer, blood and cologne flood your nose and tears prick your eyes from how roughly he’s yanking your hair.
“Please” you say again, with all the calm you can manage, “I’m not trying to hurt you. I want to help.”
“My Rosie…it hurts so much” his growl gives way to a sob, grip loosening enough for you to pull your head free.
“I know. I know.” You touch his cheek with your left hand as you keep cleaning the injury with your right. He grits his teeth, tears rolling down to his chin, and presses his face into your touch. He doesn’t open his eyes until the bandages are in place and the bleeding has stopped.
When he looks at you his expression is the gentlest it’s been all night, “You don’t have to look so worried, sunshine. If it’s my time, it’s my time.”
I don’t want it to be
You shake the thought away, “That’s all well and good, but I am not having a mob boss dying in my apartment.”
“Not like anyone will think you did it.” He frowns as you stand, “Don’t go. Please come back” he tears up the longer he looks at you, “your dress, your lovely dress.”
You look down. Your slip is so wet with blood and water it may as well be painted on.
“It’s just a nightgown. I can replace it.”
His fingers catch the hem, “The blood on it, it’s like…like when she…”
He nearly topples you when he clutches the fabric, shoving his face against it as he sobs, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
You know he’s not addressing you.
It’d be safest to push him away, tell him to get a hold of himself. That weeping into your skirt won’t bring Rosie back, no more than keeping this neighborhood in a choke hold will.
You bend, carefully unpeeling his fingers from the slip so you can kneel. Pushing his hair from his face, you see it’s now smeared with blood.
“Shhh, shhh” you soothe, “it’s okay, Otto. It hurts but it’ll be okay.”
He whimpers, weakly rubs his cheek into your hand. You smile at the tickle of his stubble, keep up a string of comforting words until his breathing evens out and he slumps further into the cushions.
Once he’s asleep you pick up the phone, dialing the number for what he refers to as his “campus location.”
“Octavius office. This is Larry.”
Thank god, that’s one of his main heavies. You explain the situation. The henchman doesn’t sound surprised that Octavius ended up in your apartment and he promises to send someone over right away.
After hanging up, you fill a bowl with fresh, warm water and settle on the floor by Octavius. Gingerly, you remove his glasses and begin cleaning the remaining blood from his face. The shape of his lips, and lines of his nose, every facet of him begs to be admired. You wonder how long Rosie was able to hold out before kissing him; you’re not sure you’d have made it more than a day.
Brown eyes flutter open and a large hand catches your cheek. Then he’s kissing you, softly but oh-so-insistently. You return it, too startled to be anything but honest, until the hand slides from your face into your hair to urge you onto the couch.
You pull back, scramble to your feet “I’m not your wife, Octavius.”
“I know.” He blinks, woozy and confused, “so?”
“So don’t kiss me.”
Don’t make me think this means anything. Don’t make me think you really see me
With some effort, he sits up, “I won’t do it again, I swear. Please stay.”
“Of course I’ll stay. You’re in my apartment.”
He nods, eyes a thousand miles away, and pats the (non-bloody) spot next to him. Your self-control only extends so far.
As soon as you sit, he rests against you. He’s so big, so warm, even with the heat you can’t think of anything nicer than curling up with him some quiet night. But you can’t simply close your eyes and pretend; the smell of blood is too strong.
So you rub his arm comfortingly, set your other hand on his thigh only for him to gather it in his own. He stares at it for a beat, then raises it to his face, cradling it there as his lips move.
When the quiet words croon out, they’re barely a melody. It takes you a moment to place what he’s singing.
“My sunshine, my only sunshine…”
A small tug is all it takes to get your head resting on his chest.
“You make me happy, when skies are grey.”
He interrupts the song with a short, pained hiss as he shifts to put both arms around you.
“You’ll never know dear, how much I love you…”
You’re practically in his lap, letting him kiss your knuckles as he half-mumbles the song against them, “Please don’t take my sunshine away.”
For one, beautiful breath, you believe it. Then reality digs its claws into your chest.
“Otto, don’t.”
“You never called me that until tonight. I like when you do.” He’s still kissing your hand, “don’t what?”
Tears burn the corners of your eyes, “Don’t, don’t sing to me or kiss me or act like I’m anything other than one more piece on the chess board.” You jerk your head toward the window and the city beyond.
“You are. You’re so much more.”
“I’m not. You come to my theater, watch a movie, flirt with me a little if you’re bored. That’s what we are to each other; a distraction.”
You meet his eyes; they’re back to the same level of pained as when you found him bleeding out.
“You’re wrong. Let me take you to dinner and I’ll prove it.”
He probably won’t remember any of this come morning.
The knock from the side door of the theater saves you from having to answer him right away.
“My rides here” He murmurs, moving his arms from you at the speed of molasses.
How long has it been since someone wanted to stay?
You manage a tiny, playful smile, “If you’re still alive tomorrow, give me a call.”
A week and a half later, you’re counting out the money in the ticket booth before opening when the stem of a half-dozen roses slips through the opening.
“Hey, sunshine.” Otto smiles at you from under the brim of his hat.
“Glad you’re in one piece. And thanks for sending Flo by to let me know you were out of the woods. I was worried.” You step out of the booth, “are they red because they’re an apology for bleeding on my floor?”
He picks the bouquet up, offering it to you, “I promised you a night out. I intend to do it right.”
Your cheeks match the petals, “I didn’t think you meant it.”
“Every word.” His smile brightens when you take the flowers, “Pick you up at eight?”
“Gonna make it worth my while to scramble to get someone to cover me tonight?” You bat your lashes.
Otto steps closer, hands behind his back but chest almost touching yours, “More like I’m gonna make up for all the trouble I’ve caused.”
The dark green dress is modest in hemline and nothing else; it stops below your knees, but the fabric hugs your curves and the pearl buttons can be undone to your belly button. You leave the top three open and watch Otto's gaze flick to the fourth as you come down the stairs.
“I’m lucky you don’t wear that to work, sunshine; be a line of guys down the block to muscle past just to see you.” He loops his arm around your lower back.
“Looking pretty sharp yourself.”
The restaurant is close enough to walk, and you catch Otto up on the goings on around the theater as you do. As the sign for the Sirens Lounge comes into view, Otto loops his arm through yours.
“I’m sorry.”
“In general or for something specific?”
“Bleeding on you, blubbering like a helpless kid, getting fresh” he swallows, bashful, “singing.”
“That part I didn’t mind. You have a lovely voice.”
“You should hear it when I’m not half-dead. Rosie used to tease me, I’d always sing along with the songs when we danced.”
You laugh, delighted, as he holds the lounge door for you, “Lucky girl.”
