#violence in the ancient world
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Regarding your most recent ask—why do you think Alexander got so violent during the last leg of his campaign? I get he and his men were tired, that he was pissed at them too, but as you pointed out, his behavior in India was so bloodthirsty I can’t even fathom. I just can’t put my head around what could’ve possibly flipped that switch inside of him when, previously, his violence seemed to have served a purpose (understandable, and calculated, not pardonable though of course). In the last years of his life the level of violence was just crazy for no good reason.
Why Alexander became increasingly vicious, especially in India, has been asked by a lot of historians. Unsurprisingly, there are several general categories of answers:
1) He’d come to think of himself as a god and/or suffered increasing megalomania to the point that resistance in any form was met with offended outrage and violence.
1a) He’d proven himself so many times in combat, why were these stupid Indians still resisting? Why couldn’t they just surrender already?
2) He’d been through increasingly brutal guerilla warfare in Baktria and Sogdiana for three years, so when he faced similar resistance in India, he had a very short fuse.
2a) Years of combat and exposure to violence had numbed his sense of compassion, or his ability to see “the enemy” as human. E.g., non-stop war turned him cruel.
3) Indians were sufficiently different that he didn’t regard them with the same sympathy he had granted more familiar populations. If not necessarily full-on Aristotelian racism, it fell into the category of, “It’s harder to feel compassion for people who don’t look like you.’
Our big problem answering is that this question delves into motivation, which is psychological. We can’t plop him on a couch to psychoanalyze. The best we can do is consider what attitudes his culture might have most predisposed him towards.
I don’t give much credence to #1 as I don’t think he believed himself a “living god,” only a hero (Herakles 2.0) who might expect deification upon death—but not while alive. As for “megalomania,” it’s beyond our capacity to diagnose, and perhaps altogether anachronistic.
I do think #1a, #2, #2a, and #3 were all at work to varying degrees.
Alexander was enormously competitive. He wanted a challenge. That’s why he treated Poros so well after the Battle of the Hydaspes. Poros hadn’t run away, and he’d fought a good battle. A pitched battle with a decisive outcome. Alexander didn’t really like sieges. They were long and messy and typically ended badly, even if he won. But a set-piece or pitched battle took less than a day, and it was over. This one in particular ticked all his boxes: talented, brave opponent, clear victory, and his opponent surrendered (didn’t escape).
It wasn’t combat in itself that put him off. It seems to have been the sheer stubbornness of the Indian resistance. If we recall, he was extremely unsympathetic to Gaza and Batis when that city still opposed him despite his victory after a 7-month siege of Tyre. His behavior at Gaza had a clear intimation of: “Dammit! I just took the ‘untakable’ city, why are you resisiting?”
If Alexander liked a challenge, he didn’t like “repeating himself,” so to speak. He had to repeat himself a lot in India, ergo, both #1a and #2 are in effect.
As for #2a and #3, it can be uncomfortable for those fascinated by Alexander to accept he had a vicious side. We want to justify it. “He was brutal to ___ because….” I find myself doing it too. But after a number of conversations with students in my classes on Alexander or Greek warfare, themselves war vets, Alexander the soldier is a reality we can’t ignore.
These vets talked about their process of training—indoctrination—that conditioned new recruits to become part of “the group,” but also to dehumanize “the enemy.” It’s one difference between “soldiers” and “warriors.” There is, I think, a tendency to look down a bit on warrior societies as more “primitive.” Yet in warrior societies, the focus is more on the individual warrior’s bravery and honor. They don’t develop as much same group-think that leads to a smoothly operating war machine…but can also lead to war crimes. Do what you’re told; don’t think about it. The enemy is less-than-human and deserves death and torture.
That’s a broad generalization I don’t want to push too far; some warrior societies were quite insular and violent. But if the training/indoctrination involved in turning out soldiers certainly professionalizes an army—like the Macedonians—it also allows them to engage in a level of atrocity that’s mind-boggling to those outside the system. The longer one fights, the more violence one sees, and that requires a certain disassociation in order to remain sane. One of my former students who left the military and became very left-leaning was unambiguous about the process of numbing soldiers to the need to kill or engage in violence—“even for the guy down in the mailroom.” And of course, part of military separation involves teaching these now-former soldiers to become part of civil society again.
The upshot is that is we can’t dismiss the impact of near-continual violence on Alexander. He’d been in charge of military operations from at least the age of 16, and had probably killed in battle some time before that. In Dancing with the Lion: Becoming, he’s 14; that’s not unreasonable.
Not only did he engage in violence intrinsic to a war machine, but death and violence was intrinsic to daily life in everything from food preparation to religious sacrifice. It’s not that our world is less violent, but that violence these days is segregated, largely by wealth, in a way it just wasn’t then. I go to the grocery and buy my pre-packaged deboned chicken breast, whereas both my grandmothers walked out into the chicken yard, grabbed a chicken, wrung it’s neck, plucked feathers, and only then could get down to the business of cooking it for dinner.
Furthermore, human slavery was endemic. Alexander’s teacher, Aristotle, spoke of slaves as “human animals.” The problem for ancient people was how to explain why some became slaves when others were masters. Simple chance was recognized by some, but far more tried to explain it as the disfavor of the gods, or as some sort of “natural” inferiority (as Aristotle did). It wasn’t the racial slavery of the Atlantic slave trade, but it certainly sowed the seeds.
Thanks to the long shadow of W.W. Tarn, a popular perception persists of Alexander as a proponent of One World politics (Brotherhood of Mankind). Yet Brian Bosworth has shown rather convincingly via officer and political appointments in his latter years, that Alexander grew more cynical about foreign peoples. That doesn’t mean he got more racist exactly, but he grew progressively more distrustful. It might be better to think of him as naïve when he started out, but experience rubbed off that innocence.
As he was un-learning trust, he was also encountering cultures—and landscapes—increasingly alien. I don’t think he ever lost his curiosity, or his basic “approach” attitude to difference. He liked learning about new things and people. But plenty of psychological studies have shown that most of us display increased sympathy towards those who look like us. It’s not that we can’t be sympathetic towards others, but we’re apparently hardwired to care more about people we perceive as “like us.” It’s no doubt linked to survival: protect the family, the tribe. The flip side, of course, is that it’s easier to walk by someone in distress, or to actively harm them, if they’re “not like us.” Alexander’s friendship with Poros shows that he remained able to see The Other as human. But I suspect the cultural and physical differences also made it easier for him to disregard not just Indian suffering, but Baktrian and Sogdian and Persian, as well.
#asks#Alexander the Great#Alexander in India#the violence of Alexander the Great#soldier indoctrination#increasing tolerance for violence among soldiers#violence in the ancient world#Classics#tagamemnon#violence in ancient warfare#violence in daily life in the ancient world
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When Descent learns of Flowers' involvement in Fire's demise, it is the last straw and she knows she can't stay with him any longer.
mmmmmmmmmm theres probably so much to fix here but i Really REALLY just want it to be done. another behemoth comic and as always its not a very fun one. here we see the most volatile her relationship with flowers ever got, peaking in an act of violence on flowers' end
it was. straining, to say the least, to draw her hurting so badly so this one took a long time to work on. i had to take multiple breaks, haha. i hope you guys can get some enjoyment out of it anyways????? atleast we can all be happy knowing that this is it for her having to deal with him! (until later when rivers happens but weve got a couple hundred years its fine)
#rain world oc#rw downpour#rw ancients#rw ocs#sequential#druid draw#flowers#descent#fire#violence#abuse#godddd behemoth post#ableism#<- maybe?????????? idk#ask to tag ofc#domestic violence#domestic abuse
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Hehe this definitely sad. Yep.
I woke up at 2 am and made this because it won't leave my head.
#rain world#rainworld#gijinka#looks to the moon#my art#moon gets to do violence#fear her#the trauma killer#and ancient killer#animation#flipaclip#also this isnt the animatic jdjdjd the vote just ended#its literally 2 am brainrot#lyss art
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you’re thinking about how easily massive numbers of the wildly antisemitic tankies would have been pulled into the actual political tenets of (esp early to mid 20th century) armed Zionism and you’re laughing?????
#This folks is why analysis of ideology and the structures of an ideology is important#Rather than just random ass ethnic signposting#A lot of people see Zionism as something suspicious and jewy that had to do with Jews - I don’t like them#But the reality of Zionism as an initially distinctly leftist branch of political ideology that sought to liberate an oppressed people#With that tiny niggly wiggly issue of the fact people might#Already have lived on that land???? Ohhhh boy#All these cottage core back to the land the world would be better if I could reject modernity and return to the ancient ways of Farming#Society is broken it cannot be fixed the only option is to found a New Tough society that will fix all our previous problems#And we’ll get round to it in heavily armed leftist commune farming settlements#Which we will defend with violence because any violence in the name of an oppressed people is justified and our legitimacy comes from the#Rifle!!!#The only reason you see this ideology as inherently removed and bizarre is antisemitism and the only reason you see yourself removed from i#Also antisemitism!!!#You would have done numbers in ahdut ha-avoda you would have called Ben gurion abbaleh/#Remember: a bunch of the people who got sucked into this of ideology weren’t the *rich Republican aipac Jews*!*’ your head#They were broke often very secular Jewish leftists working dead end gig economy jobs in farms and sweatshops for whom the idea of a Brave#New World with a. Brave new culture was very appealing and liberating#It offered something new to the broken.#It’s important to talk about this stuff to talk about how it can be undone#But also. The world is not divided into the Oppressed and the Unoppressed#Your political ideology does not stop you from hurting others#No political ideology even anti capitalism or leftism is innately pure- all can harm others#No ethnic and cultural identity no matter how oppressed is free from the potential to subjugate others#No identity or ideology is greater than the right of other people to live freely#Cycles of oppression and the pyramid structure of many empires result in oppressed people harming other oppressed people#Many many goyim think that they’re removed from the logic of Zionism because they aren’t Jews because it’s something wierd and jewy#But I see a lot of the most destructive logics parroted by leftists every day
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Nimoma has good emotional payoff and animation but nothing else to really write home about TBH
It's very SPOP in that way, where the arcs and scenes are solid when viewed outside of the media in gifset or clip form but don't work as well when actually watching what they're from
For sure! I think that's a problem she-ra and toh both share with Nimona—they struggle with setup but then go ham on the payoff, which leaves everything feeling somewhat unearned.
