The elderly lady who owns the convenience store in Simon’s neighbourhood needs help with a faulty fridge. You tag along with Simon and discover more about him than you ever expected.
A/N: Fluff. Cosy read.
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“It’s right there,” Simon says, pointing down the street. “Just need to take care of something quickly.”
You follow his outstretched arm to a convenience store nestled on the corner. Furrowing your brows, you glance back at the street you had just walked down, spotting Simon’s house. It’s very close, you think to yourself. Maybe a three-minute walk away.
That’s weird. You’ve taken that same road to and from Simon’s house many times, yet this is the first time you’ve noticed the store.
Turning your attention back, you look closer at your destination. No wonder you never paid much attention to it. The store seems old and rather inconspicuous, blending into its surroundings seamlessly. Everything is understated, from the building to its decor—if you could even call it that. To the left of the entrance, there’s a stand of old magazines, and on the right, a table with two chairs catches your eye. You glance up at the sign above the entrance.
“Mary Mart,” you read aloud.
“That’s right,” Simon confirms, opening the door and triggering a bell to jingle. “Mary should be inside.”
He holds the door open for you, yet his gaze remains fixed on something inside the store. You step in and follow his line of sight to a lady holding a newspaper up to her face. That must be Mary, you presume.
“You alright, Mary?” Simon asks softly.
Yup, that’s definitely her. The newspaper covers most of Mary’s petite frame as she sits behind the counter. She seems so absorbed by her reading that she didn’t hear you come in.
Simon sighs and shakes his head. He gently taps the back of the newspaper to get her attention. Mary lowers the paper to her nose, and her face lights up immediately at the sight of Simon.
“Didn’t see you there!” Mary shouts, lowering the newspaper to the counter. “You alright, my dear?”
“Yes, Mary,” he murmurs, “neither did you see nor hear us.”
“What?” Mary asks, letting go of the newspaper and cupping her ear.
Simon taps his own ear, indicating that Mary needs to adjust her earpiece. Mary’s eyes widen, and she quickly follows Simon’s lead, turning her earpiece on. She gives him a nod.
“Better now?” Simon asks.
“Much, much better,” Mary confirms, then turns to you with a broader smile. “And who do we have here?”
You politely nod, introducing yourself to Mary, but Simon interjects before you say much.
“So tell me, Mary,” He says, glancing towards the back of the store where the fridges are, “which one’s acting up?”
“Oh, I can’t remember, dear, but it’s hard to miss it,” Mary replies, sighing. “It’s the one with the towels underneath. Keeps dripping water.”
Simon nods, his gaze still focused on the fridges. He begins heading towards the back of the store, and you instinctively follow behind him.
“How lovely of you, Simon,” Mary’s voice sounds from behind you. “Bringing me some company while you take care of that fridge.”
You stop in your tracks, and Simon does, too. Point taken, Mary. You glance towards Simon, and he gives you a nod.
“She’s harmless,” he whispers, brushing your hair back. “And a pretty nice lady.”
“Don’t be long.” You whisper back. “We still need to go get some breakfast.”
Simon nods and continues to the back of the store. With a sigh, you return to the counter where Mary is and settle into a nearby chair.
“Anything newsworthy?” You ask.
“Nothing much, dear,” Mary replies, adjusting her newspaper. “The weather’s terrible, the economy’s getting worse, and people won’t stop killing each other.”
“Oh...” you murmur, “yeah, that’s bad.”
“Well, at least Boots has 20% off on all moisturizers,” she announces, slightly more enthusiastically than one might expect for moisturizers. She picks a pair of scissors from under the counter and starts snipping the voucher.
With Mary on a mission to get that 20% off of that newspaper, you take the opportunity to peek at Simon. He’s kneeling in front of the fridge at the back of the store, focused on the appliance. Occasionally, his brow slightly furrows as he inspects the faulty machine. Then he pauses, nods, and grabs tools or shifts his position to get a better look at it. You, on the other hand, have no idea what he’s doing, nor do you care. You are hungry and caffeine-deprived. You’re pretty sure Simon feels the same way.
Meanwhile, Mary has finished cutting through the voucher and returned to her reading. She often flips through the pages and snaps the newspaper to straighten it and remove wrinkles. Sometimes, she hums, acknowledging her current read. Other times, she clicks her tongue disapprovingly at whatever news she comes across.
And you? Well, you’re bored out of your mind, so you begin scanning the shelves and displays, taking in the assortment of merchandise neatly arranged throughout the store. Your eyes briefly pause on various items—a stack of magazines, a display of snacks, a row of household essentials—before finally settling on an old photograph hanging behind Mary.
In the photograph, a young man wearing a military uniform stands confidently. He appears to be in his late twenties and sports a well-kept moustache. Rather than looking straight ahead, his gaze seems to be directed right behind you. He looks confident. Strong. He feels present, even if he’s not here.
“Handsome, huh?” Mary asks, peering over her glasses before turning towards the picture behind her. “That’s my Walter right there.”
You clear your throat and nod. “Very handsome indeed,” you confirm. “Is he your husband?”
“Was,” Mary corrects with a wistful smile, her eyes drifting back to you. “My very first and last one.”
“Which war?” you ask, gesturing towards his uniform.
“You mean which war he served in or which war he died in?”
“Both,” you shrug.
“Served in too many,” she says proudly, lowering her gaze to her newspaper. “But the war my Walter lost had no guns or weapons.”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
Mary looks up from her newspaper, meeting your eyes with a tilt of her head and a warm smile.
“Coffee?” she offers but doesn’t let you respond. She has already turned her back to you, brewing a fresh pot.
“No, thank you,” you reply. “We intend to grab some on our way to breakf-”
“I don’t think Simon will finish anytime soon, dear,” she interjects.
“Then yes, please,” you reply, then mouth a silent ‘shit’ to yourself so that Mary doesn’t hear you. You peek once more at the back of the store where Simon is.
“He’s handsome as well, isn’t he?” Mary states, with her back still turned towards you.
You blush at Mary’s observation and look down at the gum assortment in front of the counter. “Yes,” you agree, nodding with a smile. “Yes, he is.”
“Met at the base?” She asks, pouring you a cup of coffee.
“You know where we work?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
“It takes one to know one, dear,” she says, turning towards you and handing you a cup of coffee. “Milk? Sugar?”
“No, thanks,” you reply. “So you also served in the military?”
Mary’s expression shifts, her face lighting up as she lifts her index finger.
“Serve!” she exclaims, “Silly me; I forgot to serve the biscuits!”
She retrieves a plate covered with tin foil from below the counter and uncovers it, pushing the platter towards you. You politely decline, thanking her for the offer. But Mary insists.
“I made them myself,” she tells you warmly.
“And I’m sure they taste lovely, but-”
“Take the biscuit,” Mary commands sternly, yet still smiling.
You look up at her, and without looking back at the plate, you take a biscuit. You don’t know which one you picked, what flavour it is, or if there are any allergens in it. Mary’s assertiveness is enough to make you pop it right into your mouth.
Her smile widens. “Good?” she asks.
The biscuit is indeed good. Very good. But even if it weren’t, you wouldn’t dare say otherwise—not only out of respect for Mary’s age but also because something tells you she might have more experience than the convenience store owner she portrays herself to be.
“They are amazing, Mary,” you reply and swallow.
“Simon likes those too,” she states proudly. “I often bring some over when I bake them.”
“So you live nearby?” You ask, swallowing another bite of the biscuit.
“I’m his landlord,” Mary reveals, nudging the plate of biscuits closer to you, “help yourself to another.”
You oblige and take another biscuit, and Mary continues once you take a bite.
“So,” she begins, blowing the steam off her coffee, “I’ve seen you plenty of times in my neighbourhood.”
“I, um,” you lift one shoulder and idly pick up a pack of chewing gum from the assortment in front of you. “I do come by often.”
“I know,” she replies, sipping her coffee. “You’ve been passing by my store a lot lately.”
You subtly turn your head towards Simon’s direction, letting your hair fall to the side of your face to conceal your blushing cheeks from Mary’s view. Yet she doesn’t seem to let go.
“He’s a good lad,” Mary states. Always there when neighbours need him, ready to lend a hand.”
“Indeed, he’s very good with his hands.” You reply.
“You know best, my dear,” Mary remarks, smirking.
“I meant with fixing things!” You say, widening your eyes. “He’s good with his hands when it comes to fixing things!”