A nice thing about being on the arm of the Octopus is that no one rushes you through dinner. You and Otto spend two hours getting closer by candlelight. The booth is in the far back corner, may as well be walled off from how little attention he pays to anything but you; by the time you’re feeding him chocolate cake from your fork, you’re practically in his lap and he pants like a dog any time you kiss his cheek. You’re dying to drag him home by his tie, unbutton his shirt and chase the trail of chest hair peeking out with your kisses.
Your nerves still pick up when he summons the car and takes you back to his place. You’d bet the deed to the Sundance that he wants you in bed. You want to be there, too. There’s just the small matter of not being ready to risk getting knocked up by someone with so many enemies.
The first thing that wrongfoots you is the apartment itself. You’re fully expecting intimidating luxury. The space Otto guides you into is paneled with warm wood, the furniture comfy and well-loved, the shelves lined with books and the odd piece of art. It feels inviting, homey, and Otto is clearly proud of it as he gives you a little tour.
Your two return to the living room, Otto sitting on the deep green couch, arms and legs in a contented sprawl.
“Dim the lights, sunshine. That switch.”
You do as he asks, turn back to find him with his glasses off and a wolfish expression.
“Is this where you tell me to get on my knees?”
“Is that what you want?”
You think, then shake your head.
“C’mere a minute.” He extends his hand and you take it, straddling his lap when he coaxes you down, “What do you want, sunshine?”
“I want you, Otto. I’m not ashamed to say it, but I’m scared of what might happen if you fuck me full-on and I’m so wound up I’m desperate for some way to get off that doesn’t involve this” you drop one hand to ghost over his fly, “and doesn’t leave you out to dry.”
He groans, smiling at you, “My pragmatist. Always thinking ahead.” He loops his left arm around your lower back, caresses your face with his right hand, “there’s all kinds of things we can do. My mouth’s good for more than just sweet talking, and my hands…” he chuckles when you turn your face to kiss his palm, “I know you like them. Think you like how big they are.”
You laugh as he gropes your tits through your dress. The firm, possessive touches make you moan, “Is it that obvious?”
“You watch them. Used to be out of fear, but now…” the hand drags down the front of your dress, “bet it’s because you’re thinking about what I can do with them. Right?”
“As rain.” You nestle your face in his neck, nuzzle his cheek and feel him smile.
He lifts the hem of your dress, “May I?”
“Please” you sigh as he slides his hand under the fabric and up your thigh.
“Oh” he growls, “you weren’t kidding, you have been thinking about this all night. Almost soaking out of these” he snaps the band of your underwear “and onto my pants.”
You purr as he lazily strokes you through the black fabric, “I’ll pay the dry cleaning.”
“No chance. Been dying to feel you lose control, my pragmatist. Plus it’s nice to know you were getting hot at dinner along with me.” He kisses your brow, muttering against it, “thank god for long table cloths.”
You kiss his neck, tease your fingers along his covered cock, “Mmm, that’s very flattering. You could have any girl in this city but you’re getting harder than steel for little old me.”
“I don’t want just any girl. I want you.”
“Charmer.”
“It’s true” he presses more firmly against your folds, “think I’ve wanted you from the moment you tried bargaining down your protection percentage.”
“What do you mean ‘tried?” You nip his ear and he moans, “I did bargain you down.”
He smiles and kisses you. It’s so much better than before, because he’s all here, seeing you and not a ghost from his past. You lick the memories of champagne from between his lips, wrap your arms around his shoulders and dig your fingers against the muscles of his back.
“Tell me what you want.” You murmur when he lets you breathe.
“Oh, sunshine….” he coos, collecting his thoughts, “I wanna corner you in the projection room, cover your mouth and fuck you while the picture runs, leave you with the taste of leather on your tongue and my cum dripping down your thighs. I want to take you to bed” he jerks his head down the hall, “spend all night under covers, remind myself what it feels like to be a living man instead of a walking corpse.”
You moan, fumble your hand down to join his and shove your underwear to the side.
He takes the hint.
“Ah! Ohfuck, what, what else do you want?”
“This.” He curls the two, thick fingers inside you and you yelp in pleasure, the sound making him grin “that, too. You’re beautiful like this, oh, oh hello girls.” He growls as you finish unbuttoning the top of your dress.
You giggle as he presses his face to your tits, kissing them hungrily as his fingers draw slick, filthy sounds from between your legs. It’s divine, having all his attention on you. You wrap your arms around his back again, resting one hand in his hair, and hold on tight.
Your thighs shake, a tell that you’re close. You’d be in heaven riding it out on his fingers. But a glance at where his cock is seriously straining his zipper gives you a better idea.
“Otto?”
He lifts his head. Your chest is shiny from his kisses, and he looks like he’d jump of the Empire State Building if you asked.
“Put your arms around me.”
“You sure?” He obeys in spite of the question, “Don’t have to stop for my sake, I’d keep doing that until my hands fall off.”
“That’d be a shame. I only like them because they’re attached to you.” You adjust, lower yourself down to grind against his cock, moaning at the size as you rub against the trapped shaft, “same with this.”
“Fuck! Fuck,” he tips his head back with a laugh, “thank you, sunshine, fuck, the day you let me fuck that cute little pussy I’m a goner, won’t wanna do anything else.”
“Hmm, that’s too bad, since I have to run the theater. You’ll have to control yourself.” You run a nail down his neck.
He tips his head forward, kissing you messily, “I could do that. Or I could start demanding your protection pay in the form of this.” He gropes your ass with both hands, forcing you into a faster pace, “make you bounce in my lip or let me ruin your lipstick once a day, keep my head under your skirt while you’re trying to do your books. Oh you like that, don’t you sweetheart?”
“Uh huh, fuck, Otto”
“That’s it, sunshine, that’s it. All the way. Gonna make you feel like this every day, because you’re my girl and my girl deserves the best.”
You hide your face against him as you cum. He rubs small, gentle circles on your back as you shudder.
“Am I really your girl?” You look up and find him smiling hopefully.
“If you’ll have me.”
“Of course.” You peck his lips, “although right now, think it’s more a matter of you having me.”
You only get halfway through rolling your sensitive folds against him when a hand clamps down on either hip.
“Good point.” He ruts demandingly up against you, “that’s it, c’mon, c’mon-”
“Ah! Holy god you’re strong.” You laugh as you try to wiggle in his lap and find you can’t.
“Want me to hold you down sometime?”
“Desperately.” You kiss him as his hips jerk and his breath catches. When he cums it’s with a satisfied groan. Better still is how he holds you to him afterwards, like a man searching the dark for something lost and cherished that he’s finally found.
“Otto? Cozy as this is, I think we better clean up.”
He nods, “Come take a bath with me. Promise I’ll only get a little handsy.”
“Only a little?” You pout and flutter your eyelashes.
He laughs, scoops you into his arms, and carries you further into the warm, welcoming house.
