#cw slavery | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

unforgivenn · 6 days

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SHACKLED BY ROYALTY

#1 :THE BEAST'S PET

CW: abduction, captivity, slight whump, coercion, power dynamics, pet whump, drugging, defiant whumpee, swearing, dominant whumper, slavery

Noah woke to the jolt of the wagon hitting a rut in the road. Darkness surrounded him and he could only think he was blindfolded. The cloying scent of sweat and fear clinging to the air like a suffocating shroud. Disorient and groggy, he blinked away the remnants of his sleep, his senses gradually coming alive to the harsh reality. He suddenly sat up frantically shaking his head as if the tightened blindfold would somehow magically fall off.

"H-Hey!! Let me out of here!!" His body ached from the unforgiving jostle of the wagon, every bone protesting against the place he was in right now. Chains rattled with each bone-jarring bump in the road, a chilling reminder of the shackles that bound his wrists and ankles, tethering him to a fate he dared not contemplate.

"Where are you taking me?!!" Noah's screams only grew louder when no response was given. His heart beating so fast as if it would jump out of his chest. "ANSWER ME! SOMEONE!" He quietened when he heard a "tch" near him.

A deep, South American accent cut through the darkness like a blade, sending a shiver down Noah's spine. "Didn't expect him to wake up this early. And he's awfully loud," the voice mused, its casual cruelty sending a chill through the air.

Noah's heart pounded in his chest as he felt a rough hand grab his arm, the sting of a needle piercing his skin sending shockwaves of numbness coursing through his veins. Just then he heard whines around him. There were people. More people like him. Gradually, the numbness from the injection site started to spread.

Noah tried his best to speak something. Something that could catch the attention of other people there. He felt confused.

Who were these people? And where the hell were they taking him?

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Abruptly, the cart lurched to a halt, the sudden cessation of movement sending Noah sprawling against the unforgiving floor. He woke with a small cry of pain, his heart hammering in his chest as he listened, breath held in fearful anticipation.

Footsteps approached, heavy and purposeful, accompanied by the jingle of chains and the murmured voices of unseen captors. Noah's pulse quickened, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach like icy tendrils of dread.

Two muscular arms went under each of Noah's underarms holding him up.

"Where are you taking me?!" he cried out, his voice raw with fear, but his captors remained silent, their faces hidden in the shadows.

One of the guys patted Noah's head leaving him more enraged.

All of a sudden, he was thrown to the ground before he was being manhandled to be in a kneeling position with multiple chains on his neck, ankles and wrists holding him in place allowing his captors to have full control over him.

As the blindfold was ripped away, Noah blinked against the harsh light, his eyes adjusting to the sight of his surroundings. It seemed like some sort of a court room? His mind was still clouded up from the drug that was given to him.

"W-What the fu-" A harsh slap shut him up.

"Shush. The young prince will be here any second" Prince? What the fuck was happening?? He wanted to question more but knew better than that. It felt like a scene right out of Hollywood.

Suddenly, he saw the men around him which he thought were most probably the guards bowed down to a young man. Noah raised his head up as to see who it was before a rough hand in his hair forced his head back down only allowing him to see the man's piercing green eyes. The man whom they called the "young prince" stayed quiet. The tension in the room visibly increased before a deep voice spoke.

"Leave us." The guards were quick to retreat from their position and going out of the court room. Noah was about to get up from his kneeling position before flinching at the harsh voice. "Stay still slave!"

"Slave?!" Noah's voice wavered with disbelief, but the harsh slap that followed left him reeling, his cheek stinging with the sting of humiliation. He heard the man tutting.

"Oh dear" He sighed. "It's going to take a lot of time to break that swearing and defiance from you.. But.."

The man grinned, the smile no other than a vicious beast's. He leaned closer, his teeth barely just grazing the other's ears before he whispered. "Oh how I'll enjoy seeing you squirm and beg me to spare you" Noah's body practically froze, terror filling his eyes.

Desperation clawed at Noah's chest as he dared to question his captor's authority. "W-Who are you...?"

But the prince's response sent a chill through his bones—a predatory grin twisting his lips as he whispered promises of torment and submission.

"I'm Andrey. Son of Viktor Kozlov," the prince declared, his name a whispered curse that echoed in Noah's ears. "You will address me as 'sir'."

Noah's blood ran cold as the weight of his situation settled upon him. This was no mere kidnapping—it was a descent into a nightmare from which there would be no waking.

As the reality of his situation sank in, Noah's world spun on its axis, his mind racing with unanswered questions and unspoken fears. With each passing moment, the weight of his captivity grew heavier, a suffocating shadow looming over him, threatening to consume him whole.

Noah only knew this was going to be one hellish of a ride. And only god knew when it was going to end.

Taglist: @anutz1234 @ash-reh @miireux134 (Let me know if you want to be added <3)

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cepheusgalaxy · 10 months

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We all love the "whumpee thinks caretaker is their new master" trope, right? Let's go a little further

Whumpee is whumper's pet. We know this

Whumper also has this friend, Whumper 2

Whumper really wants to impress their friend, or whatever, so they give whumpee to whumper 2

Whumpee is prepared beforehand. Whumper dress them up; They tell them to obey whumper 2. Tell them that they'll be their new master.

While that, Caretaker and Team find this out. Whumpee will be transported from Whumper's to Whumper 2's house

It's the perfect chance for rescuing them.

Ok, now, for the aesthetic, maybe whumpee is in a truck. No windows. No sounds. Whumpee is locked inside during the way, they're only allowed to move or get out once they reach their destiny

The team works fast

They capture the truck and manage to drive it to their base

While that, whumpee is bracing themselves for the terror they know whumper 2 will be.

