Archive of Our Own

“I warned you, dearest, you certainly can’t say that I didn’t. You keep making these unfortunate choices.” Aphrodite shook her lovely head sorrowfully, as if over the chastisement of an errant pet, but there was no pity in her eyes. “You do see how I can’t let this sort of thing pass without punishment.”

Zagreus stared at her in mute horror, the echo of her words still sinking in.

“Oh.” She pouted at his expression. “Such a face! It won’t be so bad. You can put a stop to it yourself, after all.” Now she laughed, as charming and beautiful as the musical peal of bells. Even in her cruelty, she was transfixing. “Darling. I promise I’ll forgive your infidelity afterwards.”

Zagreus found his voice. “But, my lady--”

“Oh no, not a word of begging! Off you trot. Your quest awaits.”

And she was gone, leaving him still wreathed in the faint pink mist of her curse.

For his faithlessness to her, she had said, he would spend the next part of his quest in a competition more to her liking. Make love, not war.

Already he could feel it coursing through his veins. A heat, an intoxicant that rivaled any divine liquor he’d ever consumed. The scent off his own skin was the same delicate perfume that lingered in the air around her, spicy and floral and inviting. He found his breath coming a little faster.

She was right, he could end it any time he liked. He could fall on his own sword, or descend back down to the tender mercies of the Bone Hydra or some other monstrosity to get a swift trip back to the House, where her curse might be broken. He could start over, as he had done so many times before. He didn’t have to continue forward, through the grand gates of the Stadium, where he could already hear the roaring of the crowds.

He gritted his teeth. Her timing was exquisite, of course. If he left now, some nosy shade would surely notice and the news would reach Theseus, and the next time he came this way he’d have to hear all about it. Probably the next dozen times. Theseus would be delighted to call him a coward and remind him of it every single time he had to pass through here. The former king of Athens would be sure to spread the news all through Elysium.

It was easy to picture Theseus’s sneer, the irritating twist of his irritating mouth, the disdainful arch of his eyebrow. It was easy to imagine him crowing about Zagreus’s cowardice, proclaiming it to any who would listen. Craven this, spineless that. The dead had nothing to do with their time but gossip.

Zagreus hefted his sword grimly. Aphrodite hadn’t robbed him of his ability to swing it, or to think. He was only a little distracted. Was he afraid that he might lose a fight? He’d lost plenty of fights. He’d set out the first time knowing he would probably not make it, slogging through the endless streets and crumbling courtyards filled with so, so many shades and monsters. Fear was for the weak.

The curse would be much more effective, he told himself sourly, if it had been earlier, before he encountered Meg or even Than. That would’ve stopped him in his tracks, just as Aphrodite had intended; of course he would have felt that twinge of guilt, that reluctance to push past them every time. Compromised, it would be easy to make excuses.

Compromised, perhaps he would have felt that hot, delicious rush and let it take over-- let his weapons fall, his knees go weak.

His imagination helpfully supplied him with several scenarios-- on his knees before Meg, her whip draped lovingly over his raw and well-striped back, murmuring hymns and praises between the valley of her thighs while she permitted him to pleasure her. She would leave him eager and wanting. She would tell him, cool as always, that she hadn’t the time to use him as he so desperately wished to be used, but that tender-hearted Thanatos might take pity on him.

And Thanatos… perhaps Than would appear, mouth pursed in disapproval, and tell him that he had no business continuing on in such a state. Perhaps Than would wrap him in his black cloak, and speak softly in his ear, saying ‘come home, come home with me,’ and he would reach underneath Zagreus’s chiton to cup him through thin fabric, to trace the shape of him with deft, knowing fingers. They had played such games since they were boys together, giggling and furtive in the dark. No one knew his body better.

Or perhaps even the dark and quiet stranger, who sat alone in Elysium’s fields and did not care to pick up his weapon on Lord Hades’s command. Perhaps he would be aloof about it. ‘Surely you are not planning to go on,’ he would say, his voice full of reserve, as if Zagreus had done this thing only to prompt a comment from him. Zagreus imagined that the stranger would give him no assistance at all, no tender touches, no compliments, but merely fold back his clothing and allow Zagreus to climb onto his lap and impale himself, to writhe and wriggle down on his cock. He would be a statue of muscle and shade-flesh, impervious-- there were times he reminded Zagreus intensely of his own teacher’s reservedness, that core of strange mortal self-isolation that he would never deign to share--

Zagreus forced his mind back to the present, ignoring the growing ache between his legs. It would be distracting, but he’d fought with worse, hadn’t he? Surely Aphrodite had miscalculated, cursing him here. Surely he would take one look at arrogant Theseus with his punchable face and feel the usual irritation. Asterius had to be putting up with him out of obligation, and probably because Theseus cut off anyone else who tried to make some overture of friendship.

He could do this. He could do this.

The gates opened. The roar of the crowd washed over him like a physical thing, pummeling him. His cheeks burned, knowing the drape of his chiton might not be hiding him as much as he might have wished, but he wasn’t going to look down and see for certain. It was a big arena. Surely nobody could see that well. The pink mist that still floated about him could be anything.

They were waiting for him, as always. Zagreus’s mouth was too dry for a snarky opener. Theseus seemed not to notice, launching into his usual obnoxious speech about fiends and righteousness. Asterius said nothing at all, watching him with dark eyes.

The fight was short.

Zagreus landed on his back, hard, his blade spinning away as Theseus showily disarmed him. He lay there panting, furious at himself but even more furious at the shade standing over him, smirking.

“Well, well, little princeling,” Theseus sneered. “A poor performance today! Have you at last been swayed from your foul determination to flout the lawful edicts of Lord Hades? Or perhaps you are overcome, correctly, with fear and awe at our combined prowess! Asterius and I are more than a match for any warrior in--” A look of suspicion suddenly crossed his irritatingly handsome face. “Whatever is that pinkish stuff wafting off you?”

“Stand back from him, king,” Asterius rumbled. “There is something strange in the air about him. I can smell it.”

“I can smell it as well.” Theseus did not stand back. “Something… a little pleasant, I should say. How strange.” He took another deep breath, his chest expanding as he inhaled. Zagreus could not stop himself watching; it was a magnificent chest, even if it did belong to a grandstanding braggart. He felt quite light-headed, his ears still ringing.

“The gods give him aid. Perhaps it is some trick of the divine,” said Asterius, who came to stand behind his partner. Quite close, Zagreus thought, and suddenly he had to wonder. They were not just friends, were they? The image invaded his mind of Asterius’s enormous hands, capable of encircling Theseus’s entire waist. Their heads bent together, light and dark, while Theseus arched attractively back against Asterius’s solid, enormous bulk, his mouth open but silent, soundless in pleasure. Perhaps that was how Asterius put up with him, after all.

“It is no matter,” Theseus was saying, although he sounded a little… unfocused. The butt of his spear had migrated to the ground, when the business end should have been shoved inside Zagreus’s guts several minutes ago. “We are due our celebration, Asterius, for vanquishing another foe.”

“He is not yet vanquished.” But that was Asterius’s hand, resting openly on Theseus’s hip. He had lowered his great axe.

“Isn’t he?”

Zagreus was not. He had managed to struggle to his knees, still breathing hard. That scent of warm spiciness like the perfume of flowers and chocolate, fruits and incense, flowed through the air, and Zagreus even thought he felt a warm breeze playing at the edge of his chiton where it rode up on his thighs.

That pink mist was swirling a bit wider now, encompassing all of them. Zagreus opened his mouth to order Theseus to quit stalling and send him back to the river, before they all did something very stupid at Aphrodite’s behest. Instead what came out was, “I’m still here, you assholes.”

Theseus blinked, and smiled a little. “You are, aren’t you. You know, I’m feeling extremely generous right now for some reason. Perhaps I won’t send you back down below with an impalement.”

He placed his sandalled foot on a small outcropping of rock, planting it like a flag in front of Zagreus. “Kiss it, Prince of Hades, and know yourself vanquished.”