I had multiple requests in discord for more Jim, and I love writing the grumbly teddy-bear funeral director. This fill is NSFW.
You knew there was a risk of this eventually.
Intermittent therapy, medication since age 20, it all adds up to the really bad depressive spells only happening once or twice a year. Some part of you hoped you’d get through the apprenticeship without one; doing work you love next to the hottest funeral director on the west coast feels like it should be protective.
And it is. It really, really is. Until it’s not. Until there’s a day like today where you wake up and getting out of bed seems too difficult and deeply unnecessary.
It’s happened enough that you know what it is. So you grit your teeth and drag yourself from under the sheets and down the stairs.
Jim’s awake already, padding from kitchen to his office in a bathrobe, hair a mess and glasses somehow already slipping down his nose. He catches you as you come off the bottom stair, drawing you into a quick kiss.
You have a viewing from 10 am to 2 pm today, the family taking advantage of a Saturday service to extend the offer for anyone who cared for the deceased to come pay their respects
“Morning, sunshine. Hargreave’s are conservative as they come. Wear something long.” He squeezes your side before letting you continue your trek toward the coffee pot.
It doesn’t occur to you to teasingly ask if he’ll wear something short for balance. Or mention that the longest dress you own has a slit up the side to mid-thigh.
You drink your coffee, help Jim move the body into place for viewing, and pull on your black dress with deep green pinstripes. The only moment you don’t feel as if you’re outside yourself is when you pause to fix Jim’s bolo tie; you center it, set your hands on his chest (covered in a dark green dress shirt), look up to see him studying you. You’re about to ask what he needs when he bends and kisses you softly, keeps you against him a moment longer than is safe, given that visitors could walk in at any second.
The viewing goes well, with only one guest trying to talk you into joining her MLM as you’re refilling the coffee cart. By the time you and Jim lock up, a flat, exhausted feeling sits in your chest. It only worsens as the day goes on, and by the time you clock out and Jim switches the phone to route to the coroner's office, you don’t want to do anything. You don’t see the point.
You stay in your dress, since it’s pointless to change into another outfit when you’ll eventually put on pajamas. Jim, however, trades his suit for a dark blue sweatshirt and black jeans. You take up your spot on the couch beside him.
“Any preference?” He gestures to the T.V with the remote.
“Nope.” You cuddle up to him until you’re practically in his lap, face pressed to his chest and arms around his middle as best as you can manage.
“Really need your teddy bear today, huh?” He loops his right arm over your shoulders as he flips to the Monsters and Mysteries episode already in progress. Something about Zombies, you think.
“Yeah.”
“I can handle that.” He kisses the top of your head.
You rub your cheek against his chest, focus on the soft, warm shape of his belly, the faint smell of detergent in the sweatshirt. You’re so tense from a day spent keeping the depression from freezing you in place or knocking you to the floor. You’re so tense and nothing is working to undo the knots in your back and stomach.
Jim chuckles at some nonsense on screen and you force a little laugh to echo it. You know that if you asked for comfort or, better yet, for him to take you to bed like he so often does on Saturdays, he’d be happy to. But don’t want to express a preference because it’s embarrassing to have them, humiliating to have wants or needs of any kind.
You want Jim to make you relax for him. You wish you knew how to tell him that without seeming pathetic.
You squeeze your eyes shut and hold him tighter, wishing on the stars that form behind your eyelids.
When you open them, you’re in the dark living room, bundled under two blankets. There’s no sound other than the shifts and groans of the old house in the spring wind. Jim must have gone to bed.
You climb the stairs, intending to follow suit only to stop on the landing. Light seeps into the hall from Jim's room where the door is open a crack. If he’s still awake, you’d at the very least like to kiss him goodnight.
It’s only when you reach the door that you hear the breathing; heavy, aching, intoxicating to your ears. You stay in the shadows as you peer into his bedroom. Jim is in his undershirt, black briefs shoved mid-thigh as he touches himself. Glasses off and eyes closed he looks so content, even as bucks hungrily into his fist.
You should leave him be, let him relax without having to worry about taking care of you.
But if he doesn’t see you, he can still have that and you can still enjoy the show.
You slide your feet to adjust for a better view. The floor creaks.
Jim rolls his head to the side to look at the door, “You know how I feel about being spied on. Get in here.” He jerks his head and you slip in, shutting the door behind you.
Some part of you wants to clamber onto the mattress with him, or wriggle under the covers just to make him pull them off. But all you can manage is to stand by the edge of the bed in your now-rumpled dress.
Jim sits up, “You getting shy on me, sunshine?”
“Yes, sir.” The second word scurries out unbidden.
Jim raises his brows but doesn’t comment. Instead he murmurs, “why?”
“Because I feel like shit and I don’t want to bother you with it.” You’re too tired to be anything but honest.
He frowns and you wince at the disapproval. Jim notices, softens his expression while holding out his hand, “c’mere.”
You take his hand, let him guide you so you’re laying on your sides, facing each other.
“There we go.” he hesitates a beat, then adds, “my good girl.”
A weak, needy noise leaves your throat in reply. You blush, rest your forehead on his chest to hide your face and only succeed in starting directly down at his cock. It’s still hard, practically begging for you to run your fingers up it. But you still feel so shy and small that it seems impossible to reach out and touch it.
You glance back up, eyes wider than you usually let them get. You assume you look ridiculous, but a fond, almost possessive look settles on Jim’s face.
“You want to watch?”
You nod.
“You’re going to be polite and quiet while I finish?”
You nod again, frantically, biting your lip.
“Good choice. Otherwise you’d have to close your eyes.” He reaches between your bodies and begins stroking himself. His free hand rests in your hair, gradually tugging at it as he grunts and kisses your face.
You set one hand on his hip, the other on his chest, petting him encouragingly as welcome heat drips from your core to between your thighs.
A breathy growl in your ear, “Hike your dress up, there we go, good girl.”
You get the fabric up just in time for him to cum on your stomach, and you moan gratefully at the sensation.
Jim catches his breath, brushes his fingertips against your grey underwear, “is this what you like? Watching a dirty old man with his hands down his pants?”
“Uh huh.” You shudder as he rubs your clit through the fabric. You love when his voice gets like this. The gruff, grouchy tone gives way to something darkly confident, the boss in his fancy suit about to order his mousy secretary onto her knees.
“And you’re hoping I’ll get you off with my cum still on my fingers?”
“You…you don’t have to.”
Jim sets his whole hand against your cunt, groping it, “Good girls are honest.”
You blush, managing to make your tongue work, “I want you to decide for me.”
He smiles, amused and hungry, “If you insist.”
He pulls your underwear to the side and slips in a finger. Exhaustion and stress mean you’re not as wet as being in bed with Jim usually makes you. You feel him notice and pull his hand away. As you open your mouth to apologize, he sets his palm across it.