Imagine the scene when the team unlock whumpee on the truck, and they are obedient, terrifird, they think Caretaker is whumper 2

They do not manage to think they're finally free

#whump #whump prompt #whump scenario #whumpee #whumper #multiple whumpers #caretaker #pet whumpee #whumpee thinks caretaker is their new master and we love it #cw deshumanization #cw pet whump #deshumanization #cw slavery #i guess #cw human trafficking #i just noticed i should have put content warninf on the post XD #if i missed anything please let me know

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gabessquishytum · 5 months

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Have we done an "Ancient Rome" AU?

E.g., Winning Gladiator!Hob & Senator!Dream Senator Dream rewards his winning Gladiator Hob by allowing him to d*ck Dream down.

Dream is never happier than when he has his Gladiator walking around his domus mostly naked - so he can sketch the play of his muscles and admire the scars that prove Hob's superiority.

It will be a shame when Hob buys his freedom and leaves Dream (like everyone else.)

Yes yes YES we love an ancient rome au <3 dreamling is my roman empire etcetc.

Pater familias Dream is kinda sexy ngl. He's got his lovely villa in Rome and then maybe some vineyards and other properties in the provinces. But above all else, Hob is his prized possession. And Hob is kind of unique in that he lives in Dream’s main residence, doesn't have to rough it out with any other gladiators, and basically does his own training. He's been doing it for about a decade so it's not like he needs anyone telling him how to fight. And he has plenty of motivation when Dream comes out into the training yard to watch him. Performing well for Dream, winning all his fights and basically impressing his master are his main goals.

Hob is getting close to earning enough to buy his freedom, but he does also worry because he isn't getting any younger and there's always a chance that Dream might sell him on. He doesn't want that because 1) it'll probably be a more uncomfortable situation and 2) Hob actually really likes Dream and is desperately attracted to him and he really wants to stay with him.

Dream has his own extensive private baths because he's really not very social, but also because it's his favourite excuse to hang out with Hob (naked). Hob was shy at first, but now he's happy to dismiss the household slaves and massage Dream himself. He'll even gently tease Dream for being so tense! Dream doesn't dare to massage Hob in return because he knows that he'll end up hard, hell if he gets his hands on Hob’s impressive chest he might even cum all over himself.

It's probably only a matter of time before something happens between them but in the meantime, Dream will continue to get incredibly jealous whenever he sees someone touching Hob, and Hob will continue to rub one out thinking about Dream before every single fight. No wonder he's on a winning streak...

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft #cw slavery

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anghraine · 15 days

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rubynye replied to this post:

Olaudah Equiano: enslaved as a child, bought his own freedom, campaigned eloquently for abolition, his memoir went through nine printings at least. An erudite Black man from before many people think Black people were invented. I can't adequately express how happy seeing him in your list made me.

Equiano is a truly fascinating, compelling figure. His memoir was assigned in a grad school seminar I took on 18th-century British literature focused on various forms of resistance and dialogue among/between/about the oppressed, and it was really intriguing to read abolitionist poetry and tracts mainly by white English people across the political spectrum of their era and then Equiano's Interesting Narrative. The contrast is incredible.

He's in my dissertation for basically one passage—the account of his capture and lifelong separation from his sister. But it's a hell of a passage.

(Now that I'm thinking about it, he was also in the curriculum I designed when I took over my advisor's upper-division 18th-century class for a semester, and my undergrad students loved the Interesting Narrative, way more than the grad students in my own seminar had. Most of my students had no idea he'd even existed and they just really got into it.)

#rubynye #respuestas #olaudah equiano #eighteenth century blogging #ivory tower blogging #cw slavery #the interesting narrative of the life of olaudah equiano #nice things people say to me

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dnd-smash-pass-vs · 2 months

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The Neogi! 3 ft (0.9 m) venoumous spider-dicks with a hairy sack. They're xenophobic ruthless slavers whose only ability is being able to mentally enslave people in a fraction of a second. Seriously, this isn't a "culturally they're slavers," it's apparently just hard-wired that they consider EVERYTHING as descending tiers of slaves and owners. They think it as fundamental a part of the universe as...well, thier ability to enslave creatures at a glance. They have slaves, if they work for someone thier boss is thier master but they're a slave that still has slaves, everything is seen in an ownership relationship. There has been a single god-forged exception in decades of writing, to everyone else the world is either prey, slave, or both.

Also, basically every creature in existence despises these things. Celestials, demons, undead, doesn't matter, they'll put aside their differences momentarily if it's to beat up one of the universe's most hate worthy creatures.

#look they're in the book and sentient so they go in the tourney #If they pass the qualifiers...like I'll put them in but will be seriously concerned about all of you.#neogi #dnd #dnd5e #DnD 5e #d&d #smash or pass #5e #monsters of the multiverse #mpmm #cw slavery

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rmstitanics · 1 year

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1776 (1972) - DIR. PETER STONE

Thomas Jefferson, who was a slave owner, wrote a clause in an early draft of the Declaration of Independence abolishing slavery. And the climax of 1776 is the fight over that paragraph. The delegates from the South want it cut; the delegates from the North want to keep it. Diane Paulus said the words they are fighting over "called out slavery as an excuse for commerce. I didn't know that in my American history education, I wasn't aware of this," she said. "It was this musical that taught me that ... the institution of slavery was being discussed in 1776. And there was an opportunity for it to go into this founding document of the Declaration of Independence. But for the sake of unanimity, it was crossed out." - Diane Paulus, 1776 revival director [ X ]

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breengor · 2 months

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Hate to get into fandom drama but like

I would like to introduce Western BG3 fans to the Ottoman Empire

ENVER Gortash has a Turkish (or Bosnian or Albanian) first name

Friendly reminder that BG3 was developed by a European game studio

Thanks,

a Greek who is really tired of the Balkans being erased in conversations of imperial occupation and ethnic cleansing

#bg3 #enver gortash #bg3 discourse #baldur's gate 3 #cw slavery

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scarredlove · 9 months

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Join the Kingdom...