Rage boiled up in Zagreus. “You think I would ever--”

Theseus looked smug. “Plenty have. Plenty have considered it an honor, to be defeated by me.”

“I’d rather suck your cock,” Zagreus snarled.

Theseus blinked.

Asterius blinked.

Zagreus blinked.

“Ah, that.” Zagreus shook his head blindly, his lungs full of that awful sweet scent. “That was not! What I meant! Wrong words in wrong order! I. Shit.”

“Asterius,” Theseus said blankly, “did you hear that?”

“I did, king.” Asterius snorted, but it was… a tolerant kind of snort. An indulging snort. A pity snort. “Your admirers wrestle furiously with their envy, it seems.”

“I’d rather the impalement!” Zagreus spat, but Theseus was smiling down broadly at him now, his fair head wreathed with that pink mist, and suddenly the blade of the spear was at Zagreus’s cheek, tapping gently.

“Perhaps it is a truth spell, that compels you at last to confess your deeply held desires!” His eyes glittered. “You have been insolent and violent, but I think Asterius has seen the truth of you. An impalement you may have indeed, young Prince. But first... “ Tap, tap, went the spear. “Kiss my sandal, in front of all these gathered here. I will have this of you, before I grant any boons in return.”

Lust-curse or not, Zagreus would have snarled at him, but a heavy hand settled on the back of his neck. Zagreus had not heard Asterius move, and he glanced sideways, startled, to meet the gaze of the Bull of Minos.

Who was. Also breathing that mist, his nostrils flared wide to take it in. He was so tall that he had to go down on one knee to reach Zagreus’s nape, and the thought occurred that, were he standing while Zagreus stayed on his knees, he might be eye-level with the hem of Asterius’s skirts. He might see the way the fabric moved over the massive organ it must conceal. Was it the organ of a man, or of a bull? The speculation made him swallow dryly.

“You think this a humiliation, short one?” Asterius asked. “You will find it is not. I will assist you, in finding your truth, as I found it once myself.”

“What, kissing his--”

The enormous hand tightened minutely on Zagreus’s neck, and he stopped short.

“Bend,” Asterius commanded him gently.

Zagreus bent. Slowly, jerkily, as if he’d never done so before, Asterius’s hard, huge hand at his neck gently pushing him down. Directing him. He had to put a hand down to steady himself, and then his mouth hovered just over Theseus’s foot.

It was well-shaped, perhaps. For a foot. Manicured, which was something Zagreus had never considered, given his own circumstances. The sandal itself was extremely fine quality. In the mortal world, perhaps it would’ve been dusty and unpleasant, after a battle, but in Elysium certain small details of earthly cares were overlooked. No one arrived in Elysium to be hungry, or dirty, or desperate.

Zagreus became aware of the crowd again. Watching. They had mostly fallen silent, although the murmurs of a thousand shades were nothing close to quiet. They were all watching this exchange. Had they heard everything? Certainly they were going to see everything. Him, defeated and on his knees, before the golden triumphant figure of Theseus.

He would not look up to see Theseus’s expression. He squeezed his eyes shut and planted his lips.

A moment passed. The world did not end. The pressure against the back of his neck relented, but not much. He exhaled in surprise, rolling his eyes but unable to turn his head.

“Again,” Theseus said, somewhere above him. “Higher.”

On this day, he was not wearing elaborate armor on his legs. Only the golden winding braids of the sandals, laced all the way up to the thigh. Zagreus frowned at this. Was Theseus going to make him kiss each little section of skin between the cords, as if climbing a ladder?

He chose a place a little higher on the shin, just above the ankle, and mashed his lips to it. The skin was firm and unblemished, indented slightly by the leather cords of the sandal lacings. Zagreus could feel them at the edge of his mouth. He could hear the steady bellows of Asterius’s breathing, behind him. He could hear the frantic beat of his own heart.

“Continue,” Asterius directed. “More gracefully.”

It occured to Zagreus that a minotaur did not have lips like a human’s. Would the muzzle of a bull be soft, like that of a horse? Or bristling and strange? Zagreus was acquainted only with the fierce and magical horses that pulled his father’s chariot, whose mouths concealed sharp fangs and exhaled fiery breath.

He had not considered that this was something Asterius might enjoy watching, as opposed to being for the sole benefit of Theseus’s overblown ego.

“Wet your lips, princeling,” Theseus commanded. “I want you to leave a mark as you go.”

“I’ll leave a mark--”

Again, he fell silent, this time as Asterius’s other hand slipped under his chiton to close around him through the extremely thin, inadequate fabric of his leggings. The noise he made was not dignified.

“I see,” Asterius said gravely, directly in his ear, and Zagreus could not suppress a shudder as that enormous, enormous hand with its thick and hard fingers curved and cupped him so gently, learning the shape of him.

He had exhaled over Theseus’s skin, and Theseus made a sound of his own. “Ah. His breath, Asterius-- a true creature of the underworld. The inside of him must be burning.”

Caught between Asterius’s grip and humiliation, Zagreus laid the entire flat of his tongue against Theseus’s calf, and Theseus jumped.

“Insolent.” Now Theseus sounded a bit ragged. “You think to burn me, hellspawn? Your fiery mouth is not so impressive.”

He was right; there was no burn mark on the skin. Only the wet, from Zagreus’s tongue, which now tasted of salt and mortal skin. Zagreus was an eldritch creature of fire and darkness, but not enough for the denizens here to be afraid of him.

Asterius snorted, and Zagreus felt it blow over his hair. He was so, so close behind him, that his horns bracketed Zagreus on either side, the only part of him that Zagreus could see. The bulk of him was like a looming mountain, but he was not close enough that Zagreus could press back against him, to see if Asterius was moved by any of this, or as indifferent as stone. The hand on his neck would not permit it. He strained anyway, just to test, and that grip tightened immediately to hold him still.

Asterius stroked one single finger along the full length of Zagreus’s straining cock, trapped in fabric. “Play nicely.”

Zagreus bared his teeth, and laved a wet, sucking kiss to Theseus’s shin, and then another, more gently, to the tender side of his knee, just to watch the muscles in his thighs flex. Asterius rewarded him with a delicious curl of fingers, and stroked his thumb over the head, wet enough now to soak through the thin fabric.

The air was full of that sweet scent, thick enough to give everything a pink, rosy tinge. Theseus was breathing faster, his arrogant tongue still for once, and Zagreus pressed hot kisses to the rippling muscles under his mouth. At some point, his hand had come to cradle Theseus’s calf, the interwoven cords of the sandals a counterpoint to all the skin under his stroking fingers. Asterius worked him slowly and carefully, methodical, and Zagreus no longer cared that they were in the middle of the stadium, watched by hundreds of hungry eyes. His skin was inflamed; the heat of his breath was visible in the ordinary air. His blood throbbed hungrily.

His mouth reached the cool fabric edge of Theseus’s chiton, and Zagreus looked up at the feel of fingers threading through his hair, cautious of the burning laurels there.

Theseus had not the iron grip of his partner. He looked flushed and feverish under his laurels, his lips parted, his irritating expression fallen into something a little more appealing. A little more yearning. An unspoken plea, perhaps. He desperately wanted Zagreus to continue. He desperately wanted Zagreus’s hot, infernal mouth to lay kisses all the way up his thighs, to feel them quiver and tremble, to lick over the soft, soft skin close to the inner juncture. But he could not compel. That would require asking, and Zagreus might refuse.

The thought pleased Zagreus. He slid his hand up the back of Theseus’s calf, under his knee, and brought it up to the side of his thigh, rubbing.

Then he stopped there, breathing. The wafts of hot air made the edge of Theseus’s chiton flutter, just a little, shifting it ever so slightly up his thigh. He was dark and tanned there as well, as if he’d spent all his time under the sun nude.

The fingers in his hair tightened, and Zagreus smiled.

“Shall I continue?”

Theseus started a sneer, but it fell off his face when Zagreus slowly, deliberately bit down, holding heavy muscle between his teeth.