The end of the movie bugged me in particular—Ballister's 180 with calling Nimona a monster (something he KNOWS pushes her to the brink) after one conversation with his ex-boyfriend was...I think out of place?
Normally if you have a character make a wrong choice like that you, as the audience, would be questioning the whole movie if they had ever REALLY changed. Was Ballister's loyalty truly to Nimona or to the Institute/Goldenloin? But, by that point in the movie they had really sold me on Ballister's complete acceptance of Nimona and disregard of the institute, so....why would he turn on Nimona then? I'm surprised they didn't do this plot the other way, which would instead have only made it seem like Ballister betrayed Nimona, you know? Like they did in Tangled. That way you don't undo Ballister's movie long arc with one scene, but you can still have Nimona go berserk and make her way into the heart of the city.
There were also a couple of other things that felt kinda dropped by the end. Ballister being the first commoner to become a knight? The Queen's important role in this society? This kingdom's prejudice going SO deep that not even a child would give Nimona a chance after saving their life, yet blowing up the wall changed everyone's minds in the end?
There were a lot of good pieces, but they weren't quite put together in the right ways.
#I think a lot of my dislike of the movie might have been just differences in taste#That movie was NOT my sense of humor and I disliked how they handled some things#Like...it kinda bugged me how they went about Ballister's prosthetic limb I won't lie.#I also don't know if Nimona ''not wanting to be a monster'' yet also wanting to cause so much destruction around her worked for me#Or at least not the way it was done#Like. I'm ALL for a character that wants to hurt others because of the way they've been hurt. That's based.#But that's not...really what they did? Or at least I don't think so#Like she's not REALLY a villain but she did sincerely want Ballister to be.#She values life. But she also wants to murder people? She wants violence??? Idk. It was a weird mix#She's SO sad that child was scared of her but earlier she like. Completely fucks up another kid's game. For no reason.#God and Nimona being 1000 years old makes a lot of her actions kinda weird. She feels so 14 to me yet she's immortal afssf#Also just not that big a fan of the trope where it's revealed ''this ancient legend was actually kids the whole time!!!''#but I know that's just my tastes#HOWEVER. I also think it made the movie weaker in certain aspects.#Prejudice is learned. So making it feel SO ingrained into the very beings of this world's people#IDK man did not hit it's mark for me#the queer allegory was legitimately very good though. loved that#asks#shera critical#toh critical#nimona critical#I will say skimming this movie for a second time was way more enjoyable for me#maybe I was just in a bad mood yesterday sfdjklsfdjkl#I think some of my points still stand though
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i wanna talk about like how the very nature of theatre is destructive and theatre of revolution and how some of the most important and influential periods in theatre history happened at times when people on the fringes of society were completely deconstructing and reconstructing the world and cultural canon and how it’s supposed to be uncomfortable and unfamiliar and how change is the entire point not just of the world but to change the audience
but i fear i don’t have the ability to put my thoughts into anything nearly comprehensible. so. support local theatre. support indigenous theatre. support radical fucking theatre.
#i could talk for hours#about the like first circumnavigation of africa and how that spawned a new era of theatre in europe#all the plays from the ancient graeco-roman’s? war. violence. destruction. what was happening in the world?#what’s happening in the world now?#it’s all so important and i have so many thoughts and 0 way ti convey them in a way that feels Right#theatre#theater#theater history#activism#theatre of revolution#theatre of destruction#tragedy#artistotle#revolution#rebellion#the tearing down of everything you know is the point#if it makes you uncomfortable they accomplished their goal#you’re supposed to leave changed#a different person#having experienced something only the people in the room with you at the time experienced#nobody else will ever feel that again#that’s. the. fucking. point.#rant#art#art history
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I saw a post (that I half agreed with) about basically the dangers of woobifying ancient cultures like Viking and another one I can’t remember but the funniest thing about that post was people in the notes agreeing with their whole chest that “yeah! Ancient cultures like the Vikings actually WERE as bad as the Victorians made them up to be! my sources for most of this come from an anime I’m watching!” Like holy shit
#old and ancient civilizations everywhere in the world are not going to#line up perfectly with todays moral structures#AND they also are the caricatures of barbarity and violence we see depicted in media even going back to the 1800s#and please do not use historical fiction shows as your sources for the love of bog
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I don't even know exactly how I feel about ascension in rain world, but it drives me up the wall when people equate it to suicide
#and I cant even argue because its up to interpretation. that being a plausible one#but the game does push you towards the idea of death being bad#I currently am holding the vague idea of the void fluid disintegrating you#but the void worms make that moment pleasant. if you have proper karma#youre removed from the cycle.... but there is a bigger overarching cycle that nothing can be removed from#its just that it's not remembered#the cycle that is escapable is the thing creatures become aware of. having memories of branching timelines#ascension removes the memories but they are still ultimately the same being once the Large cycle comes back around to them#probably very confusingly explained. thats why its tags lol#rw#rain world spoilers#and like. from the pov of those wanting to ascend. I think it's not 'I want to die' it's 'I want to be free from suffering'#for the ancients I think it's a bit more in a selfish way for most of them. like as if they're so enlightened that they earn this bliss#most ascension endings are very happy for the slugcats. so are their alternate endings. one is not 'the bad ending' in most cases#it also is weighted by how YOU feel about being removed from reincarnation. I personally would want to stay in the cycle. so I like the#alt endings more#but putting myself in the pov of the scuggies. I can see why they might pick either path#also idk if this is in the lore but... wouldnt suicide be a 'sin'? idk what they call them.. burdens?#it can be interpreted as not earning your 'freedom' and indulging in violence and possibly greed#of course theres two sides for the spirituality of rain world... that being how the ancients viewed it. versus how it actually is#and we do not know much about how it actually is. so.
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#coming back to it I don’t think I was actually clear enough#if people are looking at the sequence of the petty live in nargothrond -> finrod the relative of their ancient slayers shows up ->#they work together until mim tries to kill him -> the petty are exiled from nargothrond#and think to themselves. hey. it’s actually fucked up and unsatisfactory that the only textual information given#is a bunch of antisemitic canards abt dwarves and their untrustworthiness#so I’m going to write a thingy exploring what maybe happened in nargothrond to prompt essentially a random dude to attempt demigod murder#… it’s actually Bad !! to say. hmm no the canon explanation that mim was duplicitous and wicked is actually fine.#if you don’t vibe with the theory made you don’t vibe and that’s fine#but actually! being carefree and paternalistic around the little people that you’ve come there to rule and steward#is not an indicator that things … aren’t fucked up. or that there isn’t a sort of *civilizing* (deliberate word) colonialism going on.#and I’m gonna be honest there’s more to genocide than overt violence and forced expulsion is. actually connected to it.#no I’m not going to lean extremely hard on any one particular real world event of this nature#to draw up a *these are the good guys and these are the bad guys in this allegory*#because I think it’s distasteful and disrespectful to use real histories as a fandom fighting prop#but when you deliberately read the nicest sentiments into a pretty vague and concerning passage#and then use that as a canon justification#that’s crummy#there is a difference between using someone else’s trauma as your fandom weapon#and bringing up the fact that the author is utilizing the rhetorical tools of colonialism (maybe even unintentionally!)#that the readership is lapping up (because they also haven’t considered how deeply some of this is embedded in the modern paradigm)
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Tribe leader/Viking Sukuna headcanons
After seeing this fanart, a sweet anon sent me this prompt: "Imagine that you are a simple girl in another tribe who attracted the leader Sukuna who at that moment came to negotiate with the leader of your tribe, he became interested in you and decided to make you his wife and cooperate with your people. So you left with him and began to live with him and give birth to his heirs."
Thank you so much for sending me this! When I saw the art, I was thinking of something along those lines, too! The picture reminded me of the tv show Vikings, so the following headcanons take place in that time.
Pairing: Viking!Sukuna x Reader (female)
Genre: Smut + fluff
Word Count: 2.5k
Warnings: 18+, smut, arranged/forced marriage, virginity loss, blood, breeding, pregnancy, slight lactation kink, having children, miscarriage (Sukuna comforts reader afterwards. He doesn't just want her because of the heirs she can give him), general mentions of violence and human sacrifices. All characters are of age. This story is 18+. Minors don't interact.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who is feared for his ruthlessness in battle and his strength that seems almost god-like. All the other tribes try to stay on his good side and forge alliances with him instead of giving him a reason to burn down their towns.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who looks so intimidating when he comes to visit your settlement. Tall and broad-shouldered with all those buff muscles on display and the bones of his enemies decorating his clothes.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who you can't take your eyes off when you and the rest of your tribe gather in your leader's throne room and watch the negotiations. He sends shivers down your spine, but not just in a fear-inducing way, if you are honest. He is so enticing. Powerful and intelligent, and so attractive.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who is such a beautiful man. His face is too pretty for a warrior. Not even his scars and tribal tattoos can hide his beauty. A smug smirk lifts the corners of his lips, and his voice is calm and confident. He moves gracefully like a big cat, beautiful but deadly. He is the most stunning man you have ever seen, and you hang on every word that falls from his lips as if he carries ancient magic in his voice.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, whose icy blue eyes scan the crowd slowly, glittering like two precious jewels in the firelight illuminating the crowded room. Your breath catches in your throat when that intense gaze lands on you. You feel like a small animal trapped in the gaze of its hunter. Should you lower your head to show him your respect? Or will he take affront if you dare to look at anything else but him?