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pan-magi · 8 months

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I've always thought that the rukh place someone where they're supposed to be when leaving a dungeon. When leaving Amon, Aladdin is left where he could meet the Kouga and Hakuei; Alibaba is where the dungeon used to be so it will be "official" that he captured it and be there to help clear Jamil's mess (mainly ensuring his slaves are free).

And Morgiana is right outside. I can't help but think that its because she could have the opportunity to just run. No one else was around so she could leave without being recaptured. It wouldn't be safe to be a Fanalis out alone with broken shackles at her feet (which tbf she could have gotten off easily enough). I don't think anyone could blame her if she decided to take the out and escape safely. Jamil went into the dungeon with all his combat ready slaves (I imagine). Most would have assumed, besides Alibaba and Aladdin who were there, that being unaccounted for meant she ended up dead like the rest. Chances are low that people will be searching for the lost Fanalis slave girl.

She could have taken the opportunity to finish escaping and find Alibaba and Aladdin again after being more secure in her freedom. Morgiana doesn't because she is processing wtf went on in the dungeon and her priority after sorting out her thoughts was to find the two guys that went through that shit with her and see that they are alright. I don't want to discount how admirable that is. But if she was left more confused and scared and just- left? More power to you girl, get the fuck away from your hellhole.

I dunno. Something I've been thinking about. Back to the original point, I do believe that she wasn't in Qishan with Alibaba because more than anything the rukh let her off somewhere that best guaranteed her freedom.

#don't mind me imagining an au where she was left farther away from the city and ran into mu and myron traveling #before meeting up with the boys again #magi #magi: the labyrinth of magic #magi labyrinth of magic #magi morgiana #includes photo edit #strong language #cw slavery #hey look a longer-ish post from me #i have a couple in the works #but idk the next best time i can work on them #may be the last of anything for a while #i hate moving so much ngl grrr

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antimony-medusa · 6 months

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Hi! I don't know if you've followed the debate on twitter these last few days (if you haven't, feel free to ignore this ask, I don't want to drag you into stuff) about whether themes of slavery can be depicted in fictional settings. I'd be curious to have your opinion because you have very based takes on the topic of fanfiction

Boy. I have been at a wedding so I have NOT been following, but a friend dug that one up for me, and boy. Isn't that something.

Okay, do I think that slavery can be depicted in fictional settings?

I'm gonna start this with a caveat of saying that I'm white, and as far as I know my family tree doesn't include any enslaved people. So slavery is an atrocity, but not a personal one for me any more than I feel personally about all atrocities, and your opinion on this subject might be different based on your experience, and that's completely fair. This is just the opinion of someone who thinks about content warnings and representation and exchange rules sometimes, and honestly if you want to take my answer as me saying "i'm white, anything I say after this doesn't really matter" that's a fair read of the situation. End post.

But further, the siren song of being asked a question:

My general stance is that there are very few things that can't be depicted in fictional settions, but there are a lot of things that should be depicted with care and research. And I consider major archive warnings to be one of these things. (I'm on the team that says that in an ideal world we would have a major archive warning for racism or slavery.) I don't think that there are any topics that are inherently off-limits for fiction.

If you're interested in writing professionally, there's a workshop called Writing The Other that does intros into writing topics that you don't share experiences with, and they do a really good job of breaking down the ways that you can analyze your work for cliches and stereotypes and other weaknesses, and ways that you can research to avoid them. It's an excellent workshop and I really recommend it— they even do scholarships, which is how I got to join! I consider them the industry standard of the question of "can I write about this", and as I remember it their basic answer is that the more outside of your experience a thing is, the more research you have to do to make sure you don't mess it up, and the more central to your story a thing is, the more you want to make sure that you don't mess it up. So sometimes you do hit topics and you go "am I the right person to tell this story, should I leave this topic to someone who knows it more personally, who's studied this". But that doesn't mean that you can't tell the story, it just means that to do it well, you have to put the work in. And that no one is obliged to trust you on the surface of things to have put the work in. I am probably going to trust an author who I know is disabled to have written disability well, for example, more than an ablebodied author. But there are authors out there that I know do their research and I pretty much trust them to deal with any topic carefully, if they want to take it on. A lot of the time, the more sensative a topic you are touching, the more you need a relationship of trust between author and reader, and sometimes you have to earn that trust carefully.

And boy is there fiction out there that deals with sensitive topics in ways that does not earn that trust. I have read things that I find highly distasteful. I have read published work that chooses to deal with real life atrocities in ways that I find wildly uncomfortable and I do not tend to recommend those books or authors.

I have also read nuanced and insightful explorations of horrific things, including slavery, including domestic violence, including racism, in ways that I felt enriched my understanding of the world and the people around me. I've read books that carefully touched on things like childhood sexual abuse and police violence and involuntary commitment, and that didn't make the story not a life-affirming and joyful experience, because the stories were able to take these things and make healing and catharsis out of them. Simply hearing that a story deals with a topic does not tell you if it's a story to recommend to others. We all live lives that sometimes touch on terrible things, and I think that trying to police who can tell stories about bad things leads into bad things like making people prove that they've suffered enough to write or shit like "are you black enough for this story", and I don't want that in my writing community. I have literally seen the bad end for going down that road, check out "helicopter discourse," and I'm against that.