Perhaps the front of Theseus’s skirts twitched. “You… little… “ he managed, sounding as though he was having trouble getting his breath. A low rumble came from Asterius, and he moved his hand to squeeze one of Zagreus’s cheeks, hard enough to remind him of Megaera. His hand was large enough to cover the whole of it, his fingers unyielding as iron. Zagreus couldn’t stop himself from flexing, just to feel the shift under Asterius’s grip.

“You wish to leave a mark?” Asterius sounded entirely unfazed, which was unfair. “Bite harder.”

Theseus made a noise that might have been a protest, but it turned into something else as Zagreus eagerly obeyed, worrying at the skin between his teeth. He thought of a bruise forming there, just beneath the hem of the chiton, where nobody could see it but Theseus would have to know about it. The little pull of sore muscle, the tiny sting as he moved. Perhaps he would feel the tenderness of it every time fabric brushed over the mark.

“Good.” Asterius bent his head, his muzzle just barely brushing Zagreus’s ear. “Now suck it.”

Zagreus did, ferociously. When he let go, he was pleased to see the welt of reddened skin he’d left.

“It seems I do have a boon to ask, champions of Elysium,” he said, and nearly did not recognize the harmonics in his own voice, the dark, growling undertone. He sounded like a true beast of the underworld. His tongue dragged at the chiton’s edge, slipping it higher.

“Did we, ah, say anything about boons granted to the vanquished, Asterius?” Theseus asked, but that breathless edge to his voice robbed the statement of any sting.

Asterius’s hand found its way back to his cock and squeezed him gently, making Zagreus arch his back like a cat. “Ask,” Asterius said gravely.

Zagreus breathed deep of chocolate and rose and incense. He could feel how desperately flushed his cheeks were. “I... wish to lay with the Bull of Minos.”

Theseus’s grip immediately tightened into a fist, dragging at Zagreus’s hair. “You dare,” he snapped. “You dare presume yourself worthy of his attentions? He who is a champion of this arena, a proven warrior beyond compare? You insolent dog, you are the defeated villain here--”

“--and as the ‘defeated villain,’ I wish to surrender,” Zagreus cut back in. “To him. I wish to bring him pleasure, as befitting a great and victorious warrior.” He wanted to be smiling meanly as he said it, but Asterius was still gripping him thoughtfully, and his last syllable ended as an open-mouthed little stutter, his lashes shuttering despite himself. The tips of Asterius’s fingers must be wet and tacky now from how much he was leaking through his clothes, and the thought bubbled up in his stomach like a pool of boiling magma.

“A surrender,” Asterius rumbled. “I do not believe you know how, short one.”

“Ah.” Zagreus slanted a look back over his shoulder. His right shoulder, unfortunately, which meant his shadow and crimson eye. Not his most winsome look. “Perhaps I could be taught?”

Theseus scoffed. “A waste of everyone’s time, I’m sure.”

Asterius did not scoff. “There is time enough, in Elysium,” he said instead, slowly, as if he was deciding as he spoke. “I will permit this surrender.”

For the first time used his hold to pull Zagreus hard against him, grinding an absolutely enormous bulge against Zagreus’s ass. “In private. Shall we retire, king?”

The stadium had been built in apparent mimicry of a mortal construction, and so had rooms and bathing areas and beds for the stable of non-existent gladiators.

The spectators had not left. Zagreus could still hear the roar of voices through the stone walls. Were they watching another match? Were they howling for their favorite fighters to come back and play out the end of this drama for them to see? He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

He came up from the pool of hot water in strange symmetry to how he always re-entered the House, although this liquid was near boiling, while the river of blood was, well, only pleasantly blood-warm. Steam billowed from the water’s surface. Too hot for any mortal or former mortal, but nothing to Zagreus’s tolerances.

He swept back his wet hair from his eyes, feeling the rivulets running down his bare back, the steam curling up around him. He wore only his armbands and a drape of white fabric now, held up by a single golden clasp at the shoulder, all his armor and usual clothing set aside. The sopping wet costume clung to him, sheer and revealing.

Asterius lounged before him on a carved stone bench, also wet from the baths. He and Theseus had their own, of course. Marble and magnificent, and large enough to accommodate Asterius’s size. He wore his golden arm bands, still, and the blue chiton was wrapped as an afterthought around his waist.

Now it was easy to see the dark fur that covered him, short and sleek. The jointed strangeness of his thickly muscled legs that narrowed down to strong, clean hocks. His cannon-bones could have been pillars of stone. His cloven hooves were polished and glossy. His horns looked even more impressive, somehow, when Asterius was not wearing armor. Water still dripped from their wicked tips.

He wore large golden rings through his dark, round nipples, perhaps to match the one in his nose. What Zagreus was not expecting is that Theseus wore the same, as if in solidarity. He leaned on Asterius’s shoulder like some advisor or attendant, hanging near the ear of a king.

Theseus had dressed also in white, his dark skin attractive against the fabric in a way that Zagreus’s was not. Zagreus’s colors had always been red and black. White made the underworld pallor of his skin even more apparent, the shadows of his face even more pronounced. No sun had ever bronzed him.

He could almost feel Theseus’s urge to tell him that he looked like a corpse laid out for the rites.

But that didn’t matter. His attention was all for the drape of that blue chiton, and the shape that lurked underneath it.

“An infernal creature approaches,” Theseus said, drawling and disdainful, as Zagreus took his first step out of the bath onto the tile, and the water sizzled away into steam underneath his burning feet. The air was thick and close, and Aphrodite’s curse still hung like wreaths of rose-tinted mist. Even in the steamy atmosphere, Zagreus could see his own breath, hotter still than the air around it.

A supplicant would’ve knelt, probably. A battle trophy might have knelt.

Zagreus did not kneel.

“Prince of Hades,” Asterius said, formally and respectfully, as if he really did care for Zagreus’s empty titles. Son of an echoing absence, heir to a cobweb kingdom he would never inherit, morelike.

“Vanquished foe.”

That sounded more realistic. Zagreus pasted on a reflexive charming smile.

“You have faced us many times in the arena without flinching.” Asterius’s deep voice was steady and calm, his bull’s head as inscrutable as a statue. “Will you face us in this as well?”

Zagreus reached up to unpin the clasp at his shoulder. The wet plop of his entire costume falling to the floor was answer enough, he thought.

Years of weapons training had given him a shape pleasing to mortal men, or so Achilles assured him. The shades he might have asked for opinions were too wary or sycophantic to answer honestly. But Achilles had laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. A lithe, muscled body meant for statuary, he’d said, and for once Zagreus had dared to hope that Achilles was not humoring him out of pity, as Achilles so often did.

Such things did not mean as much among the gods, who could choose their forms and colors and costumes as they wished, but Zagreus was not that kind of god. He could not will himself to be less gray and washed out, nor banish the shadows that gathered around his crimson eye to obscure half of his face. He had been crowned with the burning laurels when he was a boy and they stayed on his head due to his father’s will, not his own.

The Lord Hades, of course, had always told him he was unimpressive. His mismatched eyes were obnoxious, neither one nature nor the other. His hair was unkempt and unruly. For the son of a towering god, he was stunted. He couldn’t float languidly above the ground like Thanatos, nor did he have wings or true flaming breath or stars in his hair. His feet were a nuisance, leaving scorch marks on the furniture, and he could wear neither elegant golden sandals nor practical armored boots. He went barefoot like a wild thing.

Although perhaps Asterius knew something of that.

Zagreus stood naked in front of them, weathering their scrutiny. Aphrodite’s curse saw him painfully aroused.

It was impossible to read Asterius’s expression. Did his nostrils flare? Did he lean forward, just a tiny bit? Zagreus sucked in a breath, waiting.

Theseus’s eyes narrowed, and the former king of Athens leaned in to speak in Asterius’s ear. “A slave won in battle would attend you.” He said it carelessly; something that was common knowledge to humans and kings, of which he was the only one in the room.