Mary chuckles knowingly. “He’s also quite popular with the ladies—both the single and the taken ones,” she continues.
“Oh, is he now?” You respond in a high-pitched voice, narrowing your eyes. You turn your body towards Mary, placing the chewing gum package back in its original position.
“Yes,” she confirms, leaning over the counter. “Simon never rejects the attention, being such a good-looking lad, but at the same time, he never reciprocates.”
“How do you know he doesn’t reciprocate?”
“Oh, you’d be impressed what people say in front of an old lady who, allegedly, forgets to switch her earpiece on.” She says, winking at you.
“So, women flirt with him, huh?”
Mary throws her head back and chuckles, flicking her wrist at you. “Oh please, my dear,” she says in between chuckles, “I would have practically done the same if I was fifty years younger and Walter wasn’t around.”
“And he doesn’t flirt back?” You ask.
“No, not really, but he used to be friendly with them.” She explains, tilting her head toward you. “And then something changed.”
You shift in your seat and lean forward. “What?” You ask, intrigued. “What changed?”
Mary leans closer, sliding the biscuit platter toward you.
“Mary, I should probably lay off the biscuits,” you say. “We’re supposed to be heading out for breakfast, remember?”
“Make it a brunch, dear, or whatever you young people call it nowadays,” she replies. “Simon won’t be fixing the fridge anytime soon.”
“How do you know?” you ask. “You just said he’s great at fixing things.”
“Not when there’s nothing wrong with the fridge in the first place.”
“What do you mean?” You ask, furrowing your brows.
“I detached the defrost drain to simulate water leakage,” she explains. “It’s an easy fix, but you can oversee it quite easily, especially when the fridge is as old as I am.”
“You tinkered with the fridge on purpose?” you ask, eyes wide with surprise. “Why?”
“Oh please,” she sighs, rolling her eyes, “I had to bring you both here somehow.”
You glance at the cookie platter. Understanding that you won’t get any more information from Mary unless you indulge, you grab another cookie and pop it into your mouth. Mary, the ‘insert-biscuit-here-to-continue’ lady, takes the cue and continues.
“And then, as I was saying, you began to visit more often,” she explains, glancing over at Simon. “And his reaction to all the attention shifted.”
“You need to elaborate a little bit more, Mary,” you press. “How exactly did it change?”
“Girlfriend!” she exclaims in a hushed tone, widening her eyes at you. “He says he has a girlfriend!”
You widen your eyes, just like her, and point at yourself. She nods and points back at you.
“And then there’s the toothbrush,” she continues. “He bought two! A green one and a pink one.”
“He gave me a pink toothbrush when I stayed over for the first time!” you whisper. “Said he’d bought it ages ago and forgotten about it!”
“He bought a pink toothbrush as a spare for himself?” She asks, and her eyes narrow. “Nonsense! It wasn’t too long ago, and I have the receipts.”
“You keep receipts for these things, Mary?”
“No, silly,” she shakes her head. “It’s for tax purposes.”
“Right, so, I’m the girlfriend apparently,” you murmur, massaging your temples. “But why are you telling me all this?”
“Simon isn’t much of a talker, dear,” Mary explains, her tone softening. “Not to mention the horrors he’s been through. Sometimes, you might even misunderstand him because of it. But I’ve known him for a long time. He’s like family to me. Sometimes, when words fail him, I feel the need to speak on his behalf.”
“So you’re looking out for him,” you conclude, slowly nodding.
“Like the child I never had,” Mary confirms with a warm smile, pouring another cup of coffee. “And I can see how much he cares about you. But he’s not always good at expressing it. That’s why I thought I’d give you a little hint.”
“Thank you, Mary,” you say. “I appreciate you looking out for us.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she says, handing you the extra coffee. “Now, how about you go over there and tell Simon to take a break? You can use the chairs outside while I go and reattach the defrost drain to the fridge.”
“Sure thing,” you reply and grab the coffee. “I just have one more question.”
“Go ahead,” she says.
“If Simon asks me what we’ve been talking about, what should I tell him?”
“Tell him I was rambling about the weather, the economy, and the 20% voucher from Boots,” she suggests, winking. “You’re a smart girl; that’s why he picked you. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
Hello Valiants!!! Your artwork is amazing, i come back everyday to refresh and see if youve gifted us more soapghost content. If youre feeling up to it, period!au horseback riding somewhere? Or alternatively, summertime soap wearing shorts and ghost is hella distracted. Love you!!!
Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader
Theseus is dead. You’re escorting the Minotaur, more beast than a man, out of the Labyrinth. The problem is, he seems to be more interested in what’s between your legs than in his mission of killing the notorious king of Crete… (12 k. Minotaur is not an actual hybrid in this fic. Reader is Hecate’s initiate. Part 1 here.)
Tags/warnings: Shameless smut mdni, dubious consent, extremely possessive behaviour, abduction, first time (König & reader are both virgins), hugs & cuddles, washing blood off your monster boyfriend, awkward flirting, semi-rough sex, shifting power dynamics, sexist insults & slurs (the citizens of Crete do not approve of your choices), implied cannibalism, fluffy ending. Mythical AU.
The candle goes out before you reach the surface.
To someone else, it would be the end of the world: to you, it’s only a hindrance, a nuisance, mostly.
You’re not easily distressed. If you were, you wouldn’t be in the service of the greatest goddess of the Underworld. And you’re not mourning losing the sight of your warmly illuminated beast... You’re only worried about what he will do once the darkness descends. Whether he will forget about his vow, whether the baser instincts take over him once the darkness falls.
And darkness is not capable of making you lost: you can always follow the string in your hand. But without light, it’s difficult to predict the Bull’s moves: whether he decides to maim or fuck you against the wall, you can never tell. He hasn’t lived in the real world among people; he doesn’t know what’s right or wrong and what’s expected of him. Even the best of men can succumb to the demands of the flesh, so what power would a Bull Man have against his animal wants? No one ever taught him to respect the gods, let alone the maidens who serve them...
Then again, if a simple candle was the only thing that kept you alive, then what’s the point of lamenting the loss of it? Your life was already forfeit when you chose to descend here.
So you let it go: as always, the greatest lesson in life is to simply let go. Of control, of judgment, of fear, of hope.
He doesn’t say a thing when the light flickers, then fades. The candle goes out in silence, and you let it drop before the remaining wax burns your palm.
And it’s not the absence of light, but strength, that forces you on your knees before even an hour has passed. There’s still a long way to go, and the yarn is like a thin string of hope in your hand, but you’re too exhausted, too worn out, too hungry and too tired to go on.
The Bull Man doesn’t object to your suggestion to lay down and sleep for a while. He has walked behind you in silence the whole day. Or night… You can’t tell the difference; you lost count somewhere along the way down here. The air is stale and humid, and there’s no torch, not a single candle anywhere and even if there were, you wouldn’t do anything with them without a flint.
The horror is kept at bay only through your numerous exercises with the goddess who introduced you to darkness many, many moons ago. You were initiated during the dark Moon, the new Moon, the blood Moon, introduced to the mysteries of the maiden, mother and crone, to the secrets of both the living and the dead. You’re not afraid, but your body still warns you of danger: you just don’t know if it’s a memory from childhood or a reaction to the Bull, panting behind you – out of lust or exertion, you don’t even know. Someone who wasn’t a maiden probably could tell… At times, you curse the fact that there hasn’t been a single phallus inside you because men too possess knowledge. Taking a man into your bed would have initiated you to a different set of mysteries, but now, you are poking blind.
The Bull Man is an animal, you remind yourself. The longer you stay in his company, the more he starts to resemble a human, even if he is a man of few words. How he even remembers them is another mystery: you thought he was sent down here as a young boy. He speaks oddly but eloquently, a remnant of his noble descent, perhaps. Or perhaps he has listened to the people speaking in the Labyrinth, eavesdropped his victims an hour or two before killing them. Whatever the reason, you have to constantly tie your tongue because there’s simply no point in talking to a beast. The less you know about him and his past, the better.
You ready yourself for sleep, but the cursed cold of the tunnels keeps your body awake. Your flesh is human even if your mind is forged to withstand hunger, thirst and pain. Endurance against cold was never your strong suit, and you miss the heat of the sun, the warmth of it on your skin, even the ample light it gives. You, a lover of the moon, missing the heat of Apollo… It’s a joke, surely.