I'm against that enough that I'm willing to endure people who do not share an experience writing badly about terrible things as the price we have to pay to allow people who have personal stake in the situation to be able to explore sensitive topics without harassment. Especially with fanfiction, we're dealing with amateur writers, so unfortunately most of the time when you have a subject come up the default assumption is going to be that it's dealt with badly. But I personally fall on the side that it's worth five people writing it badly to allow the one person who's personally impacted to write about it as much or as little as they want. My personal bugbear is terminal illness in children, that's my trauma, but I would personally rather have people write horrible tearjerker fic about aging down their characters and killing them off and it's so sad, even though I don't want that, rather than to say that that topic is off-limits to people.

On the topic specifically of slavery, this fandom, as many fandoms do, has a habit of including slavery and human trafficing as themes in their writing. A lot of the time this is not done well. We have a lot of baby writers who are deliberately writing the saddest thing they can think of or writing unjust societies for their guys to rebel against. This is not what I would say is a strength of the writing in the fandom, taken as a whole. And some people do their research and do it well! I've read great fics that pull from history in an informed way and do interesting things with it! But not everybody, good lord.

But saying that because a lot of people deal badly with slavery nobody should deal with slavery is not a path forward that I'm personally in support of. Do I think it should be tagged? Absolutely. Nobody should hit that unawares. But a lot of societies through human history practiced slavery of one kind or another! If you are drawing from roman history for your gladiator au, most of those guys were not there of their own free will. Tropes like fae folklore includes themes of posession and ownership, because that was the background radiation to the lives of the people who told these stories in the first place. There are a lot of tropes where these topics are going to arise, and I don't think that's inherently bad (though I personally would certainly feel a lot more comfortable with pulling on classical and medieval history for these stories rather than 1800s America, for example). And like, you can absolutely try your best to steer around these topics! That's an option! But honestly if you're doing something historic or historic-inspired, I'm not sure if it's more respectful to write a fantasy past in which greek history did not include slavery. That's whitewashing of history by definition. So if you want to avoid that, you're left with most of human history off-limits to write about, because of the atrocities? And I don't think that's ideal.

And like, I think with fanfiction you kind of just have to accept as background radiation that there are going to be a lot of people dealing with topics that they are not equipped to deal with. That's just how it goes. These are people writing with minimal research, experience, and editing, cause we're all here for fun, not professional development. You're gonna have people mishandle things. And that's why I think tagging is really really important, so that you can see the tags on a fic and go "oh I do not trust them with that topic" and navigate away, or filter the topic entirely. I have my touchpoints that I steer away from, and I have 100% clicked away from stories in horror going "oh no no no no no that's not good." But I don't think people should all be banned from writing about these things because some people do it badly.

Note: that doesn't mean that like, we shouldn't have conversations about how maybe if you put the minecraft men in your story where hybrid trafficing is a metaphor for the underground railroad, you should do that Carefully. We can still strive to do better. I have Seen Things and there is room to improve. There's room for discussion about people using slavery for cheap angst, in the same way that I've talked about the treatment of disability used for angst, and I've seen people talk about the agency allowed female characters, and the list goes on.

And that doesn't mean that I'm not going to 100% respect it if I get a DNW in an exchange where someone has said they don't want slavery or hybrid racism. People should be able to opt out of these topics (entirely! even if they're dealt with well!) and nobody has to read things they don't want to.

So in essense, when it comes to writing sensitive topics like slavery I'm going to do my best to think about what I'm doing and do my research— and I have written slavery and human-trafficing-type-deals before, I like gladiator aus and classical-inspired fantasy— and I'm going to tag so that anyone who doesn't trust me— and nobody has to trust me— can navigate away. But when it comes to policing what other people are writing, I don't think it does anyone any good to post callouts on twitter. At most I'm going to warn a friend that a certain fic deals with a topic badly. That's my viewpoint.

#cw slavery #cw genocide #cw child death #cw csa mention #cw racism #cw police brutality #long post #discourse #fandom meta

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whump-card · 15 days

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Murmur of Ground: Chapter 1

SURPRISE! New series! Let me know what you think!