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who takes the decision away from you when he smirks at you and laughs softly before he turns his attention back to your leader.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who announces his conditions for a peace treaty in a confident, demanding tone. The voice of a man who is used to getting what he wants. A man who knows he is too powerful to get turned down.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who suddenly points a long tattoed finger at you and speaks the words that will flip your whole world upside down, "And I want her."
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who makes your heart drop with his demand, but all you can do is stare at him in a mix of fear and excitement. A murmur runs through the crowd, and already, several hands are pressing against your back, shoving you towards Sukuna, making you stumble and screech as you are about to fall at his feet.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who catches you before you hit the ground, his muscular arms holding you easily, an amused smirk lighting up his handsome face, light blue eyes glittering in amusement as he drawls teasingly, "Aww, someone's eager to become my little wife, huh?"
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who makes you sit on his lap that evening when a big feast is held in his honor and to seal the peace treaty with your tribe. You barely dare breathe, full of fear as you sit on his strong, muscled thighs, gasping when one of his large hands wanders under your skirt to squeeze your thigh possessively.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who has two of his men stand guard in front of your door so no one will attack his future wife or maybe to prevent you from sneaking away. But you aren't even sure you want to run from him. Who are you here in your current tribe anyway? Just another orphan who grew up to help on one of the farms. Isn't this new role much more important? To be the bride of Ryomen Sukuna? To be a means that allows your tribe to prosper and ensures peace and trade with Sukuna?
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, whose large hand has a firm, unrelenting grip on your arm as he leads you to his horse the next morning. But he lets you say goodbye to all your loved ones, taking their blessings and well wishes with you before your future husband helps you onto his horse.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who is such a rough man, but whose hands are surprisingly gentle when he lifts you onto the back of his giant horse. He sits behind you, his firm muscles pressing against your back, rippling with every move he makes. His muscular buff arms cage you in, keeping you captive or keeping you safe. You can't tell which one of the two it is.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who makes a conflict rage in your chest. On the one hand, you are scared of this dangerous big man who has the power to just demand to have you as if you are some cattle. On the other hand, you can't deny that small hidden part of you that feels excited that such a powerful and attractive man desires you enough to want to make you his wife.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who makes your pulse flutter nervously when you feel his strong arms around you and hear him order his men around with his low, velvety voice, telling them to find a good resting place for the night.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who kisses you roughly on that first night. His large hands that cup your face are calloused, but his lips are warm, and his tongue is soft and so skilled when he pries your mouth open and licks into it. It's nothing like the shy, clumsy kisses you shared with the boys in your settlement. Sukuna is a feared warrior, a powerful tribe leader, someone who people believe is actually the son of a god. And you can feel all that in his kiss. Deep and intense, making your head spin and your body brim with a desire you have never felt before.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who rides with you again the next day and trails teasing kisses down your neck to pass the time during the long ride. You are sure he is fully aware of what he is doing to you. How he makes your heart race and makes a mix of fear and arousal throb in your veins. Especially when he grabs your chin to tilt your face up and capture your lips in a heated, wet kiss, licking unashamedly into your mouth in front of his men, showing everyone that you are his.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who whispers in your ear, "Are you scared of me, my little wife?" and then breaks out in loud, barking laughter when you exhale shakily and tell him, "Only a fool wouldn't be scared of you... but maybe I am also flattered that you picked me, my lord."
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who still chuckles while his tongue licks a lazy stripe up the side of your neck, and he huskily tells you, "I am not a lord. I am a god. And I saw a goddess right there in that shabby throne room. I had to take you with me. It was a sign from the gods. You will give me such strong and beautiful children. Together, we can conquer the whole world."
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who forces himself to keep his hands off you before your wedding night as a show of respect to the gods, but who lets you feel his desire for you when he hugs you from behind and presses his hardness against you once you have moved into his house.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who has you dressed in the finest garments for your wedding day. A beautiful red dress lined with gorgeous white ermine fur that was specifically made for you. Your neck, wrists, and ears are decorated with glittering gold and precious gemstones.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who makes you squeal when he swoops you up into his muscular arms and carries you into the ceremony hall, accompanied by the loud cheers of his people. Your hand is shaking when you exchange wedding rings with him, but you stay brave, speaking your vows and taking Sukuna's heavy sword when he offers it to you as his promise to protect you.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who sacrifices several of his enemies to the gods to ask for their blessings for your marriage and your fertility. He looks scary with the pattern painted onto his face with fresh blood. But at the same time, it makes him look feral in a way that makes an unknown heat throb between your legs.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who shares his food and mead with you on the decadent feast held after the wedding ceremony, where you sit on the throne next to his. One of his strong arms stays wrapped around your waist the whole evening, and the deep glances he sends your way make your skin tingle with anticipation.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who takes your virginity that night, making you cry out in pain when his thick cock splits you open for the first time. But his lips silence your cry, and soon you make other noises. Loud moans of pleasure fall from your lips as your new husband moves inside you with deep and sure thrusts that hit a spot inside you that makes you scratch the broad muscles of his back and arch up against Sukuna's huge body. Your cunt throbs around his cock as you find the sweetest and most intense release you ever had.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who afterward pushes two of his long fingers into your used cunt to push his seed back into you, leaning down to kiss you savagely and murmuring in your ear that he wants to see your belly hard and swollen with his heirs.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who paints his clan symbols on your face with a mix of your virginal blood and his cum, telling you that you are his forever and that you are blessed by the gods now too after taking his seed into you.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who is so proud when you show the first signs of pregnancy.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who becomes extremely protective and possessive now that you carry his heir. Who worships your body every night, cupping and kissing your swollen breasts, licking at the drops of milk that already spill from them, telling you it tastes like the nectar of the gods.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, whose large rough hands caress your swollen belly gently, who kisses it, and talks to your unborn child, telling his son, as he predicts, that he will be born under the blessing of the gods. That he will become a great leader and a god himself one day.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who is triumphant when your first child is a boy with pink hair and a strong build and loud voice. A future leader just like his father. The first heir of many more to follow.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who is feared by everyone but treats his wife and newborn child with a gentleness that surprises you. He asks you to let him hold your baby and carry him in his strong arms. And the way Sukuna looks at your child tells you that he doesn't just see little Yuuji as an heir but as someone who has Sukuna's heart.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, whose hungry and proud gaze follows you for days until he has you under him again, fucking you with hard, deep thrusts, moaning loudly, and pumping you full of his seed over and over again. "You gave me such a strong heir, my love. I know you'll give me so many more."
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who rushes to your side when you have a miscarriage during your second pregnancy. Who hugs you to his broad chest, wipes the sweat and blood off you, and cradles you in his arms.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who kisses your tears away and reassures you when you are scared he will kick you out if you won't give him more heirs.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who shakes his head and tells you, "I mourn our unborn child, but I thank the gods for not taking my beloved wife away from me too. You are more to me than just a vessel that gives birth to my heirs. You are my wife, my companion, the one who the gods sent to me as my soulmate. I love you. Even if we have no more children, I will never take a new wife."
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who you see in a new light after the reassurance and love he gave you on that day. And suddenly, you find yourself falling in love with your husband, too. You treat him more tenderly. You caress his soft hair when the two of you cuddle in your bed to keep each other warm. You kiss the tattoos on his face and smile at him, your heart fluttering when Sukuna smiles back at you and pulls you into a slow, tender kiss. You will never forget the happiness in his eyes when you tell him you love him too.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who fucks you thoroughly that night until the two of you are sweating and rolling around on top of the warm furs, kissing and caressing each other needily while he fills you with his hot seed until you are overflowing from it.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who is delighted when you give birth to your second child, and that child looks like the perfect mix of the two of you. He grins at you and tells you that this is clearly a child of love, conceived on the night you confessed your love to him.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who is actually a caring husband who truly treasures you. Who likes to spend his nights with you wrapped under the warm furs, making slow love while he kisses you deeply, rolling his hips with those slow, languid moves that make you sob his name and come undone so sweetly on his cock.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who likes to hold you in his strong arms afterward, with your head resting on his broad chest and your small fingers tracing the tattoos on his chest and abs. He loves to talk to you for hours every night, telling you all about his day, about his current worries and plans, about political things and battle tactics, trusting you with all his secrets.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, whose love fills you with warmth even on the coldest winter days. Your heart is held securely in his strong hands. And you know that no one will dare lay a hand on you or your children in fear of Sukuna's wrath. His strength and power make you feel safe here in your new home.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who teaches you how to enjoy sex to the fullest. Who teaches you how to ride his cock and his face. Who teaches you how to take from him too. Because he is your husband, and that means he belongs to you just as much as you belong to him.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who trusts you with ruling in his place during his absence. Who declares that anyone who disrespects you will get sacrificed to the gods.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who keeps you on his thick, strong cock all night before he has to leave for one of his various exploration trips or battles, savoring you to the fullest. Making sure to fuck you so good that you will still feel him for days after he set sail.
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who pulls you into his arms one last time before he boards the ship, kissing you deep and long. And there is this burning love in his blue gaze when he tells you, "I will do anything in my power to come back to you, my love. I have the gods on my side. But if, for whatever reason, they should decide it is my time to enter Valhalla, then I want you to know that I will wait there until you join the afterlife, too, and I will come find you, no matter where you are."