On the stone floor, it’s even colder, the rough, damp ground making your very bones ache. How on Hecate’s name has the beast survived this place?
“Bull Man,” you speak into the darkness, thick like an impenetrable wall and thin like a virgin’s veil.
“Maiden,” he echoes with a dark, low growl, slightly amused by the name you’ve selected for him.
“Are you cold?” You whisper.
Perhaps he doesn’t quite understand the question or why you asked it. It doesn’t matter: you have to swallow your pride and ask for his help if you’re going to survive this dark prison.
“I don’t get cold,” he finally responds.
“Good. I need your heat.”
The silence drags on, and you fear he has misunderstood you again, but then he speaks again, with the same slightly amused tone as before.
“Come take it.”
You’re not sure if you’ve completely lost your mind, crawling to him through the uneven floor of the Labyrinth. Who knows what he will do to you once he gets those arms of iron around you? You’re placing your maidenhood, your whole body at his mercy. And you’re not even sure if it’s a he, if this thing is human at all.
Human or animal, your hand meets the bull’s head on the way to him. He has taken it off, then... It’s not a part of him, just like you suspected. Maybe he is just a giant, daunting man, born from whatever forbidden desire Pasiphae had. Who knows if she only went to a foreign lover’s arms when her husband was at war? Who knows if King Minos has trouble getting his phallus up… These things happen: women get pregnant from their lovers, they do desperate things to pacify their husbands. And you don’t need a bull to get yourself an heir...
You feel his heat before you feel his skin: the Minotaur is verily blazing. He has gotten used to the cold, it seems, his body like a small bonfire in the clammy tunnel.
“Cold little female,” he comments when you snuggle towards him shyly, thoroughly aware of the uninviting chill of your body.
You settle next to him, every muscle in your body tight like a bowstring, your breaths shallow when he gives you a welcoming rumble. Goosebumps prickle across your skin and your throat goes dry, the thick swallow in the tunnel echoing around you like a thief.
Arms like iron go around you, and his body is taut, just like yours, but for a whole different reason entirely. He’s not afraid or nervous; he’s just… big. Pure muscle, his whole body thick, the stock and heat of him remind you of the sun. A miniature sun down here in these dark tunnels, but while you start to slowly soften in his arms, a different threat is already emerging. It doesn’t take long before his cock stiffens against you, and with the scarce clothing you both have, you can feel its every excited twitch.
Artemis… Protect me from this beast. Turn him into a dog if he tries to penetrate me. Let him rip my throat instead…
You’ve never prayed to the Virgin Goddess; you don’t know if she can even hear you from down here. But Hecate would only laugh if this Bull decided to breed you. No mercy would arrive from that direction: she would either send a disease of blisters upon the Minotaur for touching her chosen or then she would cackle like an old woman, thousand times raped.
“Thank you,” you whisper, hoping your kindness will distract him from what’s happening downstairs.
“My pleasure,” he grumbles, mimicking the words he probably heard as a child in his father’s great hall.
It sends a chill down your spine and butterflies into your heart to hear him speak like a polite man of court. And again, you think of asking him about his childhood... His mother, his father, the things he remembers from the surface. How he survived here without water, if there are underground springs here somewhere. Whether he eats humans like they say... If he ever embraced the dead women he killed.
“Can you do it again,” he rumbles against you, cutting you away from your grotesque thoughts.
“...Do what again?”
“Touch me… With your hand.”
His words are blunt now, his speech clumsy. But the way he says it is not an order. It’s an odd beg, more like. Laced with hope and wishes far away from greed. This Bull is never greedy, per se… He’s just lacking. Starved, for so many things that you fear there’s not enough time nor kindness to give him what he needs.
Your pulse flutters when you slowly lift your hand and caress the strong cords of muscle that make his neck. The rumbling returns; it turns into a low purr as the beast relaxes under your touch. Something softens inside you when he sighs from relief. His unbridled happiness tugs at your heart, trying to yank open something forbidden. It’s the softest violation you’ve ever felt: to be held by a giant killer having a roaring erection, while the said killer clearly enjoys your caress like it’s the touch of Aphrodite herself…
You even stroke his face. His jaw, unclenching under your touch; his cheek, covered with what you suppose is simply a wild, overgrown beard.
“Your hand,” he groans softly, “makes me sleepy and warm…”
The cold, uncaring goddess recedes. The burdens of past, present and future dissolve. Softness takes place in your heart; the iron locks give in like brittle brass. A smile plays on your lips as you continue to pet him softly, lulling you both to sleep with your voice.
“Then sleep, Bull of Crete...”
…
You wake up to his cock pressing against you.
Not against your stomach like when you went to sleep – that you could do with – but against your cunt, barely veiled by the thin linen of your dress.
The panic is soon wrestled down with reason: you tell yourself it’s just a cock. It’s just him. You’re simply in the Minotaur’s arms, and he’s sound asleep still; there’s no reason to buck and jerk and scream.
The darkness feels like a safe womb now, but with nothing to lock your gaze to, you have to take a moment to ground yourself into reality. And the first thing you ground into is a thick cockhead, pressing fast into your nether lips. He’s practically at the gates, and you’re lucky he’s still asleep.
It’s perhaps your fault this happened in the first place: you notice you’ve dragged your thigh over his hip; as if wanting him to fuck you in your sleep… You embrace him like Helen of Troy, and he holds you through his sleep like a man in love, perfectly content with napping on the cold ground with you.
“Mm…” The beast stirs, probably noticing how the female in his arms is tense as a rod. “You smell like you want to fuck…”
“No I don’t,” you hurry to whisper.
Gods curse this man’s ability to smell everything from miles away. Blood and humans and, apparently, a woman at her most receptive.
What if he can actually smell the wetness between your legs?
“We need to go,” you slowly remove your leg from on top of his waist, hoping it would go unnoticed that you were clutching him like a lover. You have no such luck: he grabs your thigh and draws it back, sets it safe and snug around his waist while adjusting his grip on you, now hugging you entirely like a lover would.
“I want to mate with you,” he says softly. “You want to mate too. Why go?”
He sounds so adorable when he’s still in the process of waking up to a new day. Drowsy and sweet, voice husky from sleep, body warm as can be, the hard-on between his legs happy and stiff.
“I thought you wanted to kill the king,” you try to point out.
“This is more important,” he gruffs. “Urgent.”
The cock pushes further up and against you, now spreading your folds under the dress, trying to penetrate into your heat. Your eyes go wide as thick need pools down to meet his greed. His body, his cock makes your head go dull for a moment; you feel like you’re not even capable of thinking actual thoughts.
“No, it’s not. We need to get up.”
You stiffen in his arms, push yourself away, and to your surprise, he actually lets you go. Reluctantly and with a hollow grunt, but he lets you go.
You rise with a wobble, and adjust your dress, your head spinning from his advances. You swear he becomes more man-like every day, every passing hour, even. Or is it just you who’s changing…?
The Bull Man is up before you get to ponder on that thought for too long. Your heart and head struggle to find their footing for a moment, your legs are so weak you feel like fainting. He catches you before you fall, the warm, thick arms closing around you with stout affection.
“You need more heat?” He asks softly.
You look up out of habit, even if you can't see his eyes, covered by the carcass again because his voice is muffled.
“No… I’m hungry.”
He’s silent for a moment, probably thinking what he could do to help the situation. You fear he will suggest you go back to visit his “pantry” and eat whatever horrible, half-rotten man-flesh he might have in store there, but he only holds you close to prevent you from sliding back to the ground.
“Hmm. No mice up here,” he ponders.
“You eat mice…?”
“Sometimes.”
You leave it at that: you don’t want to know what he’s had to do to sustain himself down here. You don’t even have a fire to cook the vermin, even if you would be ready to eat even those after another day or two without food.
“Not a long way up,” he says. “We will reach the sun soon. Then I’ll find you something to eat.”
“How do you know that…?”
“The air smells different.”
You sigh and search for the string, your lifeline to the outside world. You can’t wait to get out of here, and with both hurry and an odd dread, you hike for what seems like another whole day. Tension, hunger and thirst distort your thoughts, and you’re sure by now that the time flows differently here in the Underworld. With no small amount of pride, you feel accomplished to have survived this place so far. Even gods have had to do some tricks to escape the nether worlds: it is no small feat to charm the Minotaur and then walk out of here unharmed.