4592 words

CW: violence, slavery, past noncon mention, noncon monsterfucking

Masterlist, Next

~~~

The Labyrinth was not simply a maze.

The Labyrinth was an undead city, the buildings fungal, moving, growing, shifting, occupied by scavengers and other foul creatures. Rats the size of small dogs scurried down the porticoes and halls, climbing over marble drums of fallen columns. Harpies nested in the friezes, unphased by the violence depicted in the facades, preferring to inflict the violence themselves, territorial as they were. Caryatids, columns in the shape of gowned women, stared faceless and threatening down upon the concrete and stone walks, paced by restless ghosts. Archways lead to atriums full of silent, dry fountains and lifeless gardens. The occasional Propylaea, grand multi-tiered entrances decked out with stairs and pillars and wall carvings lead to sharp drops into nothingness, as if any temple, any holy place had been surgically dissected out. Nooks and crannies abounded, little chambers that tricked you into thinking you were safe there.

The most haunting aspect was the familiarity. The buildings and interiors took on tauntingly comprehendable shapes, just often enough to make you look twice, make you want to cry I’ve been here before, I’ve been here before – not lost, not home, but some happy distant memory of visitation, I took a picture here, trusted a stranger with my camera and posed. It had the flavor of a moment only remembered though a lens, or a description by someone else. You were five. Do you remember when Daddy had a beard? Look at the picture!

It’s not like you could find the same place twice to check. The Labyrinth grew and in equal measure died, creating a constantly shifting environment. Stay in one place, and it would whirl around you while you slept, never revealing its movements to mortal eyes. Travel, and you’d never find your way back, halls rearranging themselves as soon was they left your sight.

Yani ran.

He stumbled down stone steps, darted around pillars, dodged swooping birds with bronze beaks. It was dim in the Labyrinth, but not dark. There were no lights, no torches, braziers, or anachronistic spotlights. Instead the stone and concrete itself seemed to shed some illumination, glowing just enough for human eyes to see the way, to see the rotten splendor the Labyrinth had to offer.

Yani stood out to the denizens of the Labyrinth like a sore thumb. He was dressed all in white, as a proper sacrifice should be: drawstring trousers and a boxy button down, all linen and ill-fitting. The clothes had come out of a box at the temple – the temple provides, you see. At least his shoes fit, simple cotton slippers that they were. He had been clean when he was first thrown down the shaft, heavily sedated and bathed against his will by the priests. Dressed like a doll. Discarded as easily as one. Now he was sweaty with fear and exertion, and the creatures had his scent.

He did not know how long he had been in the Labyrinth, only that he was hungry and exhausted. The Harpies and bronze-beaked ibis birds dogged him relentlessly, driving him from one brief shelter to the next. A deep hopelessness had set into his heart, sending it racing along at a haphazard pace.

He really was here to die.

His breath seemed dangerously loud, in the quiet of the Labyrinth. The Labyrinth was not silent; low eerie rumbles could be heard in the distance, evidence if the movement of masses of stone and concrete. Nearer, harpies could be heard arguing. Their harsh voices sounded like the cawing of ravens until you tuned in, became practiced at picking out the words. But nearby, currently, it was all quiet, disturbed only by Yani’s hurried footsteps and haggard breath. He had evaded the bird-like monsters – for now.

He ducked into an alcove, home to a dry wall-fountain, and huddled under the basin to catch his breath. His brown, calloused hands shook as he wrapped them around his knees, curling to a ball. His dark hair, usually neatly pulled back in a half-tail, fell loose and lank with sweat around his face. Now that he wasn’t running, his thoughts settled into their new, self-flagellating pattern: Could have. Would have. Should have.

Yani was an indentured servant of the Mylonas family. Or rather, he had been, until the patriarch, Leon, decided to sacrifice him to the Labyrinth. Yani had always thought of himself as a good worker – every order followed, no matter what, regardless of his own thoughts or feelings – but now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps if he’d worked harder, been more amenable, done… more of what Leon wanted.

There were certain nights, when the Lady of the house went to visit her father. Leon didn’t like to be alone.

Yani shuddered at the memory, but at the same time chased it; examining it. What had he done wrong? What could he have done better?

Had he been too lost in the relief of being loved to submit himself as fully as he should have to his master?

The harpies were back, flitting to and from column capitals and archway crowns. Yani knew he should run, he just needed a moment, a few seconds to collect himself, then he would run, he just needed…

The harpies spotted him. A call went up, and the flock made a cacophony of whoops and jeers. They surrounded Yani, landing on the smooth stone floor in a semicircle around his nook. They had the faces of women, sure, but their eyes were cold, reptilian, inhuman. Their heads bobbed and twitched as they examined him, shouting overlapping, indiscernible threats in their shrill voices. They flapped their wings in a show of dominance, like fighting cockerels, shedding mangy feathers and blowing back their stringy hair.

“Dinner! Dinner!”

“White clothes, white clothes, no one wanted you anymore!”

“Come with us, boy, we’ll save you from the Minotaur!”

Yani cowered, frozen, until one darted forward and seized his ankle with a claw. Yani shrieked, any semblance of dignity long lost as he kicked out with his legs, grabbing desperately at the empty basin of the water fountain, holding on as the creature tried to drag him out. He landed one kick to the harpy’s sharp breastbone, and she screamed at him and only dug her claws into his ankle tighter, drawing blood. A second harpy dove at him, hooking her claws into his shirt, and that seemed to break the floodgates. The entire flock fell upon him, dragging him out of the alcove and clawing at him, buffeting him with their wings. Yani screamed and sobbed, feeling every talon as they ripped into his flesh. Words abandoned him – not that the harpies would listen if he pleaded. For far too long his world was feathers and airlessness and scratching pains, then the harpies started in with their teeth, blunt human teeth, biting at where they’d loosened and bloodied his flesh.

Then, a sound cut through everything: a deep, rumbling bellow. Yani, his eyes screwed shut, felt the weight of the harpies lift away from his body. Their cries turned from triumphant to fearful, and faded away into the distance. Yani curled up into a shuddering ball, his sobbing breaths soon the only noise he could hear.

Then, footsteps.

He heard the soft pad of bare calloused feet, moving towards him. He cracked his eyelids open, saw only blood, and so rubbed his knuckles in his eyes. The portico came into focus, and with it, a figure.

A horned figure.

Yani blinked, staring in awe up at the Minotaur.

~~~

The Minotaur stood tall, at least a foot taller than Yani, not even counting the horns. It was pale, its skin almost translucent from years underground. That didn’t make it any less threatening; its human body was broad, muscular, and hairy, and its bull head sat unnaturally on top, brown-furred and dark-eyed. Its horns pointed upwards, proud ivory. It wore only a loincloth, in the traditional style the priests wore when the went down to the river, leaving its body in nearly full view. The occasional scar marred its skin, marking it white like a chalk tally. A tail hung behind it, languidly swishing.