“Oh? Then attend me,” Asterius said, and stood up from the bench.

Zagreus stepped out of the circle of fabric at his feet. His mouth was dry as he approached. For some reason, Asterius seemed much more imposing this way, without his gloves or the leather straps of his armored skirt, the enormous belt bearing the symbol of Hades. His mountainous shoulders gleamed. The light blue chiton by itself, unpinned so it left Asterius’s torso bare, looked nearly indecent; too short and too thin.

Theseus shoved a tray into his hands. There were brushes of various sizes with different types of bristles, tiny decorative bottles, small and large squares of fine, soft cloths.

“Dry him off, first. Then the brushes. Then the oil. Use the sponges for delicate skin: ears, face.” His expression was not quite a sneer.

He was probably assuming Zagreus had never performed a task like this in his life. He was probably also assuming that it would bother Zagreus to be kept waiting.

“A slave,” Theseus continued, as though lecturing some unseen classroom of attentive listeners, “does not speak to the royalty he serves. A slave knows the duties expected of him and has learned proficiency in them. The king may ask for anything, but the point is that he does not have to ask. But a trophy of war… who knows what such a person is good for. Were they a soldier? A prince?” There was the sneer.

“Perhaps their only value is in being looked at. Perhaps they will require strict instruction in order to be useful.”

Zagreus chose to ignore that and picked up one of the soft, luxurious cloths. Perhaps it had been woven with some magical fabric, because it seemed as light and fine as silk, but the fibers were soft and inviting and absorbent.

Asterius watched him come, calmly, as if he was attended by defeated enemies every day. His barrel chest rose and fell. Zagreus didn’t hesitate to start there, pressing the cloth reverently to those rippling pecs like he had any idea what he was doing.

Up close, Asterius’s fur was short and sleek. In some places it was as thin as a velvet lining over the skin, while it seemed to grow a little longer near the spine, and down towards the haunches and legs. It shone a glossy deep brown like well polished wood, soft and pleasing to the touch. Zagreus immediately wanted to press himself bodily to it so he could feel it slip against his bare skin, to feel it rub over his stiff and peaked nipples.

Per Theseus’s instruction, he rubbed against the grain of the hide first, to fluff up the longer hairs and dry them thoroughly. A real slave might have done it briskly, but Zagreus was slow and lingering, rubbing in dreamy circles. Asterius didn’t smell like wet human or even of the perfumed soap from the baths, which might have been expected. Freshly washed, there was a warm and pleasant scent to him, and Zagreus bent closer than he needed to as he worked, chasing it.

Even through the soft fabric of the cloth, Zagreus could feel hard and corded muscle under his hands, like chiseled stone under the skin. Asterius’s warm hide twitched and shivered, as if shaking off an insect; Zagreus laid his other hand on to soothe it, stroking. He rubbed the towel over Asterius’s ridiculous abs. Warm breath snorted softly down over Zagreus’s hair. Zagreus was eye-level with the golden nipple rings, which winked and flashed, and he had to press his lips together firmly to resist the temptation to fondle the fat, black nubs. He dried them carefully, succumbing only to a little pinching and pressing, watching them stiffen under his attentions. He desperately wanted to suckle them, to tug at the rings with his teeth.

He rubbed the cloth over Asterius’s entire body, drying his hands and his arms and torso, thighs and hocks and flanks. He rubbed against the grain of the hide and then smoothed it back down. Asterius had to bend down for Zagreus to reach his dark and curling mane, the laurel leaves set aside. He made no move to pull the chiton from his waist yet, but he turned, and presented Zagreus with the enormous expanse of his muscled back, which caused Zagreus a moment of difficulty as his cock twitched traitorously.

Asterius had a bull’s tail, extending out from underneath the chiton. Zagreus had never noticed it before. He took it in hand gently and ran the soft cloth along its length, carefully pressing any excess water from the tuft at the end. He combed through the coarse hair delicately with his fingers, feeling the whole thing twitch in his grip. He wanted to curl his hand around it and run back along the whole thing, to go underneath that scrap of fabric, to feel where the tail joined Asterius’s body. But he did not.

His cock ached painfully. He dropped a hand down to palm himself, hoping it would go unnoticed behind the movements of the towel. Even with all this delay, he was so wet he could feel it sliding along his shaft in little ticklish beads, slipping down his balls. He was probably dripping onto the floor; Aphrodite’s doing, he thought. This was not how his body usually behaved.

“What a vulgar slave, fondling himself as he works.” Theseus had found a little horsehair flogger somewhere, the kind of thing a slavemaster might keep tucked in his belt. Zagreus jumped as it came down on his bare ass, not very hard, but enough to startle.

“A distracted slave deserves punishment,” Theseus said, letting the ticklish, rough hair trail down between Zagreus’s asscheeks to watch them flex. “Go and stand against him, legs apart. He will be your flogging post. How many lashes, Asterius?”

“Hmm.” Asterius was a solid mountain as Zagreus did as commanded, pressing himself close with a hungry pleasure. Fur rubbed against his skin, tickling at his nipples, his belly, and his stiff cock was nestled against Asterius’s massive thigh. The chiton fabric tickled him. He couldn’t stop himself from rubbing in little frantic pushes, the head smearing wet.

“Five, I think. His eagerness is pleasing to me.”

“Very well then.”

Theseus swatted him five times, across the ass to make him jump forward and press his cock more deliciously against Asterius, and the last more gently across his balls, which still made Zagreus jolt violently and cry out. The sting was barely anything compared to Megaera’s usual practices, but he had to assume Aphrodite’s curse was in full effect, making everything feel more sensitive, more responsive. He couldn’t choke down his little grunts even if he’d wanted to, his mouth fallen open, breathing hot and hellish air against Asterius’s chiseled abdominals. His tongue made contact with hide.

He was not prepared for Theseus to grab his asscheek and squeeze, and then slap it with the open palm of his hand to watch it jiggle. “Satisfactory. You are right indeed, my dear friend. Perhaps eagerness can excuse his vulgar shamelessness.”

He laid his hand again on the heat of reddened skin, and Zagreus could feel his hole winking, begging to be touched. Theseus would see it. Theseus could hardly miss it.

And then, impossibly: he felt something wet and warm begin to seep out of him, as if someone had already poured oil inside, or emptied their balls in his depths. Impossible. But it oozed and oozed, a slow, wet trickling flow. Like… like a woman’s, perhaps.

He could almost hear Aphrodite’s chiming laughter.

Theseus slipped a finger through it, and Zagreus tensed, nearly gasping. “How convenient. I had no idea infernals had such specialized traits. Asterius, can you smell him?”

Asterius’s voice rumbled through Zagreus when he spoke. “I can. Like the sweetest nectar.”

Theseus lifted his hand, and Zagreus had to endure the sight of Asterius’s pink tongue swiping over Theseus’s fingers, tasting.

“Honey, spice, and flowers,” was his verdict. “Perhaps some specialty of Aphrodite’s?”

“Ah, the goddess of love.” Theseus was smiling broadly now. “The most dangerous of all, perhaps. Is this some punishment, Prince of Hades? Or is it a reward for us? You need not answer, I don’t care. We’re not finished.” He pulled Zagreus back to stand on his own, and gestured broadly towards the golden tray of grooming tools, half of them still unused.

“Now, the brushes.”

Zagreus gritted his teeth and reached for one.

There was no need for the curry combs or stiff-bristled brushes or the scrapers, meant to attack caked on dirt. Zagreus’s choice was a lavishly carved oval brush with semi-soft bristles. He began to brush out Asterius’s fur, careful to follow the direction the hair was growing in. Long, firm strokes. This, Theseus lectured, would remove the dirt and hair that the curry comb would have loosened, although of course Asterius was shining and clean at this moment. Zagreus didn’t ask where Theseus had learned all this.

In the realm of the dead, shades often appeared as a sort of residual self-image. The clothes they thought of themselves wearing, the length their hair had been, etc. It could be a self-image drastically different from how they’d looked at death, although some shades gnawed on the circumstances of their demise like Cerberus with a bone. Some shades had extremely consistent and vivid self-images. Achilles usually looked the same from day to day, as did Sisyphus.