+ Tribe leader Sukuna, who luckily doesn't go to Valhalla and always comes back to you with more scars on his gorgeous body but with the same love in his eyes.
AAAHHH I AM IN LOVE WITH HIM!!! This became much longer than I intended, but I really miss the show Vikings, and I love Viking!Sukuna to an insane amount, so it is what it is ;) This was, once again, very self-indulgent, but hopefully, some of my fellow Sukuna lovers will enjoy it too! Thank you so much to the nice anon who sent me that prompt!
Please let me know what you think. Comments and reblogs would be very sweet.
#sukuna x reader#sukuna smut#sukuna fluff#jjk x reader#sukuna#ryomen sukuna#jjk smut#jjk fluff#sukuna x you#tw pregnancy#tw miscarriage
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Check your conspiracy theory. Does it sound anything like this?
There is an ancient global conspiracy plotting to create a one world government.
The one world government will be headed by a single leader.
The conspiracy intends to make everyone follow a religion it created.
The conspiracy is trying to destroy all true religion/spirituality.
The conspiracy deliberately stirs up conflict and starts wars.
The conspiracy deliberately does whatever it can to confuse, exhaust, and demoralize the people.
The conspiracy creates and/or manipulates art and entertainment to control and brainwash the masses.
The conspiracy uses mind-altering substances to manipulate and control people.
Liberal politics (EG, religious tolerance, equality) are part of the conspiracy.
Communism and collectivism are part of the conspiracy.
The conspiracy manipulates the economy to our detriment.
The conspiracy wants to do away with the gold standard.
The conspiracy wants to do away with the free market.
The conspiracy intends to tax the rich, which is bad because taxes are just legal theft.
Teaching people about the mistakes and atrocities committed by governments is part of the conspiracy.
The conspiracy creates new religions and spiritual movements to further their agendas.
All secret societies (EG, Freemasonry) are part of the conspiracy.
Presidents are manipulated puppets of the conspiracy.
The conspiracy manipulates anyone with a high political position.
The conspiracy grooms world leaders.
Agents of the conspiracy are planted everywhere, in all levels of society.
The conspiracy kills anyone who might expose their plans in ways that no one would suspect are actually murder.
The conspiracy follows/uses the Kabbalah.
Literally all of these were claimed in The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion, an antisemitic hoax used by the Okhrana to justify violence against Russian Jews. It was used by Nazi Germany to justify the Holocaust, and today it still serves as the blueprint for most conspiracy theories - even if modern conspiracy theorists try to hide it, downplay it, or rationalize it with another, equally absurd conspiracy theory.
#conspiracy theory#conspiracy theories#conspiracism#nwo#new world order#one world government#antisemitism#the protocols of the learned elders of zion#illuminati#the illuminati#great reset#the great reset
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LONG LIVE THE VILLAINESS !
amidst the tale of sweetest love and bitterest revenge, the fallen empress is cast back ten years into the past to correct her sins and avoid eternal damnation, even at the price of betraying her once husband, the very cause of her downfall.
♱ pairings. gojo satoru, fem!reader
♱ genre. enemies-to-lovers, period piece, medieval au
♱ tags. ooc, regression, crown prince!gojo, noble lady!reader, politics, classism, clan wars, religion (catholicism), misogyny, violence, war, rebellion, suggestive, smut, gore, double life, explicit language, more to be added
♱ notes. this fic draws heavy inspirations from the webnovel ‘sister, i am the queen in this life’ and manhwa of the same name. it’s basically a fanfic of that series bc i am obsessed with it :’D
♱ status. on-going (slow updates)
♱ THIS SERIES WILL SERVE AS THE THE SECOND TIMELINE -> READ HERE FOR THE FIRST TIMELINE (ORIGINAL STORY) ♱
PROLOGUE.
ACT I. THE LADY
ACT II. THE CROWN PRINCE
ACT III. THE KNIGHT
ACT IV. THE STAR CROSSED LOVERS
ACT V. THE BLESSED
ACT VI. THE SIN
ACT VII. THE REVELATION
ACT VIII. THE ENEMY
ACT IX. THE LOVER
ACT X. THE EMPRESS
EPILOGUE.
PROLOGUE
Like plunging beneath the surface of water and then, abruptly, breaking through to the air above—your body jolted as if awakening in a new world altogether. You drew in a long breath, your eyes fluttering open to reveal the ceiling, both familiar yet unfamiliar in its greeting. Swiftly, you surveyed your surroundings, noting with growing recognition the confines of your old room within the De Roma estate. The estate!
You were not in the palace of Caelum, but in the estate of House De Roma. A surge of realization flooded through you as you dashed towards the nearest mirror, confronting your reflection with wide, startled eyes.
No... could it be... that you have returned to your body, ten years prior?!
In the mirror, the reflection staring back at you was not that of the notorious wife of the tyrant Emperor Satoru, but of a 20-year-old maiden, the eldest daughter of Duke de Roma, with fuller cheeks and a more youthful appearance. You could not shake the feeling of disbelief, wondering if this was all just a dream, so you reached out to touch your arms and felt the flesh beneath your fingers, trying to convince yourself that this was an unexpected reality.
Oh, you were back. You found yourself returned to your former self, a decade younger, but now armed with the knowledge of your past life's actions and their consequences. Alongside this newfound understanding, the gift of clairvoyance had also been bestowed upon you.
And for what? Why had the heavens above returned you to your body? Was it for revenge, a second chance, or perhaps punishment?
Suddenly, a loud, deafening sound pierced your ears, and a blinding white light enveloped your vision. Your body became as still as a statue, and it felt as though your soul was transported to a fourth dimension where divine intervention seemed a lot more plausible to exist.
As your soul hovered in the liminal space between life and death, you found yourself standing before a figure cloaked in billowing robes, her presence commanding and her gaze piercing. This figure was Fortuna, the ancient Caelan goddess of fortune and fate, her visage austere and unforgiving.
“Are you aware of the sins that stain your soul?”
“Have you felt the weight of your transgressions, the consequences of your actions that have wrought suffering upon your people and brought ruin to your empire?”
Her voice echoed through the realm with the divine judgment that weighed upon your conscience, while her gaze penetrated to the core of your being and demanded honesty and accountability in the face of your past misdeeds.
“Will you atone for your sins?”
“Will you seize this opportunity for redemption, or will you squander it in self-pity and remorse?”
As you stood in the presence of the ancient goddess, grappling with the heaviness of your sins and the daunting task ahead, a brilliant light had all of a sudden illuminated the space around you. From the heart of this radiant glow emerged the figure of Archangel Raphael, his presence heralded by a chorus of angelical voices and the stirring of celestial winds.
Clad in robes that seemed to shimmer with the intensity of celestial light, Archangel Raphael's presence commanded attention, his wings unfurled behind him in a display of resolute authority. If Goddess Fortuna was intimidating, the archangel was fearsome all the more. His gaze, intense and penetrating, swept over you with a gravity that left no room for evasion or deceit.
“Empress of Caelum,” he spoke, his tone firm and unyielding, and his voice carrying a billion years of heavenly existence, “You stand accused of grievous sins, crimes that have shaken the very foundations of your empire and brought suffering upon your people.”
There was no trace of softness in Archangel Raphael's demeanor, no room for mercy in the face of wrongdoing. His presence was a testament to the uncompromising nature of divine justice, his strictness a reflection of the solemn duty entrusted to him as an Archangel of the Almighty. This, no doubt, was the face of a true and formidable executor of justice.
And you, the subject, had angered the divine beings that guarded the Caelan Empire, so much so that God himself sent the goddess of the land and one of his archangels to mitigate your rightful punishment.
“By the decree of the Almighty, you are granted a second chance to amend your sins and redeem your soul. You shall return to the mortal realm, to live your life anew and correct the sins that have stained your soul.”
“Should you fail to rectify your past transgressions, should you stray from the path of righteousness and succumb once more to the temptations of darkness, know that the consequences shall be severe and eternal.”
“For those who squander the gift of divine mercy shall be cast into the deepest depths of hell, where they shall endure a punishment of unending torment and suffering.”
In the presence of Archangel Raphael and Goddess Fortuna’s equally stern gazes, you were keenly aware of the magnitude of your transgressions and the severity of the judgment that awaited you. But even as you trembled beneath the weight of their scrutiny, you knew that their presence also offered you the opportunity for redemption, with your only task to prove yourself worthy of divine mercy.
Indeed, it was by your very hands that hundreds and thousands of Christian souls shed their blood. Innocent lives, both young and old, were cruelly taken at your command. The citizens of Caelum who fell sick from the spread of the plague. The esteemed Caelan advisors of your husband’s primogenitors, skinned alive and speared in pikes by the Tiber River. The wrongly accused maid who suffered the indignity of serving your husband, paraded unclothed through the streets and subjected to the brutality of the pear of anguish. The gallant and dignified knight, tortured mentally and physically in the atrocious dungeon. Now, you find yourself thrust back into the horrors of your former life ten years hence. A life of a noble lady who ought not to be blinded by her destructive love for the empire’s crown prince.
Yet, could you truly navigate this life without ascending to the position as his empress?
As you tried to commune with the divine beings afore you, a haze in your vision transported you away from the heavenly space, realizing that you were already drawn back into the reality of your chamber, inhabiting the youthful frame of a twenty-year-old daughter of a duke. You found yourself too astonished to move, too shaken to speak, and too afraid to take any action in this new lease of life blessed upon you. At that very moment, your state of reverie was disrupted at the arrival of your maid, who entered your chamber in a humble servant garb.