Yani stared up at it, frozen in shock. This was the true king of the Labyrinth, not King Minos miles above them. This was who the sacrifices were truly meant for, not the harpies, not the rats, not the ghosts.

Who he was meant for.

Yani turned his face to the ground, shutting his eyes, praying that it would be over quickly. Would the Minotaur strangle him? Snap his neck? He flinched, involuntary, when he felt its large hands upon him. Digging under his shoulder, threading under his knees.

Picking him up.

Yani hadn’t been carried since he was very small, and his parents were still around; the sensation of firm but soft arms supporting him, bearing him up, sent electric shudders through his body. The Minotaur cradled Yani against its chest, and began to walk.

“Wait,” Yani croaked, and the Minotaur froze in place.

“Where are you taking me?”

No answer. Yani stared up at the underside of the Minotaur’s head, not sure what he was expecting. After a good twenty seconds, the Minotaur resumed walking.

Yani was still petrified, still convinced that he was doomed. Surely the Minotaur was taking him somewhere to be killed – some dark mirror of the temple on the surface, perhaps, some clandestine altar to the old gods.

Yani’s wounds stung against the cool air of the Labyrinth, some clotting, some still oozing. The blood was smeared on the Minotaur’s chest now, its arms, growing dry and sticky. Yani didn’t want to see it. He closed his eyes, resting his head against the Minotaur’s shoulder, and could almost imagine he was being rescued.

After some time, he had the sense that they had moved from the long hallways and open spaces of the Labyrinth into someplace smaller. Someplace warm. He opened his eyes, and saw something he thought he’d never see again: a home.

The floor was covered with fragrant reed mats. A great fireplace dominated one wall, paired with a nook full of firewood. A settee faced it, draped with a fur blanket. The opposite wall had a high bed with countless pillows, and more fur blankets. In the center of the room was a finely carved wooden table and chairs, all graceful lines and fauna reliefs. An open door on the back wall provided a glimpse of a bathroom, beautifully tiled in blues and whites. A closed door suggested storage. The other walls had arched nooks that suggested windows, but they were bricked up. Instead of a vista they were decorated with hanging tapestries depicting figures and gardens.

The whole space had an energy completely separate from that of the Labyrinth; the very air felt different. It felt stable. Solid. Alive, rather than undead. Homey.

The Minotaur laid Yani down on the bed. He refused to relax, sitting up, wrapping his arms around his knees. The tearing claws of the harpies had not spared his clothes, and while he wasn’t indecent he certainly felt exposed now that he wore tattered bloody rags. He watched the Minotaur with wide eyes as it moved around the room – its home, it had to be. It stoked the fire, then went into the bathroom. Yani heard the telltale squeak of a water pump, and the rushing splatter of liquid into a basin. Then the Minotaur returned, approaching Yani. The blood Yani had smeared on its chest and arms was gone, washed away. That didn’t make it less intimidating. Yani flinched at every step it took, and it seemed to see this, and stopped just short of arm’s reach of Yani. Instead of picking him up again, it offered a hand, its tail still.

Yani felt as if he might be dreaming – perhaps the harpies had truly mauled him, and he was dying, and this was his brain’s attempt at making his death kinder.

He took the Minotaur’s hand. What else was he to do? He rose onto shaking legs, and let the creature lead him into the bathroom, its hand large and warm around his.

It was even grander than the small glimpse through the door had promised; there was a bench with a toilet, a counter with a basin, and a massive tub inset into a raised platform, quickly filling with water from a pump. All of it was tiled with hand-painted ceramics, patterns of flowers and geometry. Overhead were soft white electric lights.

Fit for a prince, Yani realized. It was all fit for a prince.

The room was so dazzling Yani didn’t realize the Minotaur was reaching to unbutton the remains of his shirt until he had already started. Yani jerked back with a yelp.

“Back off!”

The Minotaur took two steps back.

Yani stared at it, panting. The bathroom was large, but so was the Minotaur – and it now stood between Yani and the door, dominating the space.

“I’d like some privacy,” Yani said, his voice wavering. The Minotaur didn’t budge.

“Fine.” Yani grit his teeth, and tried to continue unbuttoning his shirt – but his hands were too tremulous, and as he looked down and tried to focus he found himself swaying on his feet.

“Help?” he admitted, and the Minotaur was there, unfastening the buttons with deft hands and easing the shirt off. Yani hissed and gasped as it peeled away from spots where his dried blood had glued it to his wounds. The Minotaur cast the shirt aside and crouched, untying the drawstring of Yani’s shredded trousers. Yani opened his mouth to stammer out a protest but they had already fallen, leaving him naked. The Minotaur, at least, seemed unphased; it stood and offered a hand to help Yani into the bath.

Yani stood there, dazed and blinking. A prince. The Minotaur was a prince. The Minotaur was a prince and here it was, defying every horror story about itself, helping a lowly servant – less than a servant, a sacrifice. Someone the Minotaur had every right to kill.

Yani took its hand, and stepped into the tub.

The water was warm, warm enough to be comfortable but not hot enough to irritate his wounds. Yani sank in, running his hands over his body, taking stock as the blood washed away. There was barely a single area larger than a few square inches that was left unscratched. He dipped his head below the water, feeling his face with his fingertips, working away the dried blood. He had a long, shallow slice across his forehead.