To your knowledge, you’re the only one who has ever escaped the Labyrinth. You haven’t even had time to think about what you will unleash with you… The demon that walks on your heels will take his revenge, not only on the king but on the city who threw him here.
Well. It’s their problem now. Minos and Pasiphae simply have to deal with their successor. The world will simply have to deal with the Underworld’s wrath.
And oh, how Hecate would laugh if she saw this monster prince of Crete escape his prison because of you – the feared Minotaur set free, only because he’s mesmerized by a woman. You suspect he would have his cock jumping for any girl, though. It's not because you're an exceptional sorceress that he follows you: it's your cunt he's after. And it shouldn’t make you feel jealous that he probably gets distracted the moment he sees a better offer walk by.
But it does. In your darkest wishes, you would keep the Bull Man all to yourself. Get him a leash, perhaps... Feed him with your own hands and let him grope you in the dark, watch him go wild from lust when you finally give him access to your cunt.
Many would hardly think you’re a virgin if they took a peek inside your head. But the things you’ve seen and done, the white bulls you’ve slaughtered for the dark Goddess, adorning them with cypress wreaths before slashing their throats open, would turn any woman bleak and twisted like this. For once, you would like to save the bull from slaughter.
When you see the first evidence of light, your body lets out a sigh it has been holding ever since you arrived here. Seeing the sun gives you more strength than any food or meal, and you pick up your pace while the Minotaur behind you begins to hesitate.
“It’s too bright,” he says before you’ve even walked out of the tunnel, now turning into a vast cave, the entrance to the Labyrinth.
You turn around to look and stop in your tracks when you see the fear in his eyes is acute. It’s mixed with wonder, the curiosity wrestling away doubt slowly but surely. He only needs a little nudge, a gentle pull, an enticing little smile and eyes that he can trust.
“You’ll get used to it soon,” you extend your hand.
He takes a step, then another, then another, until he reaches your outstretched fingers, and hand in hand you walk out of the Labyrinth and into the bright morning sun, burning over the kingdom of Crete.
He’s only a breath away from panicking, but covers it well. You wonder if it’s truly the light that’s too bright or if the feeling of being so exposed is what makes him so afraid. Clearly, the vast space opening up before him is intimidating.
There are grassy plains as far as the eye can see, little hills that dot the horizon, and skies so expansive and bright it must hurt his eyes. Goats are grazing under the sun, trees are bending in the wind, the rustling of leaves and the sound of birds calling him to look in all directions as he tries to make some sense of his surroundings.
“It’s alright,” you give his palm a soft squeeze, and the way he looks there under the sun, so big and powerful and able, and still so utterly lost, is giving you heartache you haven’t known since you were a child.
“There’s… so many colours,” he says, looking at the blue summer sky, the deep olive greens, the dirty whiteness of the goats, the flowers upon the grass. A butterfly, flying past, yellow like the citrus that people harvest from a few miles from here. A big blackbird with an orange beak, swooping down to catch a cricket, the slate grey pigeons flying so close to the sun that he has to shield his eyes even if they’re already safe and sheltered under the bull head.
Seeing his wonder and awe makes you look at the scenery so differently that it burns, it actually hurts: there’s so much beauty in the world, and you have always taken it for granted. Cursed the rain and the storms, cursed the droughts, cursed the gods for sending down another famine, when in truth, the world was filled with abundance, of colours, of life and joy… And all you’ve done is worship darkness. Now the darkness is out: it’s standing next to you, watching the view of your mundane everyday life like it’s nothing short of a miracle.
And when you turn back to look at him again, his eyes are upon you.
“What?” You ask, freshly caught in your moment of weakness.
“You are pretty,” he says, eyes wrinkling with delight under the mask.
Gods damn him…
He doesn’t know that human men don’t act like this, talk like this, or if they do, there’s usually something vile involved behind it all. He doesn’t know how to play games, he was never introduced to the lies and deceit of the world.
The Bull of Crete only looks at you with soft fondness in his stare – he doesn’t understand that he should cover that softness as well if he intends to win. Any woman could put a leash on him before another moon has passed, but he doesn’t seem to care. And it’s not even heat or hunger that makes you weak this time... It’s those eyes, looking at you with more and more warmth.
“Nonsense,” you huff without a voice, and turn towards the old road with an adoring bull on your heels.
The cold sigh of the underworld is quickly left behind you as you walk up the old carriage road, nearly grown in with weeds. The Labyrinth is located miles away from civilization, but the people living in these hills are used to the cold cave by now. They trust that the Minotaur will never escape and only turn away their heads and close the doors of their huts when the screaming, crying human sacrifices are delivered to the mouth of the cave. Little do they know that the monster is now looking at their little hills and goats with delight, not bloodlust.
For the Minotaur is fascinated with your world: he has to touch every leaf, every tree, every blade of grass, it seems. The goats are afraid of him, but one small nanny is bold enough to come and sniff his hand. Perhaps it remembers that beings walking on two feet give her apples sometimes, and the giant studies this small white animal with gentle curiosity, allows the goat to smell his hand, only chuckles when the goat gives out a little scoff when she notices there are no treats to be found there.
The vision is more adorable than when you’ve seen children play with kittens, and no matter what you do, you can’t turn your heart into ice anymore. You were taught that the Minotaur is a monster who enjoys torturing his victims, creatures far more helpless than him. Now you see him watching the she-goat with warm curiosity, rumbling softly inside his helm, far from the ravaging beast that approached you in that tunnel what seems like months ago.
You watch him with tender sadness as he marvels at the sky and remembers how he used to sit in the shade of an olive tree when he was a child. He goes to sit there now and examines how the sun filters through the massive branches of the tree as if trying to recall the memory.
He asks questions like: “How can you humans stand this heat?” or “Why is there only one road?” and listens to your answers carefully.
He says he can smell the sea, even if the salty water is miles and miles away, and gets curious about what’s behind that hill, or that one, what about that one… You wonder if he’s even interested in killing the king anymore and suggest that he could just forget about this cruel place and buy himself a sea voyage with that expensive sword. He could get rid of his helmet and ask if anyone needs a goat herd or an able-bodied man to help at construction sites or stables; he could get work from the docks any day, sail to Athens or some other big city, forge himself a new life.
But he doesn’t want to.
He says he has to avenge his mother who always cried when he was little.
More wretched tugs pull at your heart as you approach the city. The lovely summer’s day turns into a nightmare once people see who’s on his way to the heart of Crete.
You don’t understand their screams, not anymore, while only a few days ago you knew they preceded death. The Minotaur doesn’t kill anyone, mainly because he doesn’t have to. Everyone flees before his wake, people rush to their homes and bar the doors, even soldiers slip away to be with their loved ones or run to warn the king if they have any loyalty left.
You’re left to walk through the marketplace in settling dust and tense silence as the Bull Man explores the abundant samples of food on display. He has to have a taste of everything from all stands, but only after he has offered figs, olives, grain, grapes, grilled meat and fish to you first.
“Eat,” he says and shoves a handful of pine seeds your way. “You were hungry?”
“This is not the way to–” you ignore the food only through sheer willpower. “This is not right. People own these things. They sell them at the market, you need to pay for these.”
“Pay? With what?”
He looks at you for a moment, unable to recall what money is and how these things are supposed to work. He probably had his mother’s servants bring him everything he needed as a child anyway, so how could he know?
“They will take your hands for stealing,” you try to explain with softly building despair.
“I will take their heads before that.”
“The next king will hunt you down and punish you,” you rush after him, and when he won’t listen, you seize his hand and finally get him to halt. He looks down at the weak palm around his wrist, then raises his gaze to you.
“Bulls don’t have kings.”
Your attempts to tame him are futile. The things they’ve taught him to be are now being used as a way to escape responsibility, and while it’s none of your business, you refuse to let him believe that he is nothing more than an animal.
“You are not a bull,” you wail in frustration. “You’re a man.”
He hesitates, only for a moment; the gentle, loving gaze makes your legs weak.
“You’re the first to think that.”
Then he rips himself away from you, softly but sternly.
He doesn’t need directions to the palace: he knows he has to head for the most prominent building in the city to reach the king. The grandiose heart of Crete, white-chalked and beautiful under the burning midday sun is the pride of every citizen, even if it houses another monster.