“Get it a little wet for me.”
You lick a stripe on his palm, keep your mouth open as he presses two fingers into your mouth. He’s never done this before. The sensation is unexpectedly grounding, and you press your tongue against his skin as he slowly, deliberately, works the fingers in and out until they’re dripping.
This time, when he slips his fingers into you, you don’t tense. You cuddle closer, work your hips awkwardly and eagerly as his thumb finds your clit.
“Jim” you whine as he applies more pressure, coaxing you to the edge.
“Right here, sunshine, I’m right here” he kisses you, “I’ve got you.”
You cum with a whimper. Stay, limp and sleepy, as Jim eases you out of your clothes.
“Sorry I’m not much help.”
“Still easier than dressing a corpse.” Jim kisses your chest, “I’ll go get something to clean you off.”
You don’t know if he does, because you pass out before he even makes it to the bathroom. But when you wake up Sunday morning, you’re naked and clean under the covers in Jim's bed. The man himself sits beside you, hair falling across his scrunched brow, phone a bit too close to his face.
“Think you need your glasses, old man.” You grab them from the bedside table and hand them to him.
“Thanks” he puts them on without looking away from the screen, “sounds like you’re back to yourself, you little vulture.”
“What-” the memory of last night, of being meek and pathetic in front of him, smacks you upside the head. You drag the covers over your head, groaning, “nevermind, I’m not here, don’t perceive me.”
“C’mon” his weight leaves the bed, then his lips meet your forehead through the blanket, “coffee is only for the perceived.”
“Fiiiiiiiine.” You roll over, still under the covers, and he pats your ass before footsteps leave the room.
You don’t really want to get up. But Jim is downstairs. And that’s enough to tip the scale.
By the time you pull on yoga pants and the blue sweater you’ve now permanently borrowed from him, hissing and clinking reach you from the kitchen. You detour into the living room, tune the radio to the local station that plays classics in the morning.
Coffee is waiting for you on the counter as Jim mans a waffle-maker. You didn’t know Jim even owned a waffle-maker.
“Figured I’d take advantage of having the morning off.” He bends into the fridge as you settle into your spot at the table. A minute later, he sets a plate of waffles, golden and warm, in front of you. There’s a heart drawn in whipped cream on the top one.
You shoot him an amused smile and he looks down, sheepish, grumbling something you can’t make out.
“Thanks. You big marshmallow.”
He grins, blushing so adorably you beckon him down for a kiss.
“My teddy bear.”
“You know it.” He kisses you again, “it’s funny, I think last night was the first time you ever asked me to make a choice for you.”
“Look, sometimes it's too hard to make a decision and I'm tired of having to make them. And I…I trust you. To take care of me.” You stare down at your waffle, watching the heart melt, “which is ridiculous! I don’t need anyone to take care of me! I’m an adult! I've been taking care of myself for years, and my brother to boot once our parents died!”
You bonk your forehead into the table, “I hate this. I hate being a person.”
A broad, comforting hand pets your hair, “well, you're stuck being one. Eat your waffle, sunshine.”
You pick up the fork, jabbing at your breakfast as the mood from yesterday does it’s best to choke you.
You wouldn’t have to be a person if you were dead. But Jim would be the one to deal with your body. You can’t do that to him. Or leave him to manage his filing system alone.
You take a bite; you don’t want to die, not really. You just want a break. You are, to quote the sage Bruce Springsteen, “tired and bored with yourself.”
After breakfast, you do the dishes while Jim putters around the house. Now and then you catch him frowning at his phone, only to tuck it away when you notice him. Your plan is to retreat to your bedroom, but when you head upstairs, Jim comes up behind you and herds you into his room, arm protectively around your waist.
“Uh uh, you're staying with me, sunshine. I'm lonely and it's your job to keep me company.”
“I don’t remember that part of the apprenticeship guidelines.”
“It only applies if you latch yourself onto a morbid, old shut-in.” He sets his laptop on the bed, “besides, I found that Lost Tapes show you told me about.”
You sit on the bed, “I’m not sure I’ve even got the brain power for that today.”
“That’s fine. I just want you close by.” He pats his thigh, “head in my lap.”
“Why-”
“Now, sunshine.” He says it with his usual, casual gruffness. With the headspace you’re in, it melts you.
You shift onto your side, rest your head on his thighs to watch the laptop screen flickering. His right arm drapes over your side and you smile as you feel him relax down into the bed and against the wall
“This feels different than when you order me around for work.”
He rests his hand on your upper arm, “Good different?”
You nod and he shifts his hand up to play with your hair where it falls on your shoulders, “tell me if it stops being good.”
You nod again and feel him murmur, “That’s my girl.”
As bad mockumentary footage fills the screen, you focus on the feel of his fingers in your hair and along your neck, on the steady rise and fall of his belly against the back of your head. You time your breathing to his, sink against the reassuring bulk of his presence.
It’s funny, to see him like this and at work; when you’re with the public he slouches a bit, aware of his size. When it’s just the two of you, he sprawls and uncoils more readily.
Turning your attention on him is a better distraction than the entertaining garbage on screen. So you trail a finger down his leg to his knee, feeling the mouthwatering thigh under the sweatpants. Reach for his left hand where it rests on the bed, hold it gently and run your thumb over his wrist.
Three episodes in, you’ve found a comfortable headspace, drawn his left hand to your face to nuzzle against it. You’re so calm that it takes a moment to realize that his right hand is no longer petting your side; it’s under your shirt, fingertips grazing your tits.
“Something you want?” You look up at him.
Jim pointedly keeps his gaze on the computer, “Don’t mind me.”
“So I shouldn't take my shirt off?”
“Whatever you like, sweetheart. I want you comfortable.”
You don’t feel like losing the comfort and warmth of the sweater, so you shimmy out of your yoga pants instead. Jim takes it for the invitation it is, smooths his hand over your ass and thighs, back up to your tits, which he gropes adoringly until you’re panting and awkwardly trying to mouth his cock through his sweats.
“On your back.” Jim pauses the video with his foot, moves the laptop off the bed as you shift into position. When he turns back to the bed there’s a beat as his gaze glides up your body. He looks satisfied. Pleased with you.
That thought makes your breath catch, makes you toy with the hem of the sweater as he climbs onto the bed. He kneels between your legs, eases himself down to kiss you.
When he breaks the kiss, he chuckles, “This is the most relaxed you’ve looked all day.”
“Because when I’m under you I know exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“Damn right you do.” He kisses you, growls gently against your lips, “legs around me. That’s it, good girl.”
You purr at the stretch in your thighs, how his body is too big for you to wrap your arms or legs around fully. He kisses your face, your neck, and as he does you take in how handsome the grey looks in his hair.
You toy with the strands. He glances up at you, “And you wonder why it’s a mess.”