He surfaced and wiped the water out of his eyes. The Minotaur crouched next to the bath, watching him. Its eyes were so strangely human. Yani looked away. It was obvious by now that the Minotaur could not speak; any questions Yani had, like why are you helping me and why haven’t you killed me would go unanswered. He didn’t bother asking.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Minotaur shifting up to sit on the edge of the bath. It leaned forward, and Yani shrank back. What did it want? At first, Yani’s anxiety seemed unfounded; the Minotaur reached over him to shut off the water, plunging the bathroom into near silence. But then it lowered its hand, and Yani’s breath caught as it settled onto his chest, massaging slow circles. His heart pounded hard enough that surely the Minotaur could feel it through his ribcage. The hand slipped lower, dipping below the water to caress Yani’s stomach, sending through him a chill of fear.

That’s what it wanted.

“Stop,” Yani choked out, expecting nothing, expecting to be overruled – but the Minotaur stopped, immediately. It withdrew its hand, and sat back.

“Leave,” whispered Yani, and the Minotaur obeyed. It stood, and exited, closing the door in its way out. Yani stared after it in disbelief. There was no way it was that easy. No way.

He knew the Minotaur would get what it wanted, sooner or later.

~~~

A bar of soap discovered on a little shelf allowed Yani to clean himself properly. After he got out of the bath he found a cabinet full of towels, and while he hated to stain one with his blood he had no other choice. The Minotaur had also left a set of clothes, and a roll of bandages, scissors, and medical tape, along with a container of store-brand healing ointment that looked absurdly out of place there in the Labyrinth with its red and white plastic tub. Once he’d towel-dried Yani applied the ointment liberally, and taped bandages over the worst cuts and bites left by the harpies. His hands shook with exhaustion, but he did the best he could.

Deciding he was finished, he shook out the clothes to have a look at them. They were made of a dark brown cotton, deliciously soft. The color proved some forethought on the Minotaur’s part – if Yani got blood on them it would hardly be noticeable. One piece was a pair of shorts, pleated and flowy; the other was a short-sleeved v-neck top. The outfit was far more revealing than anything Yani would have chosen to wear, but it was better than the bloody rags he’d arrived in. He dressed slowly, and braced himself to exit the bathroom and face the Minotaur.

Upon opening the bathroom door Yani was hit with a wave of delicious smells. Warm bread. Spices. Freshly chopped greens. His eyes were drawn to the table in the middle of the room, where a simple but abundant feast for two was laid out. Bread, moussaka, salad, wine. Yani’s empty stomach clenched and his mouth watered – but between him and the food stood the Minotaur. It no longer wore only a loincloth, but had donned a velour loungewear set from some designer brand Yani recognized the logo of but couldn’t place the name.

Princely, crossed Yani’s mind. Despite having the head of a beast, and apparently the lust of one, the Minotaur had a certain grace, clothed and standing there with one hand in its pocket. It half turned, sweeping the other arm out, inviting Yani to the table.

Yani’s exhausted, frightened, starving mind considered this for a moment. The Minotaur had rescued him. Made unsuitable advances. Respected his request for it to stop. Could kill him at any time. Was offering him food and shelter…

Yani stumbled over to the table and collapsed into a chair. He couldn’t think, not now. Survival was all that mattered. He would accept the hospitality of the Minotaur, and simply pray that its advances would not be repeated.

The Minotaur sat next to him at the table, and they ate together in silence. Yani’s hands shook as he served himself, and he did his best not to devour the food like an animal. The Minotaur had surprisingly good table manners, using its utensils as one should; but presently, when they were both close to finishing their plates, it rested a hand on Yani’s thigh under the table. Yani’s heart began to pound, his eyes fixed on the remains of his food. At first he just twitched his leg away, but the Minotaur’s hand remained firm, fingers pressing into Yani’s flesh.

“I don’t like that,” Yani tried, quietly, meekly, afraid of the repercussions. The Minotaur slid its hand further up Yani’s thigh, fingers brushing under his shorts. “Stop touching me,” Yani said, even softer, but at those words the Minotaur instantly pulled away. Yani blinked, risking a quick glance up at it. It just sat there, watching him, its food forgotten.

It struck Yani then how lonely the Minotaur must be. If his own experience was anything to go by, most sacrifices to the Labyrinth were likely killed by the harpies. Who knew how long it had been since the Minotaur had been in the presence of a human? It was also a prince, and aiding lowly Yani out of the kindness of its heart.

“I truly appreciate your hospitality,” Yani said slowly, carefully, “But please, give me some space.”

The Minotaur stood, knocking back its chair, and quickly stepped away from Yani, putting a couple yards between them.

“Oh, wait!” Yani exclaimed in surprise, and the Minotaur froze, “That’s not what I meant. Please, come back, sit.”

The Minotaur promptly obeyed; it returned to the table, sitting down.

Something itched at the back of Yani’s mind. Something wasn’t right here.

“…Stand up,” he breathed.

The Minotaur stood.

“…Sit.”

It sat.

“Stand up and turn in a circle.”

The Minotaur obeyed.

“Jump.”

The Minotaur obeyed.

A deep horror washed over Yani. Something compelled the Minotaur to obey his commands, to the letter. Some horrible curse had stripped away the Minotaur’s autonomy, and handed it to Yani. For a moment Yani couldn’t fathom how dehumanizing that must feel – until he realized, he could.

Yani had been an indentured servant his whole life. From as soon as he could understand them, orders given by his masters were to be obeyed, to the letter, no matter how trivial or ridiculous – on pain of punishment. A rap across the knuckles, all the way up to flogging.