Zagreus’s green eye, gifted to him by a mortal mother, saw the projections. The clothes, the age, the clutched close memories of a mortal appearance. His crimson eye saw the other: the opaque phosphorescent blobs, the rending wounds.

Asterius was neither bloodied nor broken, standing before him. But Zagreus could see, if he tried, an idea that clung to his flesh like trailing fog: unshorn hair, dirty hide, a ragged and unkempt mane. The rags of once fine clothing, fit for royalty.

No one in Elysium was truly obliged to wash themselves, or cut their hair, or trim their nails, just as they did not have to eat or drink or sleep, if they didn’t wish to. Their clothing did not get dirty or ripped, not unless the shade willed it on some level.

That Asterius needed to be trimmed and brushed, here, in the afterlife, was some part of him that couldn’t let go of the labyrinth, where he must have gone ungroomed and uncared for.

There were severals sets of delicate, golden scissors upon the tray in different sizes, looking more like ornaments than practical tools, but Theseus had apparently decided that Zagreus would do no irreparable harm with the brushes, and set himself to working on Asterius’s mane where it lay between his ears. The whole ridge of longer black hair that tapered down between his shoulder blades had been roached or perhaps shaved down entirely at some point, and then painstakingly shaped and maintained as it grew back into a short, clean cut.

Theseus looked it over critically. Asterius had to sit back down for him to do so. Theseus ran his fingers through the mane and murmured it needed more conditioning. He used the golden scissors to snip a few errant hairs here and there, measuring them out against their fellows, and then smoothing all back down with his fingers.

He ordered Zagreus to fetch an elaborate carved jar, full of some pleasantly scented creamy substance, and to hold it out for him as he worked. Theseus scooped out a generous handful of the stuff and coated both palms with it, rubbing them together absently, and then began to massage the cream into Asterius’s black mane, drawing out the strands between his fingers until they were well oiled. He dipped his hand in again and again, although the jar never seemed to be less full. The rewards of Elysium, perhaps, or a reward of the arena. It was certainly a lengthy process, as Theseus had to go over the entire length of the mane, working and rubbing until the moisturizing cream disappeared into the thick black strands.

He watched with a gimlet eye but did not protest as Zagreus impulsively dipped two fingers into the jar himself, coating them with the cool white cream, and went to work massaging it into Asterius’s tail tuft. The coarse strands between his fingers seemed to soften as he worked, and soon he could easily run the teeth of a silver comb through them without anything catching. The conditioner seemed to dry quickly, making the hair smooth and soft and shining without leaving an oily or sticky residue.

Theseus held out his hand imperiously for the same comb, using it to shape and style the longer mane at the poll, between Asterius’s great horns. Theseus was obviously used to working around them. He swept and brushed and teased the hair into its customary curl, as meticulous as a sculptor working on a statue-head, frowning thoughtfully in concentration. That completed, he placed the comb back on the tray and then turned his attention to Asterius’s fine, velvety ears, which apparently also needed trimming along the inside edges with a small, specialized shaving tool. Tiny bits of downy fuzz rained down, whisked away with one of the towels. Asterius bore it patiently, as he did the lathering and meticulous shaving of whiskers on his muzzle.

“Once,” Asterius said suddenly, perhaps noting Zagreus’s careful lack of response, “I told myself that I did not need to imitate humans and their customs, as I was not one myself. Does a bull shave itself? Does it understand that it can solve its own discomfort and dirt? A dumb animal would not bother. But I am not required to be uncomfortable. I may choose what I want and what I do not want.”

“I prefer you clean shaven,” Theseus said, fastidiously sponging away the remaining foam. “As you prefer me. You can work on his feet now, infernal.”

Zagreus didn’t see, precisely, what needed to be done with Asterius’s hooves, as they could hardly be dirty when he was fresh from the baths, but Zagreus knelt anyway to look them over, pretending he needed to put a hand on Asterius’s impressive thigh for steadiness. The fur on the legs seemed a bit longer than what grew on the rest of Asterius’s body, and had a hint of curl, nearly obscuring the two dew-claws at the back of the ankle.

There was a large metal file available among all the grooming tools that could have been meant for horns or hooves, but Zagreus decided to head off another lecture and leave it alone. He had no practical knowledge of how to care for any animal’s feet except Cerberus’s, and doubted that would apply here. Cerberus had his own claws trimmed and filed at the forge, where it took oversized and magically reinforced instruments (and a lot of cajoling) to tend to them. Zagreus had some vague notions about how horses were shod, and none at all about how the hooves of cows or bulls were maintained.

He picked up a buffing cloth instead, and a dish of polish. The hard black keratin of the hooves already looked like smooth obsidian, no nicks or chipped edges that he could discern, but a few rubs of the cloth brought the surface to a mirror gloss. He was obliged to lift Asterius’s leg and set the hoof in his lap to work on it; he shuddered as the head of his cock brushed, dangerously and deliciously, against the hard dew-claws and the silky fetlock hair. The muscles of his thighs tensed helplessly.

“You may kiss it,” Theseus told him, as if he was granting a favor. “No one here is unclear about how eager you are to put your mouth on him, you’ve been practically drooling.” Apparently he considered his work now finished; he was leaning on Asterius’s shoulder again, thumbing absently at one of the large golden rings piercing the minotaur’s chest. For all that Theseus was pretending to be above all this, the thin fabric of his white chiton was tented prominently, and his dusky nipples stood at attention.

Zagreus would have liked to argue, but another little warm gush of wetness escaped between his cheeks and spattered softly on the tile floor, making him flush deeply instead.

Asterius had other ideas, in any case. He lifted his leg from Zagreus’s grasp, planting it back firmly on the floor in order to stand.

“Rise,” he ordered, and finally made to remove his chiton, “and you may oil me.”

Zagreus shot to his feet so fast he felt a little dizzy.

There was no delicate way to look at Asterius when he was naked, at last, the blue chiton unwrapped from his waist and set aside. His thighs were enormous with muscle, his belly and hips covered in short curling hair. He did not, as Zagreus had suspected, have the dangling organ of a man, but rather a large sheath that contained it. His balls hung low and heavy and Zagreus wanted to get down there immediately to put his mouth on them, but he had one last task to perform.

There were several delicate pitchers of shimmering oil that seemed to stay warm of its own volition. Zagreus did not even pretend to be graceful, stepping close enough to tuck his cock into the fur of Asterius’s hip as he poured the oil slowly onto Asterius’s belly, splashing himself liberally in the process. The oil was beautifully warm and ran in golden rivulets down Asterius’s muscles, dripping down onto his swelling sheath, coursing in patterns according to the whorls of fur.

There was no pretense that this was anything except sexual. Zagreus rubbed oil-drenched hands over Asterius’s hips, learning their curves and sharp edges, and massaging the firm roundness of his asscheeks dreamily. They were just as muscular as the rest of him. Zagreus’s inquisitive fingers found that spot where his tail joined and began to play with it, noting the little shivers this induced. Asterius’s tail flicked delicately. Oil dripped down his thighs and flanks.

Theseus, not to be outdone, poured a thin stream over the breadth of Asterius’s shoulders so that it might run down his chest and his back. He also wasn’t bothering to use a sponge or a cloth, but gathered the oil on his palms to spread it directly, rubbing and massaging. The rumble of Asterius’s breathing had become noticeably louder as he roused, his nostrils flaring. Zagreus took another double palmful of the warm oil and bent down, letting Asterius’s balls dip into his cupped hands. He coated them gently and thoroughly, squeezing and stroking and fondling, the thin oil dripping between his fingers as he worked. The skin there was hot and soft, velvety to the touch. Asterius widened his stance, stepping out to give Zagreus more room to work, and sighed in pleasure at his ministrations.