“I refuse to take the blame for all of that. Some, but not all.”
A firm kiss between your tits, “Good girls don’t argue.”
You moan and grind against him, resulting in more, lingering kisses to your cleavage.
“Yes, sunshine?”
“Please fuck me.”
“Well, since you asked nicely…” He sits up, only pulls his waistband down below his balls before lining himself up and pushing into you. The stretch is welcomely overwhelming, and your hands slide down to his ass, grabbing it encouragingly.
“There we go” Jim groans happily, thrusts slowly, “gotta give my girl what she needs.”
The word choice and the soothing, almost paternal tone, makes you moan embarrassingly loud. You quickly snap your mouth closed.
“Nope, none of that, sweetheart,” Jim’s thumbs presses at the corner of your mouth, “your mouth is mine.”
“Yes, sir.” You pant.
“Sir. I like how that sounds. Liked it last night, too.”
You drape your arms around his shoulders, “Sometimes it's nice to let you be the boss, old man.”
“I’m not that old, sunshine. Still have plenty of energy to do what I need to.” He fucks you with slow, enthusiastic thrusts.
You’ve never had a lover who takes their time the way Jim does. You mentioned that once and he simply said he’s lived too long to find any value in rushing through pleasure.
Normally, you adore his pace. But today you need to be as heavily distracted as possible.
You scritch his beard, “Are you going to show me some of that youthful energy?”
“Are you in a rush?”
“No.” You don’t hide your childish pout
Jim cards your hair back with his fingers, “what did I say yesterday about being honest, hm?”
Your cheeks warm at the memory, “it’s not that I’m in a rush. It’s that I…I don’t want to be able to think about anything else.”
He thrusts harder, jolting a squeak from you as he says, “If I go too fast, I’ll finish too fast. And I don't feel like being done. So you're going to be a sweet little girl and let me fuck you how I want.”
“But-”
His hand rests on your cheek and his thumb on your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, “Let’s get something straight, you little vulture. When you’re in this bed, you do as you’re told. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” You’re so turned on, getting those words out is challenging.
Jim smiles down at you, “That’s better. When you’re here, sunshine, you don’t have to worry about anything, think about anything, that isn’t being my good girl.
You moan, roll your hips to meet this thrusts, “Yes, sir.”
The smile grows more confident, “You’re gonna let me take care of you” he kisses you, “because you’re my sweet, clever, gorgeous little assistant, my live-in” the kisses grow firmer, greedier, “pretty reward for a life spent alone.”
You’re bright pink and blushing as he continues, “that’s it, sweetheart, let go. There’s nothing to worry about, all you have to do is let me in.” He kisses below your ear, “let a dirty old man cum in you as many times as he wants.”
“Ohmygod” you tuck your face against his neck, clinging to him as he thrusts hard and slow. From this angle, his cock rubs your g-spot with every slide. Your legs tighten around him, urging him closer, and as your moans intensify he caresses from your neck down to your chest.
“You’re so gorgeous when you’re cumming on my cock.”
You gasp as the orgasm rushes through you. Jim hugs you close and fucks you through it, muttering sweet reassurance and praise against the crown of your head.
As your body tries to wriggle away from the overstimulation, Jim traps you against him. You whine, horny and helpless
“Shh, sunshine, I’m almost done, just hold on a little longer. I know you can. God” he grunts, “my girl, my sunshine, fuck” on the next thrust he buries himself deep and stays there, cumming in you an open-mouthed groan.
You run your hands up and down his back; he worked up a sweat.
“Jesus, I needed that.” You murmur.
“Glad I could help.” Jim rolls off you and onto his back, tugging you to rest your head on his chest, “I’m sorry the last few days have been rough.”
“Thanks. Believe me, it’s a hell of a lot easier to get through them with you around, even if they still suck.” You kiss his shoulder.
The two of you change clothes and straighten the rumpled bed. As Jim is downstairs getting water, you open the laptop to start the show back up. You scan the open tabs, and by the time Jim is back your heart is ready to burst.
“Jim. James. What exactly were you reading on ‘gentledom.com and ‘BDSM’ Basics?”
He huffs, setting the glasses down, “Last night you seemed like you wanted something different. Wanted me to be in charge without being a grump like I usually am. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted it too, but I’d never really done anything like that on purpose and you seemed like you needed careful handling and I…I wanted..” He trails off as you stand and kiss him.
“I love you, you big marshmallow.”
He cups your face like he’s holding the world in his hands, “I love you, too.”
The monster march prompt for the 15th was Minotaur. This fill is NSFW
You’re getting too old for this shit.
Staring at the cage in the garden, you contemplate backing out of this contract. If you didn’t need the money you’d already be gone.
“That” you indicate the cage, “Is Senna of Galan. You kidnapped a minotaur's child. Are you trying to get both me and yourselves killed?”
The man who hired you shakes his head, “As far as the king is concerned, a renowned hero is bringing word that his daughter has been rescued and he need only come retrieve her. Once he’s here, the real negotiation begins.” He smiles, gaze falling on the horn you wear on a chain around your neck, “why are you worried? You’ve bested a minotaur before.”
The labyrinth is dark and so damp your sandals slip from under you. You land with a thud and freeze, silent, waiting to see if anything heard you fall.
When no hooves thud on the stone, you stand and set your left hand back on the left wall.
It’s been a day, maybe two, since they left the six of you here. They armed the three boys with short swords and left you and the other girls with nothing. Tradition, they said, just like this whole, monstrous exercise.
Everyone knows the truth; five years ago, the citizens demanded the king address the poor conditions of his realm. His retaliation was to take six of their children, ones who had just reached their 18th year. If any of the children survive and bring him a piece of the minotaurs horn, their family is granted the chance to be part of the noble classes.
Technically, it’s not a death sentence. There’s a way out. There’s also miles of maze and a monster between you and it.
A crunch under your foot. You crouch, reaching down and pick up the bone. An arm or a leg, you’d guess.
You reach into the trick pocket you sewed into your skirt. Small enough to escape notice, large enough to hold a small box of matches.
You tear fabric from the bottom of your skirt and wrap it around the bone, and finally bring the maze into view
You meet your employer's eye, “Fine. But I want an extra five hundred in hazard pay.”
Galan’s estate sprawls across a hillside, bathed gold in the setting sun. You’re delaying the trek up, telling yourself you don’t know if the guards will even let you in with a piece of minotaur horn around your neck.
You don’t know if the minotaur in question will remember you.
A scream rouses you from your sleep. One of the boys who was sent with you.
You’d told them all to stay with you, to stay together, that you had a plan. But four were unwilling and each set on their own path. The fifth had simply sat weeping on the floor. For all you know, he’s still there.