Milena. The maid whose life was cut short by your hand in your past existence due to petty thievery. “My lady,” she spoke with a hint of respect and urgency, unaware of the ill-fate you had given her in your past life, “A visitor has arrived at the gates and requests an audience with you. Shall I show them in?”
Too soon? Need it truly be so soon to engage with the people from your past life immediately after awakening to your old, yet younger body? Gazing upon your maid through the mirror, you asked, “Who is that intruder you speak of?”
She bowed her head, her stance shifting into one of apologetic deference. The way she firmly stood by your door was a message to you that the intruder was not someone you could easily reject the presence of.
“The visitor is His Highness, Crown Prince Satoru.”
⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷
#series: lltv#gojo satoru x reader#gojou satoru x reader#gojo x reader#jjk x reader#jjk royal au#slow updates bc sy is prio#i will not write this in archaic english anymore ITS HARD AF#but i had to put this out there so i can remind myself to write it *sobs*#might just write this on the side
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Of Sea Foam and Iron [1]
general masterlist | series masterlist | taglist
Hephaestus!ghost x Aphrodite!reader x Ares!soap
your beauty was meant to be a blessing, not a curse. the only way your father can keep you safe is by marrying you off to an ugly, scarred blacksmith. at first, it seems like your new husband wants nothing to do with you. you eventually learn that's not the case at all.
wc: 4.8k
warnings: historical au with lots of inaccuracies, blood/gore/violence, minor self-harm ideation (no sh happens), arranged marriage, reader is a virgin, reader is very shallow, nudity, fear of sex, ancient standards of women (the characters aren't actually gods, but rather god-coded. they're mortal, but still fit the symbolism of said gods)
When you were a child, people often told you that your beauty was a gift from the gods, and for the longest time you believed them.
Certainly, it was only by Aphrodite’s grace that you were able to hold yourself with such elegance and outshine even the most precious of gems and metals. Even as a young girl your father adorned you with flashy jewelry as if to prove to anyone who laid eyes on you that you were the only creature in the world that could make gold appear dull. You enjoyed every moment your father spent parading you around because that’s what love was supposed to be; the unconditional admiration of all those that were so far beneath you.
It wasn’t until you became of courting age that you learned better. Gifts of fine silk and flashy jewelry were commonly sent to your father by countless suitors, and while they were beautiful, he sent every single one of them back. Simple gifts of cloth and metal were not good enough for your fathers beautiful daughter. If a man were to wed you, he would have to offer up something that your father could not provide for you himself.
Countless suitors visited your abode where they would drink wine with your father and eat the freshest fruit while they attempted to gain his favor. Sometimes, you were permitted to sit in on their discussion, though you were not allowed to speak and no one was allowed to speak to you. You sat silent and unwavering like a transformed tree nymph, capable of only observing the events that unraveled around you as you stared at the man who sat in front of your father.
His name was unremarkable, something you didn’t think you could remember even if it had been carved into your skin. He was not handsome nor ugly, but you could tell by the vibrant color of his chiton that he was of nobility. A philosopher's son, or even a politician. Personally, you guessed a politician due to his sharp tongue and even sharper gaze. Every instance in which his eyes landed on you, you felt as if you needed to check your skin for cuts.
All the silver in the world couldn’t gild his tongue enough to grant him the ability to convince your father to let him take your hand in marriage. There was no amount of cattle or coin that your father seemed content in trading you for, and you watched in silent horror as the man stood from the table with his finger pointed in accusation. A finger turned into a blade all too fast, and it wouldn’t take long for blood to stain the stone floor of your home.
In either anger, frustration, or arrogance, your suitor had dared to pull a blade on the man that raised you. His blade was well made, built for killing men, but even in his old age your father picked up the very same knife he used to cut up fruit to carve into the man's stomach. The odor of his offals was putrid and you covered your mouth as you watched the man attempt to keep his organs within the confines of his skin. He failed miserably, and his body joined his insides as he collapsed on the floor as a bloody and gasping mess.
It was then that you learned love was not at all something gentle and sweet. Love was the spilling of blood in a brash act of violence and the decaying scent of rotting intestines. Love was what started the war of the Trojans where countless men lost their lives in gruesome battles. Helen of Troy brought the end of an empire simply by existing. You had brought the death of a man for that same crime.
As your father turned to face you with red and sticky hands, he finally realized what a suitor could provide to you that he could not; protection. Because despite his reflexes, and the body that laid on the floor in front of him to cool, his age would soon catch up to him. There would be a day where you would be alive and he would not, and should that day come before you were to find a husband, he was certain no one would live to tell the tale. Your beauty was not a gift from the gods, but a curse that could damn a nation to ruin, and it was his responsibility to ensure you were protected no matter the cost.
After that day, your father would not accept any more suitors into his home. No matter how much they groveled at the door, or begged to see even the faintest glimpse of you, they were all cast away back into the streets in which they came. For months, your father combed the city himself in search of a man who came even anywhere close to being worthy of your hand. During that time, you only ever set foot outside if you were in the enclosed courtyard of your fathers estate, otherwise you spent most of your time hidden away on the second floor where no visitors, man or woman, was allowed to see you.
Trapped in your own home, your mind began to wander to places even darker and more morbid than the Underworld itself. If you didn’t walk with such grace and have an air of beauty about you, then you would have never found yourself in that predicament in the first place. Some frustrated and upset part of you was tempted to disfigure yourself. Maim your face with a knife and become something no one could bear to behold. Maybe then at least you’d be able to pick your own husband. But if your beauty truly was a gift from the gods, and not at all a curse like it felt, you wouldn’t dare to cast their grace aside, lest you face the consequences.
Eventually, your father found a suitable man for you to marry. You had begun to think that he would never be able to find anyone that would meet his standards, and yet one day he returned home with the triumphant news. Your soon-to-be-husband’s name was Simon Riley, and you were to be wedded to him before Apollo drew his chariot across the sky the next day.
You knew nothing about this man besides the very few things your father would tell you over your last meal together. Simon Riley was an artisan, a blacksmith to be more specific. He often spent his days slaving over a fire as he bent iron and bronze to his will. In your mind you could already see his hands darkened from burns and skin wet with sweat from the heat. A man who could shape something as cold and unforgiving as metal certainly was a man to be reckoned with, yet plenty of artisans before him had asked to wed you.
What made him so different?
That question plagued your mind in the early hours of the morning as you washed yourself in the cooling water of your bath. Usually a nuptial bath would be given under much brighter circumstances, both literally and emotionally. As a young girl you always imagined that the sun would stream through the window and light up the water in the same way ocean waves sparkled at sunset. Instead, you bathed by candlelight as you purified yourself for your marriage, because marrying off a soiled daughter was unforgivable, no matter how beautiful you were.
Once you were clean and smothered in as many fragrant oils as your skin could hold, you donned your peplos and veil for the ceremony. Beautiful garments, the white fabric hung off your body and cascaded down your legs like foam, and the veil was as red as a blazing fire to ward off any ill spirits. If this was any normal wedding, people from leagues around would come to see you in your attire, to get a chance to attempt to bask in your beauty, yet it was no normal wedding. The only people who would see you dressed like that would be your father and your new husband.
“It’s safer this way,” your father attempted to soothe you. The night air was cool against your anxious skin as the two of you snuck through abandoned streets. It had felt like an eternity since you were able to travel along the worn stone, and it was only because you were to be transferred off to the care of another man. “There will be time for proper celebration later. No one will dare lay a hand on you under the care of your husband.”
An odd tingling sensation plagued your skin the closer you got to Simon Riley’s home, and the moment you laid eyes on the structure, you knew it was his. It felt like it was prophesied in a dream. Approaching the steps to the door felt strangely like coming home, yet it was wrong. This abode would not be a home, but a prison in which to keep you safe.
As if he sensed your presence, the man who you assumed to be Simon Riley stepped through the door and into the dim street. Darkness shrouded his figure, making it difficult to discern specific features through your veil, but his height was easily noticeable. He towered well above both you and your father as if he were a titan, and he was just as broad as an ox. Power and confidence exuded from him, and the only weakness he showed was a limp as he walked down the steps to the street.
“Quickly,” your father prompted as the man approached, “lift the veil and she is yours. Yours to cherish. To protect.”
Simon stopped in front of you and stood still for so long you feared he second guessed the whole arrangement. As much as you didn’t really want to get married, not like that in the darkness of a street in front of a stranger's home, you knew it was necessary. You would not be the reason more blood was spilled over pathetic jealousy. A part of you just wished that everything was as glamorous as was once promised to you.
Eventually you watched as his fingers pinched the sheer fabric of your veil and he peeled back your disguise with so much care it was as if he was afraid to harm you. There in the dim glow of the impending dawn, you saw your husband for the first time. He stood as tall as a warhorse and just as scarred as one. His nose was large and crooked and adorned with puffy, raised tissue that threatened the thin skin of his eye and tender rose of his lips. Dull eyes scanned the features of your face as he let the veil fall along your back. Despite your beauty, he almost seemed uninterested in you, and you weren’t sure if you should have been grateful for that.
“It is done,” your father concluded. He held out the leather pack that he had gathered a handful of your items in. Clothes, a few necklaces and bracelets, and a hairbrush was all you had to your name. Should you need anything else, your new husband would provide for you. “Hurry, inside. She is yours, now. Keep her safe.”
Without hesitation, Simon took your pack from your fathers hands before he rested his hand on your low back. Even through the fabric of your dress you could feel the coarseness of his palm as he urged you up the stone steps towards the entrance. You glanced over your shoulder and took in the view of your fathers features. For all you knew, it was the last time you would ever get to see him.