You sigh as you watch him go: the Bull Man, the demon of the underworld, the one you thought would rape you bloody before you get to crawl out of the Labyrinth. The fact that he wanted to kill his father more than he wanted to be born again into a new life wasn’t a surprise, but that he chose to bloody his sword rather than his cock is somehow... insulting, almost.
What actually haunts you is how your insides coil and turn when you rush back to your temple. It’s not like you thought the Minotaur would take you with him. Board some trade ship bound for distant shores, and ravage you ever so softly in the belly of the creaking hull. It’s not like you dreamed of petting him to sleep while you two embark on a new life. But the way your heart twists and wails inside your chest makes it clear that losing him is even more painful than losing Theseus and the life he promised you.
You never even wanted Theseus; you only wanted him to take you away from here. His affection would have been the result of ample witchcraft at best.
He’s practically already dead, and your heart turns to stone far more slowly than you would prefer. It’s just your luck to first have the golden hero of Greece look down on you in disdain, and then witness even the Bull Man walk away from you like you never meant anything to him. Men killing each other is the oldest story in the world, and you want no part in it, but something in this beast has stirred you awake from a long, cold slumber. It’s infuriating that you can’t dispel a simple animal from your heart. Oldest story in the book, that one, too…
But oh, how you now yearn after some cruel, lowly, dirty beast… The Minotaur already owns you, and he never even had to plunge his sword inside you to prove that. Besides, you would’ve been perfectly willing had he decided to take you on the green grass, under the vast sky, while some noisy goats graze around you. You realize that that’s what you expected to happen, and when it didn’t, you’re left more than disappointed: you're left completely hollow. You always find out these things a little too late, it seems… The Bull is headed for the palace and will likely get killed after he slaughters his cruel father. There’s at least thirty spears in that building, and more will arrive when called.
You arrive at the temple, panting and with your body flushed and weak. The maidens at the entrance share a quick glance with each other before turning their fearful gazes back to you. They’re the youngest arrivals, not even initiates yet; one of them hardly even bleeds.
“The King is dead,” you announce without bothering to even greet them, and the girls huddle up together like they’re a bunch of slaves about to get slapped.
You realize you must look like an animal with your dirty robes, dishevelled hair and your wild, alive stare. No wonder they look like they’ve seen a ghost... You basically are one, coming back from the dead like this.
“What?”
A priestess arrives at the threshold like an image of Hecate herself, dressed in robes as black as the midnight sky, but you don’t shy away from her like you used to.
“Or he will be. Soon. The Minotaur is here.”
“How did you… How did it...”
You’ve never seen the priestess in disarray. She’s always composed, cold and distant, but seeing you like the wraith that you are, freshly escaped from the Labyrinth, spat back from the bowels of the earth like the dark gods didn’t even want you there, makes even the greatest of Hecate’s servants a little uneasy.
She gathers what’s left of her dignity and finds her most commanding voice. Sadly, it doesn’t have the power to shake the ground anymore.
“Where is Theseus of Athens?”
“Disemboweled… is my best guess,” you say in a listless voice, then turn your head toward the smell of fresh fruit.
Normally, you would walk these halls with dignity, but now, you simply barge in and grab the first piece of food you find. You ought to get whipped for your insolence, but no one dares to raise a hand against you. The maids and priestesses stare in shock as you eat and drink like a starved prisoner. You’re a living Hecate in certain aspects, your arrival the first toll of the bell of doom as the palace guards sound the alarm.
So…
The Minotaur has reached the king.
…
The priestesses deem it only logical that the King finally pays for his sins: the gods have been offended by the number of human sacrifices sent to the Labyrinth, and this is their way of exacting revenge. You were only an instrument of their will.
After a quick wash and some more food, you begin to feel like a human again. The maids bring you a new chiton, flowing and white: your old clothes are burned in a brazier as if that would help you forget.
And this might be the only place you don’t get blamed for unleashing a monster. You were at a crossroads with the Minotaur, and anyone would have done the same: try to talk him out of his killing spree, calm him down, entice him with a gift. No one expected that the beast could even speak, so your approach was unusual, perhaps, but it worked. Hecate guided you through the tunnels, even when the candle went out, she stilled the Bull’s loins until you reached the sunlight where the beast got distracted with other things. You leave out the Minotaur's attraction to birds, bees and butterflies because your story is unbelievable enough as it is.
But the Minotaur will be slain after he has done his deed: Minos is the one who should be punished, not the city of Crete. And it is only just to put down this beast, a mercy.
So when he appears between the pillars of temple, this time wholly covered in blood, people are bound to scream. Even the priestesses who are used to seeing blood, shriek like widows when the Minotaur steps inside the holy shrine of Hecate.
“Where is the maiden of the crossroads?”
He came back for you, after all…
The boom of his voice is familiar, and yet, you cower on the bench when you hear it. The Minotaur sounds like he’s an envoy of Hades himself, and while you’re not among those who scream and yell, it still sends shivers down your spine to hear him speak like that.
Or is it the excitement, a tiny flame of hope that makes you quiver like this?
“We all belong to the goddess,” someone peeps, the Minotaur now descending down the stairs.
The massive head turns, gaze like razor sweeping across the marbled shrine. You’re so far back that he can’t catch you, sitting behind many bodies and faces, and before you can force yourself to rise, the main priestess, the oldest, most crooked of the crones, steps forth to meet this beast.
“This is a House of Hecate,” she speaks. “No man is allowed to enter unless they are Death.”
The black carcass turns, but the priestess doesn’t waver. If anything, her spine turns into unbreakable metal before this man’s gaze.
“I am Death,” he says, far more gently than anyone would expect. Then he walks past the crone like she’s just a harmless elder. No one does a thing, because even the head of your temple is powerless now.
“She had a red string and a candle. Where is she?”
He grabs the first woman he sees, and you rise up before he decides it’s time to thrust his blade into someone to loosen the tongues of these women.
“Please,” you take a hesitant step towards your Bull. “I’m here... I’m the one you’re looking for.”
The Minotaur lets go of the frightened initiate the instant he sees you. She’s shoved aside with little interest, the blue eyes behind the corpse now solely fixed on you. The way they soften into hazy ice makes your knees weak – that’s the stare of someone who recognizes their loved one among a thick, dull crowd…
“Come with me,” he extends a hand when he reaches you, strong legs swallowing tiles like he’s in a hurry to get back to you. You open your mouth, close it, and look at his hand, the rough, enormous palm held out for you to place your own little hand in.
“You belong to me,” he says with great weight when you don’t speak. It should spark the ire of the goddess for him to dare to talk to you like this… But mostly, your body sings. It tells you to take a step and take his hand: to let him have you, once and for all.
“My place is here,” you utter, all power gone from your voice. All your dreams, all your fears are offering their hand to you with his, and the maidens, mothers and crones of this hall look upon your exchange with the Bull Man in stupefied silence.
“You were sent down to me,” he presses on. “You are mine now. You belong to me.”
Your body is singing, singing, singing.
It’s not a request… Or a proposal.
It’s a god, taking what’s his.
…
You swallow with nothing in your throat and look at the head priestess with helpless misery: she looks back with the eyes of a noxious Medusa, wholly dispassionate to the problems you brought upon yourself. And what could she even do? She’s unarmed against the claims of Hades: Death is now in love with you, and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it.
He doesn’t want to stay in the city, as enchanting as it is, saying that it stinks and that he’s tired of the screams. No one wants him here; he already knows that, and the task he was meant to do is done. He doesn’t seem to be much moved by it either, only asking you if there is a place where he can wash the blood off himself.
People become more bold when they see you walk out of the city. Not even the sight of a crimson demigod makes them watch their tongues. Insults and slurs follow you through the streets, shouts such as “Kingslayer!” and “Beast!” are accompanied with curses such as “You are an abomination!” and “Go back to your lair!”
No one treats him as their prince and savior, no one sees him as the man he truly is. And because hatred thickens in crowds, you get your share of the insults as well.
What kind of a woman would follow a beast like him? Have you sold your soul to the demons of the desert, or has Hades himself forced you to be with this monster? Are you behind the murder of their king?
“Must I remind you?” You turn on your heels, standing tall and proud with the posture of a queen. “According to the old laws, the one who slays the king is the next to rule.”
“You led him out of the Labyrinth, didn’t you?” the voices ask.
“Gave him your cunt, too,” they sneer.
“You’re worse than the bloody Gorgon,” they mock, but you have a thick skin: if anything, you take it as a compliment to be referred to the mighty slayers of men.