There are scattered torches throughout this part of the maze. Your hope is that it means you’re closer to…something. The exit would be nice, but you’ve heard rumors that the center of the maze has some scattered plants and even a spring.
Hooves clomp closer and you scurry around a corner, one that leads to a dead end. When you hear labored breaths, you risk a peek around the stones.
The minotaur is mostly in shadow. Shimmering in the torchlight is the back half of a sword, which he pulls free from his side with a grunt and tosses to the ground. He reaches into a crude bag on his waist and removes a strip of fabric, tying it around his stomach to cover the wound.
Another step, then he stops, sniffing the air.
You curl back into the corner, covering your mouth to quiet your breathing.
“I know you’re there. Hiding like a cat waiting to pounce. Or are you a frightened little gatita who will wail the moment I pick her up?”
You keep quiet and hear him sigh, tired.
“Fine, we can draw this out if you wish. I would rather not risk another wound so quickly.”
With that, he lumbers off down the hallway. When his footfalls are completely gone, you stand and nearly trip over the discarded sword. You should pick it up,
The minotaur had so many scars. Adding one more will not save your life, this much you know.
You step over the blade and continue along the wall.
It’s dusk by the time you arrive at the doors of his palace. You don’t mention Senna; you don’t want to tip your hand or enter with suspicion already on your head. You put on your most heroic smile, turn on the charm and dignity until they grant you entry. An attendant and a guard meet you in the entrance hall and escort you toward the throne room.
“The king holds court so late?” You're surprised; most rulers you’ve encountered, even ones of small holdings, refuse to see anyone past sunset.
“He attends to business when it is necessary.”
The throne room gleams with polished, auburn wood and golden accents. It’s darker than you expected, but invitingly so. The throne is backed against a wall. It’s a large, plush furnishing, built to withstand the weight of the creature occupying it. He’s kilted in a fine, dark blue fabric, fur gleaming like obsidian and belly sticking out over the band of his clothing.
As you straighten from your bow, he meets your eyes and you know: he remembers you.
It’s risky, coming to the spring. Were you not about to faint from thirst, you’d stay hidden.
The shadow falls over you too quickly for you to do anything but turn.
“There you are, little kitten. I knew they must have sent six. They always send six. Tell me, was your plan to stab me? Burn me? Scratch my eyes out like one of your friends tried.” His hand closes around your upper arm as he hauls you to your feet.
“Wait, please just wait a moment.” You hold your hands in a gesture of surrender, “I don’t intend to hurt you. I want to leave. And I want you to come with me.”
You glance up at him. His brown eyes regard you with curiosity before his expression hardens.
“I commend your creativity. No one’s tried that lie before.”
“It’s not a lie. It’s pragmatic. I’m unarmed and I’ve been making my way through without going in circles, I think if we work together we can find the door. I’ve seen the markings you left; you’ve been trying for years.”
“And that makes you think you’ll succeed where I failed?”
“No. Two minds are better than one, especially when both have been leaving marks.”
“The ash symbols…”
You yelp as he easily lifts you and pins you against the wall, your feet dangling uselessly above the stone.
“What are you doing??” You fight the urge to kick him as one, muscled arm loops around your back, keeping you pinned between him and the wall as his other hand shoves under the remains of your dress.
“Being sure you’re telling the truth.” A large hand slides over your skin, the touch so clinical it arouses nothing in you except worry.
You take the opportunity to examine him in turn. Even with the scars and the starvation, his face is round and has a noble set. His fur is black. It’s as caked in dust as your poor skirt. His horns are formidable and there’s a piercing in his nose.
That’s as far as you get before he sets you down. He lowers his face to murmur in your ear, “I agree to your terms. But understand, gatita: if you cross me, I will make you suffer far longer than any of your unfortunate companions.”
You shudder as he snorts, hot breath ruffling your hair, and nod, “Let’s get out of here.”
“You say you have news, hero. I feel I must remind you that there is little that goes on in this kingdom of which I am unaware. I would not want to waste your time or mine.”
“I would not allow mine to be wasted on a pointless journey. Is it safe to say you know the doings of many of your citizens but the locations of some may be hard to confirm, even if you desperately want to know them?”
He regards you with that same curiosity from all those years ago. This time it’s hope instead of anger that lurks behind it.
“May we speak alone?” You unbuckle your sword and toss it onto the floor along with the knife from your boot.
“Come with me.” He stands and you fall into step behind as he calls, “no one is to disturb me unless I send for them.”
Once you’re in the hallway heading deeper into the palace, he slows his stride so you can keep up with him. He always has.
“Am I really the first one to suggest working together?”
Andres, as he asks you to call him, nods, “Most hide from me until they have a weapon. Many do not see me as a creature you can reason with. Besides, the king asks for my horns. Hard to get those if I am alive.”
“He asks for a piece, not the whole thing.” You correct, “And that matters little to me. I want to get out alive; I can help my family much more effectively doing that than getting gored.”
Andres pauses at a fork in the tunnel, then points, “We go right, here. We’ll find some edible clover.”
The minotaur suspects the king allowed for just enough food and water to naturally occur at the heart of the maze so that Andres would not simply starve to death. That would be too generous a fate for a minotaur who was becoming a threat to the king's power.
After a meager dinner, the two of you agree to bed down for a while. It’s so cold in the labyrinth that on your second night, Andres simply picked you up and laid you on top of him. When you pointed out you weren’t much of a blanket, he patted your head and replied, “Yes. A blanket would argue far less.”
You settle into your usual position, resting your head on his chest. As you have each time you lay down to sleep, Andres asks you about the goings on outside and listens with intense interest. In turn you listen to his stories of his youth, the rumble of his deep voice easing the aches of the day.
His hand settles protectively on your lower back, rubbing at the worn fabric and exposed skin as he murmurs, “Tomorrow we face my enemy.”
Right, the section that in five years he’s never been able to progress through.
You reach up and rub the base of one horn to relax him.
“We’ll find a way. One turn at a time, just like we’ve been doing. I didn’t come this far to fail now.”
“Such a willful creature, gatita.” He chuckles, “if you cannot help me through it, the tributes next year are in for a surprise. If we don’t escape, I will keep you by my side.”
“Like a pet?” You tease.
He chuckles, “Something like that.”
“You can’t possibly have gotten taller, right?” He was already a good foot and a half taller than you.
“I simply hold my head higher these days.”
“Such a proud bull.”
He snorts at the comment and ushers you through a door. These must be his chambers; the same auburn wood dominates the furnishings and you count at least ten items you’d like to curl up and sleep on. Unlike the throne room, the bedroom has skylights and high, large windows.
The fact he can see the sky whenever he likes makes you smile.
Andres relaxes into a chair, legs spread wide, “Now, gatita, tell me why you’re here. It has to do with Senna, yes?”