“You have my word,” Simon promised. Those were the first words you had heard him speak, and they were an oath.
Pale candlelight consumed you as Simon closed the door behind the two of you, locking you in your new home. It was only then that the true panic began to rattle its cry within your ribcage. You had been given away to a man you had never met before in the name of protecting you, and yet you had still been wedded all the same. There were certain expectations given to a new wife, one that you knew a man would be stupid to not take advantage of with a woman of your blessing. The very idea made your hands clammy, and you found yourself running your palms along your peplos in an attempt to rid yourself of the moisture.
“Come,” Simon urged as he crossed through the entryway.
Obeying him, you followed close behind him with careful and light feet as he led you through your new home. There was a vague scent of sweet fruit and warm bread that trailed behind you as he climbed the stairs up to the second floor. Though you tried to ignore it, your eyes couldn’t look away from the obvious limp in his step. His short chiton revealed several gnarly scars on his left leg even more fierce than the ones on his face. It was as if someone attempted to hack his knee off with a dull blade and pitifully failed. Was this man, this battered and ugly man, truly supposed to be your protector?
Simon brought you to a room that was obviously his bed chambers, and had you not felt slight terror about the events that might unfold in that room, you would have been utterly stunned. Never before had you seen a bed so large. Sure, the man himself nearly scraped the ceiling with the top of his head, and so it only made sense that his bed matched his size, but it was near ridiculous. Its width spanned nearly from wall to wall, wide enough to fit three grown men comfortably, and the length had a good foot on Simon, if not more. There was hardly enough room for anything else in the area because the object took up the entire space of the chamber.
“Rest. You look exhausted,” he said as he sat your pack on the end of the bed.
Confused, you looked up at him with narrow eyes as he gestured to the bed. You had the strange feeling that he would not be sated until you were at least seated on the bed, so you followed his outstretched hand and sat on the edge of the bed next to your pack. It was strangely comfortable, and dipped in low enough to swallow you whole. You wondered how much wool was used to create such a plush mattress.
Instead of joining you in bed, your husband took a step toward the doorway before he turned to face you once more. Early dawn light bled through the closed wooden shutters on the window, which illuminated his face but didn’t make his features any less dull.
“Help yourself to anything. What’s mine is yours. Plenty of food in the kitchen when you get hungry. If you can’t find something you need, ask,” he explained simply.
He spoke to you as if you were some lowly slave, and not his wife. His wife who had caused the death of a man just by beauty alone, a woman who had men lining up for miles for the chance of laying eyes on you, and he spoke to you like that?
“Where will you be?” you questioned.
“Working,” he answered gruffly. “My forge is in the courtyard. Don’t walk out there barefoot.”
He didn’t give you the chance to ask any other questions before he limped out the doorway where his footsteps fell heavy against the wooden floor like thunder. There you sat, at the edge of the bed, still in your wedding clothes, abandoned by your husband. Still, an odd relief washed over you at the realization that you were alone. He had not stripped you bare before him and fucked you into that ungodly large bed like you had expected him to. Grateful that you had not yet had your virginity taken from you, you did as Simon had instructed. It had been over a day since you had last properly slept as you spent the entire night getting ready for your rather depressing wedding ceremony, and that weight bore down on you relentlessly.
Removing your peplos, you donned a much lighter chiton before you stood at the side of the bed. Wool and animal skin blankets laid across the bed in layers and you peeled them back to crawl underneath. As you sunk down into the mattress, you were enveloped by a scent of musk and fragrant oils that was oddly intoxicating. The weight of the blankets on top of you held you in place, willing your eyes to close. Simon Riley was a strange man, but at least his bed was nice.
There were many things you learned about your husband that day, none of which he told you himself. He was a very quiet man who truly spent most of his time working at the forge. On the first day you had been wed, you snuck a glance out of one of the windows to watch him work over sweltering coals and steaming air. Though his legs seemed lame, his arms had no such problem. Thick muscles flexed and went taut as he brought his hammer down upon white hot metal to bend it into shape. Sweat lined his brow, which he would wipe at with his forearm every now and then, and though his face was a right mess, you realized the rest of him wasn’t too bad to look at. He knew how to make a variety of things, from tongs to signs to swords, and he was paid handsomely for his work, judging by the large pile of coins and bartering items you would find on the table at the end of the work day.
He never sat down for proper meals, but while he worked he ate enough to feed two grown men, which only made sense given his size. Lamb seemed to be his favorite, and there was plenty of it. Dried and seasoned jerky, a leg he would roast on a spit to then shred and add to bread, or even some he would fry in a pan. Your help with anything was unnecessary. He never asked you to cook, or clean, or assist in selling his products; Simon was completely self sufficient.
The thing that caught you most off guard about him was the fact that he slept naked. Your first night together, while you were already in bed, he shamelessly stripped his dusty chiton off and tossed it on the floor, baring himself completely to you. It was your first time ever seeing a man naked, and even in the darkness you could make out the silvery scars that tore through his skin. He was completely covered in them, and you couldn’t help but wonder which of the gods had cursed him with such a body; something that could have been strong, beautiful, and powerful, only to be covered with errors.
When he climbed into bed next to you, your eyes couldn’t help but glance further down to where his cock hung heavy between his legs. He wasn’t even hard, yet the size of it matched that of the rest of him, and you could feel your heart jump in your throat. Yet that night he still did not take you. Instead, the two of you slept on opposite sides of the bed facing away from one another with nothing but empty space between your bodies. He would not fuck you, and that confused you. Something must have been wrong with his body, littered with scars and abnormalities. Or maybe he was the only man in the entire world who was immune to your gift from Aphrodite.
If you remained a virgin for much longer, perhaps you could escape and become an acolyte.
The next month went by like this. He would speak a few words to you, spend his entire day working, and then sleep naked next to you in a bed large enough for a bear. He was not cruel, at least, in fact he was quite the opposite. There was always enough food for you that he would set aside on a special plate, and he bought you a new chiton when you had accidentally torn your old one, but no matter what, he did not seem interested in you. It was as if you were something for him to take care of, rather than something for him to love.
But that was what your father had wanted for you, wasn’t it?
Like a caged dove, you spent most of your days peering out of the second story windows to gaze at the city. Busy streets bustled with traders and artisans alike, and you would watch them mingle as they weaved between buildings like ants. On windy days you could smell the salt of the ocean, and you would long for the days when you were a young girl, collecting shells along the shoreline as sea foam gathered around your ankles. Things seemed more colorful back then. As a married woman, everything in your world seemed to only be the shade of stone.
One day after a heavy rain, some excitement had been brought back into your life. It started with the sound of triumphant horns followed quickly by cheering. Deep, bass drums echoed throughout the streets, drawing you to your window once more where you saw countless men in a march spanning further than you could see. Their red chitons and leather armor branded them as soldiers, and you watched in awe as they paraded through the streets after what was obviously another successful campaign.
But there was one soldier above all others who towered over them upon a warhorse adorned with armor and a mighty spear. Even from a distance you knew that this man was John MacTavish. He was a soldier bred and born for war as if the only thing he knew how to do was kill. People often said he was bestowed his gifts of war by the God of War himself, Ares, and it was a tough speculation to deny. Countless lives had been taken by his hands alone, and no matter the odds of the battle, he always came home victorious and smiling. You had seen his face only once before in the last victory parade he marched in, but you could never quite get his grin out of your mind.
“I’m heading into the city,” Simon said behind you.
Despite his sheer size and thunderous footsteps, your husband had managed to sneak up behind you, startling you half to death. You spun so that your back was to the window to face that goliath of a man with a racing heart.
“Will you be alright on your own?” he asked.
Still trying to calm your racing heart, you nodded.
“Good,” he concluded as he began to walk away. “There is a sword in the kitchen. If anyone attempts to harm you while I’m gone, use it.”
He didn’t give you any time to explain that you had no idea how to wield a sword, let alone kill a man, before he vanished down the stairs. Moments later you heard the doors to the courtyard open and close, and Simon’s body melted into all the other figures in the streets below you. It wasn’t his first time leaving you alone, after all, he had to get materials for his work somehow, but it was his first time instructing you to use a sword to protect yourself. You figured the countless soldiers that flooded the city had him on edge.
But if that was the case, why would he leave in the first place?
As you waited for him to return, you couldn’t help but meander down to the kitchen in search of this sword he instructed you to seek out. It didn’t take you long to find it, as he had left it right in the middle of the table next to your lunch. Beautiful iron extended strongly a good foot or so in what was the most well crafted shortsword you had ever seen. Dark wood formed the grip, and there was a flared base made of gleaming brass for the pommel. This looked different than his other works. There was more flair to it, like it was more of a gift than something he would sell for coin.
With tender fingers, you reached for the grip and took it in hand. Its weight was heavy, more so than you had anticipated. Holding it was awkward as it felt like it wanted to fall forward no matter how high up you held it, and you huffed as you attempted an amateur swing. Unsteady, your strike would have hardly broken the skin of any intruder. When you set the blade back on the table, the memories of your dead suitor bubbled up in your mind. The sheen of his blade as he drew it on your father, the blood and offal that spilled on the floor shortly after, and the reeking stench of death that followed. You weren’t sure if you could ever do such a thing.
Simon was gone for only half an hour before you heard the sound of the courtyard doors swing open with a creak. You gazed down at your half empty plate where you had snacked on fresh fruits and cheeses while you waited for his return. Sticky juices coated your fingers which you quickly cleaned with your mouth before you stood from your seat and left to greet your husband.