Theseus had both hands occupied with Asterius’s chest piercings now, tugging delicately at the golden rings and playing with the fat black nipples that, aroused, did indeed look more bovine than human. They were just a little bit longer, a little thicker than anything a human male could manage. They looked the perfect size to suckle.

The brief white chiton that Theseus still wore was now hopelessly spattered, rendering the fabric translucent in spots and streaks. It clung indecently, riding high on his thighs. Oil smeared on his dark and lovely skin.

Zagreus let himself rut against Asterius’s hip for a half-dozen shallow thrusts, getting even more oil on himself, and then he steeled himself to pull away and go on to the main event: the swollen sheath between Asterius’s thighs. He spread oil onto the soft skin reverently until it was thoroughly wet and dripping, nearly panting with lust; he could feel the thick shape inside. Asterius grunted, gusting warm air down on the top of his head, and Zagreus delicately slid a well-lubricated finger inside, to rub invitingly over the broad cockhead laying in wait.

He was not disappointed, when Asterius’s abdominals rippled and the whole gleaming thing slid out into his waiting hands: it was not thin and spindly like a true bull’s, but fat and bulbous like a man’s, a wet and dusky pink shading to black where it protruded from the sheath. Zagreus licked his lips and began to work it slowly, up and down in long, reverent pulls, the oil from his fingers making the whole organ gleam wet and inviting. Not unaffected, Asterius’s hips rocked helplessly in time, little pushes to rub his cock through Zagreus’s slick grip.

“What a beauty you have kept secret all this time,” Zagreus couldn’t help but murmuring, glancing up to watch Asterius’s face. There was no flush visible on his fur-covered hide, obviously, but his nostrils flared wide with every breath, and his dark eyes were fixed on Zagreus’s hands, touching him. Perhaps the angle of his ears were pleased.

“Consider yourself fortunate,” Theseus said, his wandering hands teasing over Asterius’s enormous torso, practiced in winnowing out all the little spots he liked. “Few have been so honored-- few can handle such a treasure properly, after all.”

Zagreus was sorry to see that it was, unfortunately, too large for him to fit into his mouth entire, at least not comfortably. Theseus would be highly amused to watch him choke.

He bent instead to lick over the pink crown, the taste of oil and Asterius mingling together. Magical oil, to fit any need, apparently. It tasted sweet and strange, as if pressed from some unknown flower, while Asterius tasted mostly like a man; skin, and salt, and the hint of an unusual bitterness, but not unpleasant at all. Zagreus licked again immediately, laving his tongue along all the bumps and ridges of veins.

Asterius groaned softly, his great head fallen back a little, and Zagreus felt fingers come to rest in his hair, encouraging. He obliged immediately and willingly, letting the fat tip slide over his lips and into his mouth slowly, very slowly. Once situated, he writhed his tongue along the bottom of the shaft, and began suckling around it.

“His mouth,” Asterius sighed, pleased. “The heat of it, king. Like the licking of a flame, but it does not burn.”

“Oh?” Theseus didn’t sound pleased at all, which entertained Zagreus. He hummed around the cock in his mouth, easing it a little deeper, his hands resting on the side of Asterius’s hips to brace himself. Asterius’s hand pressed him forward very gently, mindfully. He was not going to pressure, which only made Zagreus more determined to get that little extra bit inside, sliding deep.

But he drew off easily, without mishap, and Asterius let him. The cock slid from his mouth wet and shining, and Zagreus smiled up sunnily.

“If you liked that, I’ve another trick you might enjoy. Is there a bed in this place?”

There was; a very large and handsome one decorated in ostentatious shades of teal and ivory and bright pink, luxurious enough for an emperor. Zagreus arranged himself on it, careless of the oil dripping all over the fine silken sheets. He had poured a whole ewer over his burning feet, which steamed faintly but did not smoke or burst into flame. The sweet scent of the oil merely increased.

Asterius rumbled in interest, arranging himself opposite on the bed, which surely had been magicked to hold his weight without a creak of protest or otherwise built for hard use. Theseus stood behind him, arms folded, observing.

Zagreus slid one oiled foot over the length of Asterius’s aroused cock, and was not disappointed by the noise he made. Asterius shuddered all over, his cock twitching. “I-- yes,” he said, disjointed. “An excellent trick, I have never-- do it again.”

Zagreus obliged, grinning. He rubbed and massaged, spreading the now hot oil over Asterius’s shaft and sheath, letting it drip down onto his balls. The contrast between his ember colored feet and the darkness of Asterius’s hide was fetching, he thought.

Asterius trembled and shook, pressing his cock back against the strange and delicious feeling. Zagreus made a tunnel of his soles so Asterius could thrust between them, and used his toes to press teasingly against Asterius’s balls and rub over the head of his cock. The oil made everything slick and easy.

Soon Asterius was rutting in earnest, blowing hard like he’d just fought a round in the arena, and had coaxed Theseus down into deep and dragging kisses. Zagreus pretended he wasn’t looking, although it was impossible to miss Asterius’s long bull’s tongue slipping between Theseus’s lips.

“Enough, enough,” Asterius said finally, letting Theseus go; the former king of Athens looked dazed and flushed, his own chest heaving with arousal.

“Will you make him ready for me, king?”

Theseus sighed enormously, but didn’t object. He divested himself of his chiton, finally, allowing it to drop to the floor in a careless puddle about his ankles, leaving him perfectly naked and roused, oil still shimmering like sun reflection on his skin. He crawled onto the bed and without preamble took Zagreus firmly in hand, pumping him slowly.

It felt like the first time anyone had touched him in years; Zagreus heard himself whine, horribly, his legs falling open, helpless for it. He couldn’t care who it was, as long as that lovely hand on his cock kept stroking. He was making a mess of the sheets.

“Well,” Theseus said in his ear, “you are certainly more tolerable like this. We will have to see how well you take me, first, before you try to sit on his throne. His strength is not for the faint-hearted.”

He had kept the damned horsehair whip, and swatted Zagreus across a thigh with it, making him yelp and jump, his cock jerking almost painfully.

“Up, on your knees,” Theseus commanded. “Straddle me, and face him so that he may watch.” He arranged Zagreus over his cock with one hand firm on his hip as a guide, and then rubbed himself in between Zagreus’s plump cheeks, teasing. That strange sweet wetness still seeping from his body immediately coated the underside, making the slide easy, and Theseus set both hands onto his asscheeks to press them together, grunting softly as he rubbed back and forth.

Theseus’s organ was unimpressive compared to Asterius’s, of course, being ordinary and mortal-shaped; his little speech sounded more like self-importance than real advice. But fever stopped Zagreus’s tongue, he had been kept waiting all this time, and Aphrodite’s lust curse had not diminished. The little bit of stroking and teasing had only made it worse. He wanted to come, he wanted to be fucked, he wanted his mouth stuffed full. He was not some untried amateur or sheltered princeling, who had only ever been delicately serviced by adoring servants. There was not, he thought with some amusement, anyone even remotely fitting that description in the House of Hades.

Asterius was watching him keenly, stroking himself slowly; Zagreus held his gaze deliberately as he reached back and sank, without warning, onto Theseus’s cock in one long slow slide. Whatever Aphrodite had done to him made it easy, nearly frictionless; the oil on their skins and the warm wet slick between his legs. The lack of resistance felt like Zagreus had already spent the last hour working himself open on a toy, and now there was no difficulty at all for the main event, his body welcoming and open.

Theseus made a choked off noise as he sank in deeply, unexpectedly, his fingers abruptly clutching at Zagreus’s hips; his own bucked greedily, trying to push further in.

“By everything holy--”

His cock was a lovely warm weight inside, easing some of the emptiness. Zagreus sighed in satisfaction, wriggling to get a little more depth, and then pulled up from him, his powerful thighs flexing. Theseus’s strangling grip couldn’t keep him from rising. He didn’t need advice or commands on how to do this.

Theseus snarled, when Zagreus looked back over his shoulder; his perfect hair a little disheveled, his cheeks flushed. Perhaps his cock was even steaming, just barely, as it slipped free and was exposed to the open air.