Yani had never had control over his life. He didn’t even have control over his death – that, too, was chosen for him.

Yani didn’t want that kind of control over another being. He couldn’t do that to a thinking, feeling creature – and clearly, the Minotaur was.

“I’m sorry!” Yani leapt to his feet, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know – I’ll never do it again, you don’t ever have to do what I say, please, I’m so sorry,” he pressed his hands to his face, on the brink of tears, “I swear, I’ll never order you to do anything, I promise, I swear.”

The Minotaur stared at him for a long moment, its eyes unreadable. Then it approached, slowly, cautiously, drawing close to Yani. Yani didn’t move, just held his hands to his face, near-petrified. The Minotaur slid its hands over Yani’s hips, teasing under the waistband of his shorts. Yani’s breath caught.

I can’t say stop.

“I don’t… want that,” he whimpered instead. The Minotaur ignored him, pulling him close, breathing hot on his ear, his neck. Its hands edged downwards, tugging the shorts around the curve of Yani’s rear. Yani’s hands flew down and grabbed the Minotaur’s wrists.

“Please,” was all he could think to say. He didn’t want this, of course he didn’t want this, but how else could he say no without overpowering the Minotaur’s will?

Yani was by no means a weakling, but the Minotaur was even stronger; it easily broke out of Yani’s grasp and seized his wrists in turn, twisting them behind his back and gathering them into one large hand. Yani yelped and squirmed, but he was helpless against the strength of the Minotaur. The creature pinned Yani to its chest, its free hand plunging down into Yani’s shorts to grope his ass.

Yani cried out, flinching away from the touch and unintentionally pressing himself against the growing hardness in the Minotaur’s sweatpants. One word and it would all stop – but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not when his words had the power to override the Minotaur’s autonomy.

“Please,” he sobbed, tears finally escaping him – he was so tired, so exhausted, and every inch of him hurt – “I don’t want this!”

The Minotaur didn’t let go. Instead it pressed its muzzle into the crook of Yani’s neck, its hot breath snuffling, blowing away Yani’s hair and taking in his scent. Then it licked Yani, its tongue sliding out and drawing a long line up Yani’s neck behind his ear. Yani yelped and cringed at the sensation – unlike a human tongue, a bull’s tongue is sandpaper-rough. Yani squirmed as hard as he could, and that seemed to annoy the Minotaur. It snorted, spun Yani around, and threw him onto the bed.

As soon as his stomach made contact with the plush blankets Yani was scrambling away, crawling across the bed. The Minotaur snatched an ankle and yanked him back easily, and Yani gasped in pain as the furs and blankets dragged across his many scrapes and scratches. The Minotaur had Yani bent over the side of the bed now, his bare feet brushing the floor, searching for purchase. It pinned him in place with a heavy hand on the center of his back, its other hand divesting Yani of his shorts.

“Wai-mm!” Yani almost forced a stop, but he caught himself, biting his bit hard. He refused to impose his will over the Minotaur’s, even now.

It wasn’t worth it.

He pressed his face into the covers, letting his tears soak in.

Leon had told him he’d missed his calling as a whore.

When the Minotaur’s finger, warm and wet with spit, probed him, he knew how to relax. How to take it.

See how good you take it? You ought to live in my bed.

Yani was lost in a haze of fear and memories. His heart pounded in his throat as he choked on his tears. His hands clenched fistfuls of blanket. His feet gave up reaching for the floor, going slack as one finger inside him turned into two. He groaned at the pain and sensation, the fingers inside him reaching, groping, spreading. They left far too soon – he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t ready at all as the Minotaur’s hands gripped his hips, lifting and spreading him.

What followed was brutal. Yani cried openly, sobbing and moaning while the Minotaur fucked him. The Minotaur remained, as it had been, silent. Only its breath became somewhat louder, harsh and ragged with lust. Yani’s body was jolted with each painful thrust and he clung to the bed for dear life, for any sort of anchor.

The only mercy was that it didn’t last long. The Minotaur spilled its heat inside Yani and remained there for a minute, panting. Then it withdrew, releasing Yani, who slid off the bed and crumpled to the floor. He was as silent as the Minotaur, now – all cried out. He pressed his scratched forehead to the reed mats, the coolness emanating from the floor soothing the painful heat of his face. He heard the Minotaur’s heavy footsteps retreating to the bathroom, and water running before the door closed between them. Yani melted even further down then, curling up on his side on the floor.

Was this his fate, then? To be the Minotaur’s plaything?

Others had made decisions for Yani his whole life. Had he died and gone to the Underworld, only to be punished with the same plight? Was there no way out?

Something lit up in the back of Yani’s head. A way out. He felt around for his shorts and rose on his wobbling legs, putting them on. Then he looked up: at the exit.

There was door the Minotaur had carried him through on their arrival. It had been there the whole time. Yani had always been distracted by the food, or the Minotaur, but the door was there. Yani stumbled to it, placed his hands upon the filigreed knob.

He froze.

The Labyrinth would kill him. The harpies and ibis would shred him, the ghosts would suck out his soul, the rats would gnaw his bones.

He screwed his eyes shut.

At least with the Minotaur, he was alive. The Minotaur wanted him alive.

The Minotaur wants me.

Isn’t that enough, to be alive and wanted?

~~~

Masterlist, Next

Everything taglist (I think? let me know if I've got it wrong, and whether you'd like to continue to be tagged in this): @angst-after-dark, @flowersarefreetherapy, @sunshiline-writes

#whump #whump fic #whump writing #murmur of ground #cw violence #cw slavery #cw noncon #monsterfucking #no beta reader this one's coming out HOT #nsfwhump

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