He wasn’t alone. Another man accompanied him clad in light armor and a sword strapped to his hip; a soldier, likely one of the men who had just returned home. This man’s chin bore a hefty scar, and still despite it he was one of the most handsome men you had ever laid eyes on. Battle hardened muscles bulged out of his uniform, and your gaze couldn’t help but fall to his powerful thighs as he took a few steps into the courtyard. It wasn’t until you saw him smile that you realized who this man was; this was John MacTavish. The hailed hero of your city, its greatest defender, a man who could cut down hundreds and come back smiling through the blood.
Simon hardly had the time to shut and lock the courtyard doors behind him before John’s hands gripped the fabric of his chiton. Words escaped you but your mouth opened in a silent plea. Were they about to fight? Was this soldier, Ares’s wild dog, about to slaughter your husband right in front of your very eyes? Your hands flew to the doorframe to steady yourself as you watched Simon stumble forward while John yanked him closer. You could already smell the gore, imagine the pink intestines and organs that would spew from your husband’s body and all you could do was stand there and watch in horror as John… kissed him?
This man, this near mythical being who had won countless battles in the name of your city, pressed his lips against your husband’s with such passion it left you stunned. And it was not at all unwelcomed, it seemed, as Simon’s hands rested on the man’s waist and returned the notion, curving his spine enough to meet the man's height more comfortably. As they embraced one another in front of you, the horror on your face quickly melted into confusion.
“I missed you,” John muttered as his lips separated from Simon’s.
“I’ve dreamt of this day ever since you left,” Simon countered, his voice more tender than it ever had been with you.
But John would not be the highly acclaimed soldier that he was if he hadn’t felt the prying eyes staring at their intimate moment. Eyes as blue as the ocean turned to land on you, and your jaw slammed shut underneath his inquisitive gaze. He was not secretive in the way he looked over all your features, scanning first your face and then lower, over the curve of your hips and the hidden flesh of your thighs. While he nearly licked his lips at the sight of you, his obvious attraction did little to cover the confusion hidden in his eyes.
“I didn’t realize we had a visitor,” John admitted humorously as he glanced at Simon.
As you waited for your husband's response, you glanced at him in hope to receive an answer to the storm of questions that raged in your mind. But there was something different about his gaze. Rather than contentment, something else ignited in the darkness of his eyes that blazed just as bright as the forge he slaved over day and night. Whatever flat expression he normally gave you transformed into something so shining it almost looked like love.
“She is no visitor,” he claimed with pride. “She is our wife.”
#ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#ghoap x reader#ghost x soap x reader#soap x reader#john mactavish x reader#f!reader
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I know we're all focused on Satyr/Faun König but that bull comment... I'm quite partial to minotaur's and whats better than a darling who isn't from the area. Oh yes she's innocent of the crimes against König because she was not raised there.
Some foreign little creature just running blind in a maze trying to see where there might be a way out. It's been days after all and the screaming has gotten quieter and she wonders if she's the last one left alive. He takes his time eating his meals... this can be stretched out for such a long time as she hides herself in a dead end just a short rest... the darling is so tired unaware of the horrifyingly silent steps moving closer to her little haven. It's just her left now.
@kit-williams I've wanted to write for Minotaur!König for ages!
Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader
Word count: 5 k oneshot
Tags/warnings: Sexual tension, threats of violence and rape, implied cannibalism, power imbalance, moral ambiguity. Predator/prey dynamic, Beauty and the Beast elements, Ancient Greek religion & lore. 18+ MDNI
A/N: The Minotaur in this story is not an actual hybrid. Reader is Hecate’s initiate. Merry Christmas y'all! <3
The screams are the worst part.
They echo through the Labyrinth while you wait and wait and wait.
Even the very stones seem to cry and wail as you place your hope on Theseus who descended to this hell along with you and the human cattle. Seven young men and seven unwed women, meant to satisfy a beast...
And judging by the screams alone, it sounds like the monster is satisfied. It sounds like it's having a ball.
Fourteen lives have been lost, their blood swallowed by the earth as if Hades himself is drinking the crimson of Athenian youth in His feast. The flesh is the beast’s to devour: an underworld demon born of tainted lust.
Half bull, half man, you always thought the stories were only tales told by the fire to scare children. Turns out that the stories, for once, are true. There's something even worse in this maze, something cursed and foul... Hecate herself would shiver if She were here, in the womb of the earth, witnessing what you’re witnessing now.
You don’t actually see the Bull of Crete cut or hack or slash anyone, and you can only imagine what the monster does to the bloody, gutted corpses of the young. The only thing you see are the hollow, dark walls carved out of soil, sand, and clay, the intestine-like route dug deep into the earth. And you don't have to see the massacre: the screams tell you enough. The silence that follows betrays even more.
Your only light is flickering, waning: the candle will hardly last an hour. If the hero from Athens won’t arrive soon, you will have to leave this place.
And oh, how you want to leave… You were a fool to follow him here. Blinded by love and hope, you thought Theseus of Athens would be your way out of Crete, but it’s clear that the only thing the young hero is capable of loving is fame. The only time his eyes turned to yours was when you said you might be able to help him with a small bundle of yarn.
Red as the setting sun or spilling blood, the thin woollen string is your only way out now. It’s ironic how a heap of twine is the only thing that can help you out of this hellhole, but the Fates always did possess a cruel sense of humour. Your silly daydreams might’ve cost your life, and even if you’re sworn to the dark goddess, you would rather die anywhere but here. In the darkness, all alone, with nothing but eyeless worms to keep company to your decaying bones.
The sudden draft from the outside world is warm but threatens to blow out your candle. It’s a sign from Apollo: if you don’t leave now, you’re dead. Theseus has to manage without you because you’re not dying in this underworld prison because of some man’s stupid lust for fame.
There's only deafening silence in the maze as you scurry up, taking support from the wall as your sight darkens for a moment. You rose too soon: you can’t even remember the last time you ate. And it appears that even the sun god has abandoned you because there's a faint echo of steps in the tunnel, and they don’t belong to a man. They’re too thick, unduly heavy, and it’s not a pair of sandals that are thumping against the soil.
So, Theseus is dead...
So much for the legend, the myth, the demigod.
Heart thumping in your chest and in the hollow of your throat, it threatens to drown the sound of approaching footsteps. They’re all dead, the people who descended here with you. The only thing you are right now is prey. You're being hunted; whether the Minotaur knows you're here or not, you know you're being hunted. You can feel it in your gut.
You cover the candle with one hand, hoping that the flickering light doesn’t reach around the bend. The falling thump of the footsteps stops, and you still your breath, hoping that the beast would turn around and search the other way.
You hear it sniffing behind the wall. It's trying to catch your scent in the air, the smell of dread and terror, sweat so thick it must reach his nostrils and make them flare with lust. Your heart is thundering in your chest, and the tunnel is so quiet that that you’re certain the creature will hear that, too. (Your heart always betrays you.)
And your luck is cursed.
The beast shifts.
You can’t see him yet, but you can hear it: the scraping sound underneath his feet as he aligns himself anew, choosing the path that leads straight down to you.
“Hecate save me,” you whisper into the air that seems to grow denser as he approaches, loud thumps of feet now accompanied by metal grating against clay.
“Hear me, flame-bearing guide... Darkness, protect me…”
He’s dragging bronze against the wall, announcing that he’s carrying a weapon with him, the strength of a bull apparently not satisfying enough if he wants to break your bones with metal.
Don’t blow out the candle...
If you blow it out, you’ll die.
It’s a clear message, a knowing voice in your head that says it. It’s not young, it’s not old: just knowing. Alert. Wise beyond ages.
So you still your breath and wait.
Shadows fill the curve of the tunnel just before he emerges: thick like thunder, a darkness so deep that even the name of the twilight goddess escapes your tongue.
And he’s big. Bigger than the bulls you used to dance with, bigger than kings, or heroes, bigger than even Theseus, the man you thought was a myth walking. His head is enormous, bigger than the rest of him, awkward and rough like it’s not quite part of him even though he’s supposed to be half ox.
The gigantic, horned figure stops when it sees you. Vast shoulders tense; the fat, double-edged sword falls to his side when he settles to loom between you and your only way to escape this place. You’re oddly thankful that the horrible screeching stopped, but then you notice that his blade is drenched in blood: actually, his torso, thighs, even the buckskin loincloth – the only garment this monster has chosen to wear – is spattered with red dots.
The bronze tip drips with crimson, and the earth drinks it all. Hades is never satisfied: this beast is never full. Everyone who was sent down here is dead: everyone else has met their doom except you. You wonder if your mother would cry if she heard her only daughter died because she fell in love with a fool.
“I killed your hero,” the walls of hell boom.
His voice is thick like tar, dark and foul like it’s the God of Earth himself speaking.
The flame in your hand quivers from fear, and you slowly remove your palm, the tiny candle illuminating the beast with warm homely yellow, making the prominent muscles of his chest even bigger.
He’s carved like the statues in Athens, only, this giant is far hairier than the painted marble heroes of the city. The hair on his chest is thick and wild; it shoots down his abdomen and disappears underneath the loincloth, spreads over his inner thighs, even covers his shins in dark mats. He looks like a wild man, a beast indeed: sweaty, filthy and thick. But you never knew a beast like him could talk…
“A coward, that one,” he snarls, the voice reverberating oddly like it’s a human man speaking from under a wooden mask or inside a clay jug.
And you believe every word he says.
Theseus was strong and able-bodied, but he had built his strength just to show it off. This man’s body speaks of pure, ripe survival.