What cuts through your heart is the filth and hate they spit at him, the man who has known nothing but loath since he was born.
“Hecate’s whore… I should kill you first,” one soldier shouts with spit running down his chin.
The citizens of Crete would never hail the Minotaur as their king, but none can say the deed didn’t prove great strength. Some would even call it justice. He is the queen’s son, after all: he’s more royal than any of these dung-stinking peasants will ever be. He should never have been sent down to those tunnels in the first place.
Before you know it, the Minotaur swoops past you in haste, diving towards the screaming crowd with hunched shoulders and a fiery breath.
“Stop,” you say, and he halts immediately, gaze still directed to the one who called you a whore. The soldiers back away along with the peasants and tradesmen, these poor, humble Cretes who act like they never meant to be so mean.
“Let us go in peace,” you command, voice unwavering and stern. “Or I will curse you all. You and your families, down to the seventh son and seventh daughter.”
That manages to shut them up. The threat of a curse frightens these poor beasts even more than the enraged Minotaur breathing fire through his helm. No one wants rot and puke to follow them wherever they go; no one wants to doom their offspring with illness, death and sorrow. They disperse in all directions and only hiss and whisper as they go.
You spit on the ground as your last gift to these people, leaving the city of Crete with the ever-adoring Bull at your heels.
“You’re even prettier when you’re angry,” he says while walking next to you, voice thick with genuine passion and awe.
You roll your eyes: any man would cower before Hecate’s curse, but this one? This one only gets more horny.
“Perhaps you are part bull after all,” you retort dryly.
“It takes more than one spear to kill me,” he boasts, but you don’t need more proof of his prowess. Surely, people have tried to kill him in the Labyrinth, but he’s survived every single attempt on his life – for that alone, he should be a decorated hero.
The only thing that makes you annoyed, however, is this childish need to prove he could’ve taken the whole city by himself just because some man happened to call you a slut.
“Mother said I’m a monster instead of a man,” he says, completely unaware that your snap wasn't meant as a compliment. He says it like he’s partly proud of it, and you finally sigh and turn.
“Your mother was heartless. And wrong.”
The Minotaur only looks at you with a building passion that goes straight to your loins.
“But you’re not.”
“...What?”
“Heartless.”
You feel stripped naked before him, the way his eyes seem to burn away your poor dress. But the fact that he unearths your most guarded secret, just like that, is a catastrophe of a far wider scale.
You’re not sure who’s tied to whom anymore… Or if you’re tied to each other, the gods now laughing in their wine as they look down at you two: a fierce and bloodied giant following the maiden he stole like it’s you who took him and not the other way around.
You reach the roaring waters of a waterfall in silence, the night wrapping the lands inside a dark blue veil. Stars will be visible soon, and with the moon creeping up to the sky, you won’t be needing candles tonight. The silver mistress gives plenty of light for you to admire your beast, and compared to the thick darkness of the tunnels you emerged from this morning, it feels like a generous blessing.
You sit on the banks of the small, clear pond, utterly exquisite at nightfall. The sun’s heat has turned into a warm, caressing breeze, and you submerge your feet into the water, giving out a satisfied sigh as the cool pond embraces your travel worn feet. The Bull sinks to a crouch some distance away from you, curious about your obvious moment of pleasure.
“Did you meet her…? Your mother?” You ask from the cool water lapping at your feet – how can a simple man make you feel so restless and shy?
“Did you… kill her?”
“She cursed me,” he says, sullen and wholly unsurprised. Time and time again, you are shocked by the hatred his own kin shows him. How can a mother be so cruel?
“How could I kill my own maker?”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “For everything.”
You swallow before such unwavering love. The same man who cursed the gods yesterday honours the womb he came from so much that he won’t raise a hand against it, not even when his own mother spits curses at him. You don’t know if it’s his greatest strength or biggest weakness, but sometimes you wonder if he’s more human than humans, this beast.
“I’m not,” he retorts immediately. “The king is dead. Mother is safe. I have you... This is the best day of my life.”
You turn to look at him. Time and again, the lack of lies and deceit in this man catches you off guard. It’s more painful than any wound, to see how the Minotaur has no protective skin against the corrupted human nature, that he is human nature before it was defiled.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you falter.
The chiton pools around your ankles, and you wonder if the man even breathes anymore. You know your skin is glowing with the last rays of the setting sun, you’re aware that the water and moonlight play upon your skin and make you look like an illusion, powerful in its own way.
When have you ever faltered…? Back when you were a little girl, you reckon, the notion euphoric and eerie in your bones.
You rise up and undress before him nonchalantly, trying to ignore the fervid stare of your admirer. Unclasping the brooches holding up your white linen dress, you let it fall down and set you free, secretly reveling in the downright carnal stare now glued to your skin.
Ripe for plucking, you think while stepping out of the pile of cloth and into the thin evening air. His gaze feasts on you: the plump breasts no one ever loved, the vulnerable navel down below, the dark triangle between your legs, the secret power it holds.
Heat pools into your core as you watch him: everything in your body turns warm and soft when you take in the utter heftiness of him. The mean, swelling phallus between his legs, the near inhuman strength those shoulders and chest possess. Your body is the complete opposite of him, ethereal, almost, compared to the absolute brute strength before you.
His eyes linger there the longest until he rises too, stiff and dreamy, a beast entirely taken by a thrall. The loincloth is practically torn away, as if it’s only a nuisance he must get rid of immediately. His eyes never leave your shape while he bares himself, and the phallus, you notice, belongs to a human. It’s thick and wondrous, fully erect, adorned with dark curls and accompanied by a set of balls you’ve mainly seen on horses. Big, full and round but unlike animals, they’re covered in dark fur, almost black here in the evening light. Thick seed beads through the slit of his cock from simply seeing you, and the way his chest heaves makes it clear that this man is ready to mate as soon as he’s allowed to do so.
“You need to take off your helm,” you lift your chin, thoroughly aware of your power over him, even if it’s laughable, a miracle that he doesn’t fuck you on the spot like the animal he is. “You’re a man, not a bull.”
His eyes don’t betray any kind of hesitation. He doesn’t seem to be interested in whether he wears his mask or not. He just blinks as if he’s indeed under a spell and nods.
“If you say so.”
The broad muscles flex as he takes it off, and what is revealed to you from underneath the head is both a surprise and a disappointment. There’s not a monster under there, only a man, a stoic, boorish, shaggy male who’s in desperate need of a wash and a comb. He’s somewhat handsome under all that facial hair and knots, actually, not bad at all – if you like your men rugged and wild.
He lets the head drop to the ground with a thud as if it was never a part of him at all, and follows you into the pool like you’re his mother and he’s your cub about to get scrubbed clean.
He seems to dwarf you, even when half submerged in the pond, leaning back with a sigh not unlike yours. If you’re afraid, your body has a peculiar way of showing it: even in the clear, glossy water, you can feel yourself get wet. Never have you seen such strength, not in any man: in horror and awe, you realize he could be a descendant of Zeus himself. As if providing proof to these claims, he looks up to the sky, mesmerized by the myriad stars dotting the vast, unattainable blue.
Using this momentary distraction to your advantage, you reach to pluck a handful of moss from the bank. With this soft little sponge in your hand, you hope to make it clear that this is indeed a bath, not foreplay.
“They’re stars,” you say softly while slinking closer to him. “Have you ever seen them...?”
“Yes,” he rasps with his head lolled back, throat completely exposed. It always hurts your heart to see that he trusts you so fully. You are no threat to him – even if the gods changed the moss in your hand into a weapon of some sort, you wouldn’t pose any kind of challenge. And still, the way he allows you to creep towards him and wipe his rough hide with the makeshift sponge without so much as flinching is heartbreaking.
“I have forgotten…” his voice drifts off as he examines the night sky, eyes filled with distant, glass-like delight.
“Beautiful, aren’t they...?”
“Your world is pretty,” he brings his gaze back to earth and to you. “But you’re the loveliest thing I’ve seen so far.”
You almost freeze upon hearing that. His compliments always catch you off guard, but this time, something forbidden and long forgotten comes undone: a lost want, no, a need to hear such simple words of shallow praise.
“You do not scream... You do not run. Why?”
Your eyes are liquid, glass about to break as you set yourself on the task of scrubbing him clean. You refuse to get emotional in front of him: an initiate of the dark goddess, shedding tears when a horny man calls her pretty? What utter nonsense.