“Is it too much for you?” Zagreus asked innocently, making Asterius snort and Theseus splutter. “I’ve heard it’s not for the faint-hearted.”

“Sit down, Prince of Hades,” Theseus said grimly, a glint in his eye. “I will make it worth your while.”

Zagreus was dripping all over him, so there was no sense pretending he wasn’t eager. This time Theseus guided himself in, and set a strong pace with urging hands on Zagreus’s hips, so that Zagreus was soon bouncing on his cock eagerly, moaning with each impact. He was too keyed up to care about technique or making anything last, his balls were throbbing and Theseus’s dick was perfectly adequate for what he wanted right now. If he was being generous, he might even have called it nicely sized and nicely proportioned. All that mattered was that it stayed iron-hard and hot inside him, scratching the itch in all the right places.

He rode Theseus hard and fast, eyes closed and mouth open, chasing the feeling that was starting to build. No longer content to observe, Asterius had moved closer and also straddled Theseus, so that with every bounce and jolt Zagreus was pressed close to him, and their cocks rubbed together haphazardly in little lightning flashes of pleasure. Asterius’s huge hands fondled his chest, playing with his unnaturally sensitive nipples, sending sharp zings all through his nerves and making him gasp for air.

Another shuddering thrust, and Zagreus couldn’t stand it any longer; he came with a strangled moan all over himself and Asterius, spattering his belly. He fell forward, gasping, and Theseus slipped out of him with a curse, accompanied by a gush of slick.

Zagreus’s teeth finally closed on one of Asterius’s golden nipple rings, he tugged at it lightly, his own fingers wandering up to return the favor of fondling while Theseus evidently decided to finish himself off, frenzied slick noises and then a deep and self-satisfied groan, as hot stripes of come pattered all over Zagreus’s bare back and ass.

“I ought,” Theseus said, sounded winded, “to whip you-- for that impertinence-- infernal-- creature.” One of his hands smoothed down Zagreus’s arched spine, and then began to roughly rub the wet seed into his skin.

Zagreus’s only reply was a contented hum, busy sucking at Asterius’s fat black teats and flicking them with his tongue. His own cock was already back to half-mast, not having gone down entirely; he wasn’t constrained to the limited handful of orgasms that were natural to mortals.

He wanted more.

“He is ready for you, Asterius.” Theseus squeezed one of his cheeks in a proprietary fashion. “As I said, his body must be specialized for this-- sinks right in, as if he were made for it.”

Pressed skin to skin with Asterius, Zagreus didn’t miss the way that made the minotaur’s thick cock twitch.

“On the edge of the bed,” Asterius told him, snorting softly. “You have been patient. I will accept your surrender now, short one.”

Perhaps the bed was really was magic, as Zagreus would have sworn it had been lower to the ground ten minutes ago-- but now, somehow, the edge of it was now at the perfect height for Asterius, and there were a dozen luxurious pillows within reach. Zagreus presented himself with an eager little shimmy, arching his back, bracing on hands and knees. The insides of his thighs were slick and shiny, his cock hard against his belly; his hole felt wet and open, gasping hungrily.

Asterius did not make him wait. His massive hands closed on Zagreus’s waist, nearly encircling him, and then the enormous thick head was nudging in, gently, very gently, as Asterius mounted him. Zagreus groaned in deep satisfaction as the whole thing began to slide in and in and in. He opened up for it like his insides had been made to match, as snug and tailored as a glove. Asterius grunted in surprise, leaning low enough over Zagreus’s back that the warm metal of his nipple rings brushed skin.

After a delicious eternity, Asterius had finally sheathed himself inside to the hilt, and held there, breathing strongly, while Zagreus squirmed and moaned around the huge throbbing weight inside him. He was so full he thought it must be visible under his skin, bulging, a tight sleeve for Asterius’s cock to enjoy. His thighs and arms trembled, trying to hold up.

And then Asterius began to fuck him.

Zagreus’s mouth was open, probably. He was making noises, probably. He could hear the obscene wet noises and smack of skin with perfect clarity anyway, Asterius’s little grunts of effort as he took his pleasure. He didn’t rut like an animal exactly, there was a man’s patience and strategy in the timing of his thrusts, but surely the entire bed was shaking under the assault, and Zagreus pushed back into each one, nearly sobbing in relief. This at last cooled the fever-heat of Aphrodite’s curse, reaching that fire burning in his belly. He came once, yowling, and then came immediately again, clenching hard enough around Asterius to make the minotaur groan aloud.

“Oh, oh, oh--!” Someone was saying gibberish, and it might have been himself. He shook and jolted and shuddered underneath Asterius. His cock bounced against his well-striped belly in rhythm. His nipples felt strange and tight, and the next time he came with a cry it was from a pinch to them, Theseus fondling them with a considering look. There was wetness on his chest, now, dripping down on the sheets.

“Like a good little cow, I see,” Theseus smirked, and set himself to torturing Zagreus into another climax by pulling at his nipples, milking them.

Perhaps he lost a little time, then, rolling from one thunderous orgasm to another, interspersed with small, shuddering ones. He was in Asterius’s lap now, with a hot mouth suckling from his teats while his cock was tenderly stroked. He was flat on his belly, biting the sheets as someone pressed him down bodily, sinking so deep inside him they were barely moving their hips, just little nudges downwards. A cock presented itself to him and he lapped at it eagerly, nursing at the thick crown. Someone’s tongue was fucking in and out of him; he spread his legs wider and pressed back into it, delirous and delighted. A mouth kissed his; a tongue slid down his throat. He massaged his own aching, puffy chest until a spurt of liquid shot out, and then someone was suckling him there while another serviced his cock, and he came again with a trailing sigh.

At some point, probably, they fell asleep.

At some point, probably, the curse was broken.

Zagreus woke abruptly, clear-headed and extremely sore, like he’d gone several rounds in the arena and then had an enthusiastic orgy, which was technically exactly what had happened.

He was naked, still, on that enormous bed, half-buried in a pile of pillows. He poked his head up warily and looked around. There was no hint of a pink mist obscuring all the corners of the room, and the air didn’t smell like a temple of decadence anymore. Zagreus was sticky with oil and other things; there were lovebites all over his thighs, and more on his ass if the soreness was any indication. He winced, moving gingerly.

Theseus was snoring away in a tangle of ripped and ruined sheets, dead to the world, a self-satisfied and smug look on his face, somehow. Zagreus debated trying to smother him with a fancy pillow, and then decided he’d best just look for his clothes and weapons and go. Maybe dunk himself in the bathing pool on his way out. There wasn’t a conversation to be had, other than ‘it was all Aphrodite’s idea and you can take it up with her.’ He rubbed at his sore chest; his nipples were still raw and chafed. He couldn’t even tell if they were back to normal, or if he had an exciting new secret to bring to the bedroom, next time. As if he could even think about a next time. His dick ached, too.

He did dunk himself in the hottest pool, submerging entirely in hopes that it might scald away… something. His sense of shame? He didn’t have a very well-developed one of those. Aphrodite was a vengeful goddess and she’d had her satisfaction, as she would have eventually, no matter what Zagreus did or didn’t do. The curse would have remained, otherwise, until she was ready to release him. His Olympian relatives were a vindictive bunch.

Asterius was nowhere in sight, neither in the sleeping or the bathing chambers. Zagreus hastily threw on his red and black chiton without bothering with armor or pants, and took his leave. The next time he came through here, it would probably be to roars of laughter. Unless Theseus found some special reason to keep his mouth shut, the news would be spread over all Elysium in hours.

He waited for the gossip to filter back to the House (he had not, for once, even tried to make it to the surface, but found his way back down, noting sourly that everything seemed to get out of his way now that he was headed in the wrong direction), but there was no tittering at all from the shades in the halls, or from Hypnos, who was puzzled to see him coming back via one of the doors like a normal person instead of floating belly up in the river like something drowned.