“Exactly. This is the part where the men who hired me want me to tell you that they rescued her from the original kidnappers, and that she is too weak to travel. And that you must return with me, alone, to collect her.”
“At which point they reveal they’re who took her and have no intention of freeing her unless I cooperate.”
“That’s the poorly-conceived plan.” You lean back against the wall, watching him, “I promised I’d never betray you. I’ll hold that oath until I die. Promise aside, I’m not inclined to get between any minotaur and his kin, let alone the minotaur who accomplished a full blown takeover and his only child.”
“You’ll tell me where she is?”
“With a map and everything.”
His posture changes instantly; he collapses forward, arms braced on his knees as he runs his hands over his face.
You’re eighteen again, falling onto grass as the sun burns above you for the first time in weeks, maybe months.
You kneel as you did then, rubbing the base of the nearest horn.
“I’ve felt so helpless since she was taken. Desperate to save her but too ignorant of the culprits; any action seemed to risk tipping my hand and bringing her to harm.”
“They won’t see this coming. As far as they know, I’m eager to slay another minotaur for the right price.” You touch the piece of horn around your neck.
“What are you doing?” You grab for his arm as he raises a rock toward his head.
“Paying a debt.” Before you can stop him, Andres cracks the stone against the tip of his left horn. Two blows is all it takes for it to tumble to the grass at your feet. He picks it up, takes your hand in his own, and sets the piece of horn into it.
“Tell the king I’m dead. Claim the reward you deserve.” He closes your hand, runs his thumb over your wrist, “My supposed death will help us both, I promise.”
You tuck against his chest, doing your best to hug him, “Will we meet again?”
He presses a kiss to the top of your head, “Gods willing.”
“It’s a lucky charm, these days” You watch his finger move from tracing the horn to trailing along your collarbone, “People think this” you indicate the ring set with a basilisk tooth, “far more impressive.”
“I’m insulted.” He smiles at you.
“I didn’t slay this one either. You can, in fact, lure them somewhere they won’t bother anyone. They lose teeth like sharks do.” Reluctantly, you pull away from his touch, “I’ll make a map. Only take those who you trust most; I didn’t ask to talk in private just so I could flutter my lashes at you. There’s likely a spy who helped arrange the kidnapping.”
Andres departs with a small party of minotaurs, humans, and one very chatty satyr around midnight. Before he goes, he tells you to consider his chambers yours while you rest, and that he’s instructed the servants to look after you.
This turns out to be code for “treat you like a visiting princess or other person who doesn’t spend half her time coated in mud and blood.”
There are attendants who help you bathe before bed, others who leave berries and a soothing tea on a golden tray at the bedside for you to enjoy before you sleep.
When you wake, breakfast is brought to a balcony overlooking the valley. On the very edge of the horizon, you see the ruins of the labyrinth. Andres razed it to the ground when he overthrew the king of this land.
After you eat, you’re herded into the bathing pool once more. This time your hair is washed with an elixir of sweet, red blossoms, leaving it soft as it dries in the sun. The attendants even help you dress, draping you in a comfortable, white dress tied with gold ribbon, before insisting on braiding your hair into an elaborate crown.
“Did he…have this dress before I got here?” You ask the friendly centaur doing your hair.
“No. He sent one of the servants into town for it before he left. That’s not too tight like that?”
“Feels perfect” You take the mirror she hands you, “looks even better.”
Come mid-morning, Andres is still gone. You explore his rooms more thoroughly to distract from your worries. Near his closet is a portrait of himself, Senna, and his former queen. She’s the most stunning minotaur you’ve ever seen. You know little about her beyond the king loving her dearly and losing her when Senna was quite young.
Right before you reach the point of pulling on your work clothes and going to look for them, Andres returns, fur gleaming in the afternoon sun and Senna close behind him. You bow along with everyone else, noting the lack of bloodstains on his hands or horns; all the others in the party have them.
As you’re returning to his room, one of the servants tells you that Andres sends his regards and will speak with you tonight.
“He wishes to spend today looking after the princess.”
“I’d think less of him if he didn’t.”
You doze off while reading on the bed, only stirring when Andres finally strides inside.
“Apologies, I did not mean to wake you, querida.”
He’s only ever called you that once, draped over you in the darkness. A moment so formative the word alone is enough to make you blush.
“How is Senna?” You shift to the foot of the bed.
“More angry than frightened. And very tired. It’s she who told me to go to bed and leave her be.” He huffs, amused, “only eighteen and already she’s reversing our positions. Thank you for the map. It made it much easier to take them by surprise. How much was your fee?”
“Two thousand. But don’t even think about trying to pay it in their place. Seeing you again, let alone being treated as an honored guest, is reward enough.”
“The house and staff are to your liking?”
“Can’t complain about the royal treatment.”
He tilts his head as he approaches you. When did he strip down to the loincloth?
“I would think a hero often receives such a welcome.”
“Early on? Yes. But after a few years you’re less a celebrity and more like a dog working for the highest bidder. Nobles start to get jumpy if you live too long or stay perpetually popular; makes you an easy candidate to overthrow them. Not to mention that age and wear take the glamor off pretty quick.” You gesture to yourself.
“Is that so?” Andres offers his hand to help you to your feet. He twirls you slowly, breathing heavier than a moment ago.
“I must disagree.” He drops his hands to your sides, running them along your curves with a fond smile, “You’re a delight for the senses. And to think, you were such a scrawny thing back then.”
“So were you.” You run your palms up his chest, bringing each to rest against the gold rings in his nipples, “and these weren’t there.”
You gently tug the rings. Andres snorts, stamping his left foot, “Careful, querida, you remember the last time you aroused me.”
You wake to something hot and hard pressing against your stomach. Andres twitches beneath you, still asleep. Shifting onto your side, you gaze down at the outline of the largest cock you’ve ever seen. The head of it is rounder and flatter than a man’s.
Curious, you touch the tip of one finger to it. Andres opens his eyes just as you do. In the dim light of the torches, he smiles.
“Lucky me. The one I was dreaming about is here when I wake up.”
You stroke the shaft through the fabric, “Such a charming bull.”
“You benefit from my patience more than my charm. Your scent, the way your dress clings to you, your wit, you are lucky you haven’t woken up to me already taking my pleasure inside you.”
You moan, pressing your thighs together as an ache grows between them. Andres growls softly and pulls you up into a kiss. You know so little of what lies before you, but you know you want him and have for some time.
In the end he fucks your thighs, your face pressed to your forearms as he takes you from behind. He calls you “querida” as he holds you, praises you as he spills onto the floor and for hours after. You can’t make it more than a few steps in your trek without pausing to kiss.
The two of you find the door the next day
“I recall it went well.”
Andres hooks his arms behind your thighs, lifting you without another word. You laugh and kiss his face as he carries along the side of the bed before depositing you against the pillows.