But then he grabs your wrist: not to seize back power, but to prevent you from escaping this fragile moment.
“You are different,” he agrees calmly, then releases you, but you reckon it’s mostly because he misses the soft rubs you were giving him.
“Perhaps I’m crazy,” you breathe while looking at the damp curls on his chest.
Yes… That’s the only explanation for this madness. It has to be.
“Is that why you took me?”
“I took you because you’re mine. I want you.”
“You can’t just take what you want,” you warn softly.
“Why not?” His head tilts a little to the side as he’s trying to make sense of you and the manners of your world. “Don’t you want to be mine?”
You lift your gaze and risk a look into his eyes, stripped from all facades as always. You even catch a passing wave of worry there: he had counted on you being as fascinated with him as he is with you. The hunger behind that want, the need to be something special to you, is a whole another issue that must wait until your head is more clear. Way more clear…
“Perhaps,” you confess.
“I have nothing to give you,” he shrugs, eyes looking slightly past you this time, out of shame or anxiety. It takes a while for you to understand he’s liking you to the goods at the market and thinks he’s expected to have money to be able to keep you.
“You don’t need to pay for me,” you smile, trying your best to disguise the soft amusement in your voice. His brows only furrow as he tries to calculate and think.
“I don’t understand the rules of this world,” he finally shakes his head.
“I’ll teach you.”
For a while, he only looks on with fascination how you rub his arms and belly, basically massaging him with the wet moss. His eyes drift closed when you scrub the back of his neck, the stout erection only getting thicker under the cool water. You’re careful with his legs, not because you’re afraid he’s ticklish but because you try to avoid touching the huge cock already jutting up from happiness. It gives a few excited bounces when you wash his inner thighs, hopeful to get its needs satiated soon.
“I can hunt for you,” he suggests. “Bring you food… Protect you.”
He’s visibly excited when figuring out a way to give you something in return. He wants to provide offerings for your company, your lore, and eventually, your cunt, too. You might be a virgin, but you’re not stupid: of course he wants the soft, wet prize between your legs. A pair of lovely tits to squeeze at night... Ears to groan hushed confessions into, thighs to nibble, bite and suck until you cry...
“What do you think?” He asks, breath heavy from the bliss you’re already granting him by simply giving him a bath. “I could give you my heat. Please you...”
“You know how to please women?”
“No. But you could teach me.”
The way he says it is not shy. Only tentative. A bear, walking on ice and hoping it would carry his weight. One wrong step and the ice will swallow him, spitting out his bones only in spring.
And then…
“Do you know how to fuck?”
The ice holds, mainly because you’re too shocked to even slap or ridicule this man. His eyes bore into you with such unbridled greed that you have trouble keeping your precious pride intact.
“Of course,” you hear yourself whisper like it would be an insult to your intellect if you didn’t.
“Teach me,” he says, ever more greedily.
“I…”
Your jaw is left open, but not a word comes out. A strong palm closes around your wrist again, this time to bring you flush against him. The water laps at your skin, a distant crow cackles somewhere. Your hand is brought to his phallus, but he doesn’t have to wrap your fingers around it: you do it all by yourself, breath locked in your throat as you feel how hard and blazing he is.
“You want my cock,” he says, mouth only an inch from yours. “Don’t you...?”
You wet your lips – a mistake, because his half-lidded gaze darts to your mouth the instant your pink tongue lashes out. You’re in a predicament, but on the other hand, what else did you expect, taking your clothes off in front of a touch-starved bull?
“I’d give it to you happily,” he insists. “No female ever wanted to spread her legs for me.”
Or a leash.
Your fingers tighten on their own, they mould around him. Like a bond…
“Really?” You breathe. “What fools they were...”
The cock gives a full throb inside your palm, exalted to be yours. But only a moment later, the dreaded Minotaur moves.
You find yourself under him before you can even gasp for air: the soaked, hot body of a giant now pinning you on the grass and crushing you under it with ease. The weight of your error is fully pressed against you: he was never tamed, and you were a fool to think you could put him in chains.
The raw scent of earth and musk fills your nostrils, making the stars above you spin. His cock is trapped between your bodies, giving another rich pulse against your thigh. Gods, if he were throbbing like that inside you…
“You make my skin burn,” he growls into your ear, the heat of his skin now unbearable, the coarse hair prickling your skin from neck to thigh. “My loins, ache…”
“Are you a witch?” He asks, and you finally allow yourself to breathe.
If he only knew… But hexes and charms are of no use for you now: the only thing you can do is moan, apparently, as he dives for your neck, planting barbarous kisses on your skin.
Down, down, down he goes, pure avarice driving him to feast on every part of you. You’re too weak to stop him when he searches for the source of your intoxicating scent. Discovering it between your thighs, he dives nose-first into your sex, meeting your core with a hungry grunt.
Your back arcs with pleasure, your nails sink into his back: a funny thing to do when he’s already as close as can be. The trail of crude kisses leads him to your breasts, and you try to keep your whimpers in control, but a gasp erupts when he drags a hot tongue across your nipple. Massive palms close around your tits while you squirm in his hold: he doesn’t seem to be driven by the need to please you; rather, he wishes to study you first, examine how your body reacts to his groping. He leaves your breasts aching and sore, every bite and suck managing to make you wetter and wetter, your cunt screaming for attention by now.
“Gods...” you wriggle on the soft earthen bed, not expecting him to take you with his mouth first.
He withdraws, only a little, but his voice is surprisingly soft.
“Do I hurt you...?”
“No… But this is not mating…”
“Even I know that much,” he says darkly, and grabs you by the waist, moves you around like a doll until you find yourself on your belly.
He looks at you from between your thighs, demonic and keen. The broad shoulders force your legs wide apart when he’s seated there, waist-deep in the water, with you hauled to the shore like a siren.
Not a moment is wasted as he pulls you back to him by the hips: you’re drawn to all fours, a hot streak of cum dragging on the inside of your thigh from the cock that meets your skin. He grabs and steadies it with an annoyed grunt, and the fat tip is shoved straight into your folds, your nether lips parted with brute force almost.
“Guide me.”
His voice is demanding, impatient as he drags the fat head up and down the entrance of your hole, coating his cock with your slick in the process. You wonder if it’s instinctual, if he knows that this is where he should poke and that it will hurt you less if he’s well-oiled. He’s about to rut you into oblivion the instant you tell him where to shove his cock, and the prospect only sends more sap flowing down your thigh.
“There…” you stutter when he finds it, the aching spot that’s leaking profusely. He pushes the head in, not by teasing but by bullying, almost forcing it inside from how tight and unreceptive you are.
“Tighter than my fist,” is his only comment, and it makes you shudder. “I will not last long…”
You wince from the burn, but the rest of it glides in like a dream, and suddenly you’re filled, to the capacity, one could say. He grunts just from the way your womanhood is hugging him, not sure what this foreign object inside you is – is it a good thing or a threat?
“Easy then,” you breathe a huff into the sweet night air, filled with fireflies and night birds who know nothing about the fucking you’re about to go through.
He doesn’t move – inside you, that is. Outside, he crawls forward until he moulds around you, heavy body enveloping you completely. The hairs on his thighs tickle the back of your legs, his chest scrapes your back just so as he demonstrates how you belong to him in every way. But when your cunt starts to squeeze him again, he swallows thickly.
“Does this feel good to you too…?”
You catch faint confusion and concern in his voice, astonished that such a soft, frail body like yours can take his cock just like that. Little does he know you’re still adjusting to his size, thanking all the gods that he doesn’t move yet.
“Yes,” you confess because it does feel good: his thickness inside you, stretching you both gently and violently, studying how it feels to be inside a loving, wet heat.
“Then I will fuck you every day,” his lips come to brush your ear. “Many times...”
You hear yourself whimper, more humble now than ever. No man would dare to take you on all fours, but here you are, like a bought bride about to get stuffed…
He withdraws a little, asks, “Like this?” when he returns with a rough, nasty thrust. The balls meet your mound, heavy on the tender nub you’ve flicked when you’re lonely, covering your mouth while you do it. Both your hands are planted on the ground now, your legs spread before this beast, cunt filled to the brim with his cock.
“Not so rough,” you warn, and he heeds your instructions to the letter until he’s moving in and out with a slow, delicious pace that allows you to feel every thick bump of him. Soaked now down to your thighs, the sounds of your mating is utterly sloppy and slick, and of course he’s curious.