“And you’re not even horribly maimed!” Hypnos squinted at him. “Did you finally get tired of--”

“Nope.”

“Then you decided to--”

“Nope.”

“But you’re--”

“Nope.” Zagreus’s bed was calling him. And a jug of wine. Maybe two jugs of wine.

He took a few days off. He deserved it, he thought resentfully, although his presence made his father irritated-- the irony-- and set all the shades to murmuring and gossiping. Thanatos declined to grace the house with his presence, but Meg made up for that by being especially mean whenever Zagreus ran into her.

“What happened out there, lad?” Achilles asked, and Zagreus was at once grateful and sorry that the curse hadn’t followed him home. It was ridiculous to know, abruptly, that you could end awkward conversations or push stalemates over into victories just by dropping all your clothes. It was like an ultimate power move that anyone could use, anytime, and didn’t, because they were all too cowardly. Crush on your weapons teacher? Can’t get two words in with your childhood best friend who is angry with you? A solution had been illuminated.

“The gods are capricious,” was all he said, lightly. Achilles wouldn’t pry. Achilles never pried when he could pretend everything was normal on a surface level.

“Was it complicated, between you and my mother?” he asked Nyx, much later when all the household had retired, and he was pacing restlessly through the halls just to leave scorch marks on the carpet, exactly as he had the fateful night he’d found the letter. Even Cerberus was asleep, giant paws twitching in his dreams.

“Complicated? No, child.” Nyx seemed surprised he had asked. “She was my Queen. I would have done more for her, had it been within my power.”

“Just because she was the Queen?”

“No.” Nyx smiled a little, gently. “She was radiant. A brilliant spark, in these dark and often grim halls. Her company was... greatly desired. Greatly appreciated, when given.” She closed her eyes, as if in remembrance. “I loved her dearly."

Zagreus was silent for a moment. It hadn’t occurred to him, before. “You’ve often said you are in my father’s debt. If you weren’t, would you leave the underworld, and try to find her?”

“Zagreus. Do you fear I am unhappy in this place, as you are?”

“Well… who could be unhappy, with the great and mighty Lord Hades as their-- you know. Side dish. Or whatever.” Certainly Hades didn’t call Nyx his queen, or his wife. Or, in Zagreus’s unsolicited opinion, treat her with the respect and courtesy she deserved.

“He is not so ungentle as he appears,” Nyx said, this time with an air of concealed amusement. “Perhaps I should say he has redeeming qualities, though I know well he goes out of his way to hide them, and to be difficult, with you. But you do not need to worry on my account. I am content here, and with him as the father of my beloved children.” She paused. “It is not I, that he has wronged. You do not need to avenge me.”

“But… you’re entirely willing to tempt his anger, helping me defy him?”

Nyx rearranged her dark and flowing robes about her pale shoulders. “I will not say he has comported himself with honor and decorum at every moment. There are lessons even gods-- even the most stubborn of gods-- may stand to learn.”

Zagreus found he was making a face, and Nyx smiled at him, as if he was again the small child that had played around her ankles, hiding among the folds of her skirts. “You fear his claims that the underworld does not, cannot change? That we are all as we ever were, without growth or progress? I assure you, he is mistaken. You must only keep trying, Zagreus.”

He sighed. “I suppose I might as well.”

When he did make his way back towards the Elysian Stadium, he didn’t even get to the gates. Asterius was waiting for him out in the grassy fields, armed and armored once more.

“Ah.” Zagreus hefted his sword. Aphrodite the voyeur was surely enjoying whatever awkward expression he was making. “Well. Hello.”

“The curse has left you, then.” Asterius didn’t sound any particular way about it. He might have been speaking of the weather.

“The curse, yes. Um. Yes.”

“It did not improve your combat.” Asterius drew his great axe and assumed a ready position. “Come, then.”

“What, that’s it?” Zagreus frowned. “Just like that, we’re back to the old routine?”

“You can always accept defeat, and turn back.”

“Except I can’t. Look, do you even know why I’m trying to leave?”

Asterius snorted fiercely. “It is not my duty to question. It is my duty to stop you.”

“What if it wasn’t?” Zagreus asked, annoyed. “Doesn’t the fact that the other Olympians are helping me mean something? That they have approved of my intentions, even if my father hasn’t?”

“The gods delight in help and hindrance, only to serve their own interests. In the underworld, the word of Lord Hades is law.” Asterius scraped a great hoof over the grass, raking it to bare earth. “Poseidon himself holds no dominion here. On guard, short one. I did not come to waste words.”

“No,” Zagreus said sourly, falling into position. “You never do.”

He’d worried, just a little, that he might be distracted the next time he had to come through Elysium. He’d worried that there might be hordes of shades laughing at him, or describing in horrible details what they’d seen in the arena. He’d worried that he wouldn’t be able to concentrate in the arena, facing Asterius and Theseus. That he wouldn’t be able to win.

It turned out he needn’t have worried. If he was distracted, Asterius did not say so, and if Asterius was distracted, Zagreus did not say so. It would be wasting words.

He fought, and he won. And then he fought and he won again, against the pair of them, and Theseus did not say a word. Or at least, Theseus didn’t say anything out of the ordinary. He said plenty of words.

But the surface eluded him. Once, twice, five times. He was back in the stadium, breathing hard, knowing he was not going to make it much farther even if he managed to win a few more fights.

“Well, demon?” Theseus shouted at him, that same annoying bray. “Have you accepted your inevitable defeat?”

Zagreus thought wistfully, for a moment, of his unmade but incredibly comfortable bed and the jug of wine on his table. Also, he thought of the horrible giant rats that awaited him if he did manage to make it out of here.

“Sure,” he said, and threw down his sword.

Theseus blinked.

Asterius blinked.

“I surrender. I think I may be coming down with something-- a fever, I think.” He did not say that there were, in fact, some effects of Aphrodite’s curse that had not gone away, although he was careful to not complain of them whenever he spoke to her.

“All in all, I’d best surrender right here,” he said pointedly. “Right now. How about it?”

“This is highly irregular,” Theseus said, sounding a little scandalized.

“Yes,” Zagreus said, not even looking at him. “I’ve been told that.” He was looking at Asterius, who was possibly squinting at him.

“A fever, you say?” the minotaur asked, finally.

“Oh yes.” Zagreus fanned his cheek rapidly with one hand. “That’s absolutely what it is. Probably some sort of divine punishment, you know. For all my transgressions.”

“I see.” Asterius nodded gravely. “Then, we will accept your surrender, and-- escort you back down to the gates of Elysium, when we are finished. Accepting your surrender.”

Theseus began to look suspicious.

Zagreus smiled brightly and waved to the crowd, which broke out into wild and raucous cheers for reasons that Zagreus decided not to dwell too deeply on. Shades didn’t have much by way of entertainment around here, he presumed. Then he turned to Asterius, who had come close enough to pick up his fallen sword.

“You know,” he said helpfully, holding out both hands wrists up, “you might want to tie me up, to make sure I don’t escape and try to go the wrong way.”

Theseus now looked deeply suspicious, glancing between the two of them. “I… have some rope.”

Zagreus managed to look away, and smile at him. With teeth. “Best go and get it.”

Theseus went, eyes narrowed and tossing glances back over his shoulder.

Asterius stepped nearer still, as if to guard him, and spoke quietly so that no one might overhear. “I had thought you disliked the king.”

“Oh, I’ll grin and bear it.” Zagreus rolled his shoulders. “He has one redeeming quality, anyway.”

“He may be angry with you, if he comes to think you are not truly under a spell.”

“That’s for me to worry about, isn’t it?” said Zagreus, who was definitely still under the damn spell, if the slowly mounting soreness in his chest was anything to go by.

Asterius frowned at him thoughtfully. “This changes nothing, short one. You must know that.”

“People keep saying that to me.”

Theseus was on his way back now, his hands full of what looked like coiled gold, that sparkled even at a distance. Zagreus submitted himself to be bound, and went smiling to his doom.

In the stands, a lone shade furiously waved a little flag.