His cock is as magnificent as you remember, although your view of it is lost as he crawls onto the bed to kiss you more. His mouth isn’t quite made to mesh with yours, but the passion more than compensates for the clumsiness.
“My orders to the staff were to treat you like a queen. Will you let me do the same?”
You drag your nails through the fur on his chest and he tilts his head back with a sigh.
“I’m yours to have.” You stroke his face when he looks at you, “I’ve thought of you often, Andres, and always fondly. I also once bought a gorgeous dildo purely because it reminded me of you.”
“And did it satisfy you?”
You tug the ring in his left nipple, “Thoroughly.”
“Well, then, let’s see how it compares to the real thing.” He reclines against the headboard and guides you into his lap. Giddy, you press kisses down his neck and chest, nuzzling him as strong fingers inch your dress up.
“Will you indulge me in something?”
“Anything.” You sigh happily as he kneads your ass with warm, large hands.
He reaches up to one of the baskets hanging from the edge of the window above the bed, “Put your back against my chest.”
You obey, spot your reflections in a mirror on the far wall. Andres is beaming and you’ve never seen a smile this bright on your own face before.
“Hands up above your head, gatita.”
When you move your arms he catches your left wrist and kisses it before closing a thin, metallic band around it. He repeats this with your right hand. In the mirror you see the cuffs are gold, each attached to a thin chain that loops over the back of his neck.
“Comfortable?”
“Very.” You purr as he pulls your dress down enough to free your tits, feel yourself getting wet as you watch his hands completely cover each one. The touches are firm, not rough, and you melt as he massages your skin and teases his thumbs over your nipples.
“Are you going to tell me where you got this idea?”
“After our escape, I learned that a variety of other monsters had been subjected to similar imprisonment. Some were like me, punished by being the star player in a convoluted gladiator match. But others were lucky.” One hand continues toying with your breasts while the other pulls pins from your hair, “they were captured, but revered. Trapped, secret weapons to be placated until they were needed. They were given food and real beds and…companions.”
“I see…” You grind along his cock, which hardens under the attention.
“I wondered what it would have been like to have met you in such a way. Dressed in pure white robes, bound with golden rope and offered to me. Your sole purpose to be mounted as often as I pleased.”
“Andres” You moan as his hand reaches between your legs to tease your folds and rub insistently at your clit.
“At first I imagined you as the virginal sacrifice, tearful and obedient as I took you” he presses two, thick fingers into you. You gasp and work your hips, savoring the way he feels inside you.
“I abandoned that idea fairly quickly. You are many things, querida, but resigned to your fate is not one of them. So I imagined instead that you volunteered, that you had heard of me and wished to meet me, no matter the cost. That you were so determined to have my attention we never made it to a bed; I held you against the wall and fucked you as hard as I dared.”
“Fuck, Andres, please, please, I need you to fuck me-”
“Patience, my dear.”
You pout over your shoulder and he hunches to kiss your cheek, “I know your spirit is more than willing. It’s your body that worries me.”
“I have almost as many scars as you do. My body has taken more damage than I care to think about, at least this time the pain will be for something I want.
He digs a hand into your hair and tugs, “I won’t be rushed. Understood?”
In all your years, Andres remains the only man who can give you orders like that without you bristling.
“Understood. Querido.”
Andres works another finger into you, his free hand roaming from your hair to your thighs with every possible stop in between. You relax and let take his time, watch your reflection blush to her toes.
“I, ahhhn, get the feeling if we’d been in the maze much longer I’d have spent lots of the journey with cum dripping down my legs.”
“Oh yes. I am patient, but only to a point.” He pushes a fourth finger into you. You whimper and spread your legs.
“Good girl. You’re almost ready.”
“I’m not the only one.” You wiggle your ass and he grunts.
The fingers inside you push you toward orgasm; you’ve always enjoyed being filled and the sensation of them stretching you, the slick slide of them against your walls, makes you moan and tug at the chain connecting your wrists.
“If you keep this up, I’m going to cum before you ever get that gorgeous cock into me.”
He growls and pulls his hand free. Trapped, you can’t do anything but stay pliant and gasp as he presses the head of his cock into you. For a moment it’s too much, too wide, and you tense.
“Easy, darling one, easy.” Andres pets your stomach and rubs your thighs, “relax. You are safe. You know I won’t harm you.”
You close your eyes, sync your breaths to his. A small push and the head is in, spreading you wide for the thick shaft that follows. Andres goes slow, continues rubbing and stroking your body, carding his fingers through the hair that’s now tumbling down your shoulders.
“Such a lovely fit.” A gentle thrust and you whimper as he continues murmuring to you, “so perfect for me.”
“Nnuhhuh.” Is all you manage in reply.
He snickers, “Oh dear. If I go too hard I may render you speechless forever.”
You roll your eyes with a smile and whack him playfully with the backs of your hands, “You’re welcome to try.”
His hips build a slow, demanding pace and you give up on making your muscles cooperate. You allow yourself to go limp. Andres makes a low, satisfied sound and wraps one arm across your hips. The other has found its way back to your tits, playing with them as he bounces you in his lap.
“You look so beautiful like this.” Andres kisses your head.
“Think right now you’re not an impartial judge.”
“No? Open your eyes.”
You comply, new arousal coursing through you when you spot your reflection. Your hair is disheveled, your tits are red from attention, and even from here you spot the shine of slick on your thighs.
“I’m a mess. A satisfied mess, but a mess.”
“We must agree to disagree then.” Andres thrusts more roughly, “to me you look like a queen. Or maybe that’s just because you’re in the lap of a king, hmm?”
“Maybe.” You smile up at him, “if you want to call me a queen, I won’t complain.”
He holds you a little tighter, his hand flitting away from your chest for a beat to cup your cheek, “Will you let me claim you, my queen?”
“Oh I definitely will. AH, ahhhfuck, Andres” You fight to get air between your moans as he pounds into you, “yes, yes my king, my handsome bull, fuck me.” You arch as he forces your climax from you, the aftershocks instantly making you more sensitive to the thrusts lighting up every inch of you.
Andres buries a groan in your hair as he cums. You twist your hips at the unfamiliar feeling; no human lover has ever cum enough for you to feel it filling your cunt.
He softens as he pulls out, undoes the cuffs so he can turn you to face him. You raise up on shaky thighs to kiss his brow.
“Querida.” He sighs as you pet his face and chest.
“Querido.” You rest against him, “why do I get the feeling you’re not going to let me leave in the morning.”
“I’d never keep you prisoner. We’ve had enough of that, the two of us. But it would be a great honor to have such a renowned hero in my palace. And perhaps some day to call her my…well, we can take that one turn at a time. Don’t you agree?”
You rest yourself contentedly against the minotaur you’ve thoroughly subdued, “I do.”