“Are you always like this…?”
“Like… what,” you huff in between the slow, torturous thrusts.
“Soft,” he rasps. “Tight… Wet like rain.”
“No. It’s just when…”
“When you want to fuck?”
You whimper for an answer, mostly because he starts to slip from the agreed sluggish pace. His cock invades you with more urgency, chasing the eruption that must be generous from those thick balls that should belong to a horse.
“I knew it…” he says dreamily behind you. “Some women want to mate with bulls...”
He punctuates his newfound pride with a full, deep thrust, and you wince.
“You’re not a–”
“Keep telling yourself that, little maiden.”
He exhales a hot smile next to your ear, and you’re neck deep in love. Your mouth hangs open, your lids half closed and fluttering from the way he pounds into your poor, abused cunt. Heavy balls slap your swollen nub with careless abandon, making you squeeze his thickness every time he hits the end of you. His grunts become more animalistic with every thrust, and your cunt is a wild thing, leaking and weeping and throbbing until you fear there’s something wrong with you – no woman is supposed to be this needy for a beast…
I’m going to come… You realize in horror as the slick sounds of fucking overthrow even the coursing roar of the waterfall. The knowledge shoots your body full of dark, hot ink; it explodes inside your core like a liquid star, throbbing through your cunt currently being ploughed like you’re nothing but a needy, sloppy hole for him. You’re swimming in so much pleasure that it’s almost painful, the revelation some secret of the gods, no doubt.
He growls when you moan, heavy arm snaking its way around your middle to keep you in place for him. The purr is eager and low, the rumble erupts from his chest like a thick, loving volcano, a statement of how perfect you are. He nuzzles his nose into your neck and rubs his scent all over you while fucking you through it, the divine rapture that leaves your throat dry from moans.
He doesn’t need to be told what it means when you’re crying like that: he doesn’t need to be explained that his cock is giving you ample pleasure. It’s so desperate, how much he wants to both fuck and please you, just own you and fulfill you, that you start to shake, your frail body not capable of handling the orgasm he just gave you.
Your strength fails, and you find yourself on your elbows, cunt even more exposed to him now, the cock pistoning into you with a relentless pace. He’s like a titan upon you, taking pleasure from your quivering, weak frame and the tight wet hole that belongs to it. You’re still in rapture when he starts to sound like broken, wounded man.
“You were made for me,” he huffs. “You were made...for me…”
His voice evaporates along with your thin, adoring mewls, just before he fucks himself over the edge. You can feel the hot, thick spurts, filling you as he roars into your hair, balls pressed flush against your sex, thighs meeting yours in a moment frozen in time.
They can probably hear him all the way to the city, hear what a cunt like yours does to an invincible beast like him… But his cries are only met with silence; the night sky looks back with disinterest, the birds continue their songs when they notice it was only the roar of a mighty beast that filled the land. Before long, he’s groaning above you, using your hole more softly; loving it until the last drop is milked.
When he stops, his whole body is trembling from release, but you’re not given a moment of reprieve. He forces you to the ground with him on your back, the rough, thick body never leaving yours. Coarse beard chafes your neck, his body trapping you completely under him, he even opens his jaw to take your shoulder between his teeth and bites you while his cock is still pulsing fat inside you.
“I can’t get enough of you,” he pants into your ear, angry, almost.
“Good,” you breathe a smile, but he’s not satisfied.
“You couldn’t get enough of me too… I noticed.”
“You gave me pleasure,” you agree. “Lots of it.”
“That was a lot of seed… I haven’t spilled in days.”
He huffs into your ear, astonished and proud that he could do such a thing. You feel him shift to take a better look at you, fingers arrive to graze your temple as if to make sure you’re real, as if having his cock inside you wasn’t enough proof of that. They’re a little shaky, a little uncouth, but the touch is gentle enough, and sweet.
He's boasting again perhaps, you don’t know, but you give him a soft laugh, notice how he stops breathing momentarily when hearing the bright sound.
“I am filled to the brim with you, yes… It will take a while before I can take more.”
“...You have other holes in you,” he offers after a while, quite seriously, in fact.
“Get off me, you beast,” you huff and squirm to get out from under him, but there’s a luscious grin on your face, a smile that tells him you would more than approve of his obscene ideas later.
“This feels good,” he murmurs into your hair. “This feels right...”
He allows you to leave from under him, only whines when his cock gets exiled from your cunt. He misses the wet heat like a newborn child misses the womb, but you need to recover from the recent invasion. Seed gushes out from your hole, making a mess on the ground as he pulls you against him, wanting to cuddle you next.
You wonder if he even knows what cuddling means as you lie there with a sticky mess between your legs and the heat of an entire sun on your cheeks. You smile into the coarse, sweaty body hair tickling your nose, deciding it doesn’t matter whether he knows or not: the most important thing is that he wants to hold you like this.
“Yes,” you smile. “This feels right…”
Something blooms in your chest. An odd flower, persistent and sweet.
The stars above are cold but motherly as they look down on you two: born again into a world that doesn’t want either of you. The only things that accept you now are flowers, birds, the wind and the rain, bees and salty sea, but that’s aplenty. That’s more than the whole of Crete could ever give you.
“Are you thinking about your hero,” he asks above you.
“What? No…”
“Good,” he rasps, so softly now that you start to fear he’s about to cry.
You are more than capable of lying, but Theseus hasn’t crossed your mind in hours: the last time it did, the memory was received with loath and disdain. Thinking about Theseus while you’re draped all over your Bull, his seed flowing out of your womb... What a ridiculous idea.
The reason for his hardly disguised anger is laid out plain before you: he's just jealous like any other man. Somehow, it makes you feel even more glowy inside.You’re my hero, you want to say, but have no courage to spill out the words. He was balls deep inside you mere moments ago, but telling him this intimate truth seems to be too much.
It never occurred to him, then, that you would enjoy copulating with him. He fucked you with the impression that you needed thoughts of another man to make you wet… That perhaps with the help of the image of Theseus in your mind, you were able to come with his cock inside you.
“My Bull,” you whisper. “Tell me your name. You must have a name…?”
His breath stops only for a moment, the heart in his chest gives an arduous beat before he answers.
“Asterion.”
Starry one…
Of course.
All monsters have names, usually the opposite of what they’re claimed to be. His birth is in heaven, in the stars; he belongs to the company of heroes and gods.
“Asterion,” you whisper it out into the night air while the animal an man both find their new home in your arms. “Your birth is written in the stars. Did you even know…?”
“Does that make me a hero?” He snorts, more old wounds torn open right before your eyes.
You wriggle yourself out of his hold, but he avoids your stare. You lift a hand to bring those beautiful Olympian eyes back to you.
“It makes you immortal.”
Perhaps you should’ve known he would be enticed with an apple instead of tethers and deals. Or with a palm, held out with no intent to strike…
It’s lovely, how he blinks every time he’s confused. You’ve yet to see him shy, but if he ever is, this might be the moment… You even catch him swallowing under that wild facial hair, an awkward blob right after that blink when his birthright is acknowledged.
But even more dumbfounded he becomes when he realizes you’re truly and veritably admiring him. When you whisper it to him – you’re my hero – and watch something shatter in him that was supposed to wrench itself free, that’s when he’s truly granted divinity.
Perhaps it was all about becoming animal again, allowing the other to have a sniff. Baring your throat and embracing the instinct to trust. Marrying your wild soul… The deepest magic of all.
"If anyone saying that you advocating for Palestine and Gaza right now feels performative, they're deflecting. Don't let them say that. I don't believe there's such a thing as that when you have SO much to risk when speaking against Zionism in Israel. So you have SO much to lose that even if, hypothetically, you are being performative you're about to get smacked in the butt for supporting us and standing by Palestine. If anyone's saying that you're being performative or you're doing too much - they're probably a Zionist. I'm gonna be so honest right now, they want and will say anything to get you to stop advocating for Palestine. And listen to me, I am a full blood Palestinian and I'm telling you to keep going. Don't listen to any other person that isn't Palestinian that's telling you that your activism is fraudulent. Not true. Keep pushing, keep speaking, keep talking, keep going to protests, keep carrying signs, wearing the Kuffiyeh - from a Palestinian herself - keep on going. Now, more than ever, we need it. Please and thank you."