A hulking shadow with shoulders that barely fit the tunnels of the Labyrinth, with palms nearly twice the size of yours, he’s the myth walking instead of the hero whose blood now adorns that dull bronze blade. The Minotaur who survived his father’s wrath, his mother’s absence, these bleak surroundings, and all the heroes sent down to get his head… His weapon isn’t even sharp anymore, and still, he managed to cut through the sacrificial humans like butter. And what a horrific death it must’ve been to be hacked to pieces by a dull blade.
Is it evil of you to hope that the death of your “hero” wasn’t a quick one…?
Theseus was a fool and a coward, rotten to the core, but you saw all of that too late. He never cared about the human sacrifices or the king’s wrath; he never cared about digging into Pasiphae’s sorrow. He only cared about getting his face depicted on a pot or having his deeds played out in amphitheatres, his name uttered in song, accompanied by harp and flute.
“I know.”
Your voice gets sucked into the earth: it doesn’t echo from the walls like his. It’s thin, damp, and frail, just like everything else meant to walk under the sun instead of stand buried under the earth.
But the beast before you tilts its head a little. It’s curious.
Why would you say that?
Why don’t you cry from hearing the news...? Why don’t you howl out your hero’s name and beg the gods to heed your grief? Why don’t you run away from a monster?
The candlelight is puny and weak, but it’s bright enough to bring out the eyes of an animal. You draw breath in the dampness of the earth when you finally see it: the bull’s head is devoid of eyes, and yet, the beast still has them. Blue as the summer sky, stern as the death grip of winter just before spring.
There’s nothing but ripped shreds of skin where the eyes should be, and instead of looking at you from the sides, they’re greeting you from the front. The horns are sturdy, but otherwise, the colossal head is a bit skewed... Thick patches of fur sticking out as if it was years and years old, and then – you realize it’s not his head; it’s only an illusion.
There’s a man under there. A full, grown man who’s made himself a terrible helmet out of a bull’s carcass.
“You’re a man,” you say out loud, earning yourself another shift of the colossal head.
“...What?”
The muffled echo confirms it: he’s speaking from inside the bull, moving only slightly to get a better look at you.
“You’re not a monster. You’re just a man.”
His eyes are wild but intelligent; they pierce you from inside the inanimate shield. The large chest heaves, his ribs flare like sails as he draws air through what must be the foul stench of a long-dead animal.
He takes a step, and you shrink, almost dropping your candle and the roll of red yarn.
“You think talking will save you, female?”
He speaks like a man, walks like a man, but his moves are an animal’s. Shoulders slightly hunched like he’s a bull about to attack, you recognize the way his muscles quiver from the times when you used to do bull leaping. You don’t dance with Rhea’s oxen anymore: your tasks at Hecate’s temple are more suitable and less wild for a maiden your age. Back when you were younger and more agile, you used to jump from the back of one bull to the next, clouds of dust swirling around you as you showed your prowess to the priests.
But you can’t charm this ox by dancing. This one can’t be tricked or fooled: he will pierce you with those horns or his brazen sword if you take even a step.
“I can get you out of here,” you wet your lips, noticing that the blue eyes shoot straight to your mouth when you do that. “I know the way out.”
“What makes you think I want out,” he says, so tight and tense that you fear he’s either about to leap at your throat or plunge his sword into your chest.
And you should be concerned about your own safety, not about his sensibilities – if he even has such things – but hearing this beast man’s reply is like drinking bile.
Why would anyone want to stay here?
You don’t know if he eats human flesh; you don’t know if he had to in order to survive. Everyone knows why his father threw him down here, but no one knows he’s not half the things the people above say he is. And if half of it isn’t true, what other lies have been told about the Minotaur?
Even most prisoners see the sun, yet this man has been deprived of that, too. He’s been robbed of mother’s love, of father’s mercy, of friends and foes, of mentors and guides. He’s been robbed of life, of stars, of fires and summer skies, of women’s giggles, of fistfights with fellow men. Of songs and plays, of festivals and games, of bull dances, and maidens that leap…
“Have you ever been up there…? On the surface?”
You turn your voice into soft water on pebbles, a soothing pour of persuasion and goodwill. His pecs contract, strong abs under thin hair and body fat bunch like you’re about to hit him there. You take a step, and now it’s his turn to shun away. It’s only half an inch, but he actually moves away from you.
“I can take you there,” you offer gently. “Have you ever seen the sun…?”
It’s like talking to a starved predator, trying to entice them to follow you with a fresh steak in hand, hoping that the fanged mouth won’t take more than was promised if it decides to accept the offering.
And the beast accepts.
“As a boy,” he grunts, a tad more softly.
Those eyes are fixed on you, reminding you of horses when they’re slightly afraid. The glint of white and blue behind the carcass is fiercely alive, quite unlike the hollow, disinterested stare of the Athenian hero who was only interested in himself.
But this beast is interested. Oh, the Bull Man of Crete is wildly, fiercely curious about you.
“You’ll take me to the sun,” he repeats, an affirmation rather than a question.
“Yes. To the surface. I promise.”
He moves. Like an animal who learned long ago to drive others into the corner so that he wouldn’t get forced there himself, he’s primal, sensual in the way that oracles in a trance are sensual.
Approaching you in silence that’s almost eerie, the hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end by the time he’s only an arm’s length away. Why announce his coming earlier if he can move so quietly?
“You’ll lead me to my father.”
His gaze bores into you, and not even the warm draft from the tunnels can prevent you from shivering. He’s distrustful, and it’s no wonder. It must be odd that some girl with a candle and a bundle of yarn is suddenly waiting for him around the bend, and doesn’t even flee. He’s a behemoth, but he’s not stupid. A stupid man would not have been able to survive, let alone thrive in this place.
And why should he trust you? Who is he supposed to trust in this maze when every person he has seen has either run away from him or tried to kill him? His father will slaughter him if he ever escapes the Labyrinth, so what else is a priestess in his kingdom but a squealing mouse, trying to feed him lies and then guide him to the surface and into a forest of spears?
“No,” you shake your head slowly. “No, I promise I know the way. There will be no soldiers–”
You shut your mouth just before a huge palm closes around your throat.
Gods, but he moves fast when he wants to…
The candle and the yarn drop the instant his hand seizes your neck, strong fingers nearly meeting at the back as he squeezes your windpipe ever so slowly.
And he’s so close now. The carcass reeks of death, but the man underneath stinks of plain human sweat. His musk is a peculiar mix of blood, earth and soil, something both stale and invigorating, the thin sheen of sweat and dirt covering his muscles making him look like a common builder. It’s strange that the bull’s head hasn’t yet decayed in this place, that the man doesn’t reek of bodies and bones that must be scattered around like debris further down the tunnels.
Another thing that’s strange is that he doesn’t seem to want to simply silence you.
He also wants to touch you.
A wide thumb strokes the underside of your jaw as he studies you. It slides down the column of your throat, the blue eyes gleaming with fascination when you swallow against him.
He drinks in the sight of you: the lips that part with fear, the frail collarbones that breathe against the side of his palm. The promising crevice between your breasts, the enticing softness of your teats.
You can hear his breath grow heavy under ox skin and bone, the rugged, vicious helmet he has chosen to wear. What lies under, you can only imagine, wherein he has little left to the imagination when taking in the curve of your breasts, your nipples rising to peaks under the thin white linen only temple virgins use.
Seeing your reaction to his touch makes him growl -- he actually growls like an animal, a deep, low rumble of approval rising up his throat when he sees how different your body is from his. How supple and cushy it is, soft and plump like a peach, covered only barely as if to tease a best like him. You wonder if he ever took pleasure in the maidens sent here by the king… If he ever thrust the sword between his legs into their weak bodies before giving them the mercy of his actual blade. Would he even know what to do with a woman, having lived here for so long?
“Please,” you whisper, bringing his eyes back to yours, the ice in them now liquid sapphire of pure want.
Gods… You need to bring his attention back to your offer of help before he sees it more compelling to just stay here and play with his new, plump little mouse. Virgin or not, you wouldn’t survive a mating with this man.
“I swear on Hecate’s torch that it’s not a trap. You have my word: I’m a priestess soon to be.”
He’s entranced. Hypnotized by your lips. You lick them to confirm your fears true: the man grunts with pleasure, out of instinct, absentmindedly like an animal who reacts to the sight of a fat, meaty bone.
Oh, he might not know what to do with a woman… But he would try his best to find out.
“Priestess…?” He rasps.
“It’s a holy woman,” you explain. “I serve the Goddess of the Crossroads.”
He snorts, either because he’s not impressed or because he’s downright amused by your vocation. The eyes, warmer, more demanding now, are far from the eyes of a bewildered beast.
“Little female of the crossroads... You will take me to the king. And then, I will kill him.”
He puts weight into his words, tries to make you understand.
He wants you to guide him to his father.
To the King who claims his son is half bull, to the husband who claims his wife was adulterous with an ox. To the King who demands tribute as virgins so that he can send them down to hell. The dark goddess screams justice, but you're at a horrible stalemate.
The gods will curse you for this… They will smite you with a bolt of lightning or drown you next time you cross the great sea if they see you’ve helped this half-beast escape. If you guide him to Minos, you’re a participant in kingslaying, and the gods never forget things like that.
“He’s your father and the king of Crete,” you whisper in fear. “The gods will strike you down–”
“Gods?” He spits. “I piss on the gods. I fuck their corpses and leave them to rot.”
You almost choke on the blasphemy levelled at you. The shadows creep closer, the stare behind the black fur is dark and amused, burning with the crooked wrath of a thousand years.
“Perhaps I’ll fuck you too.”
It’s unnerving that you don’t find the threat wholly unappealing.
If anything, your eyes drift down to the hairs of his chest, to the two big muscles that resemble the work of the best sculptors in Athens.
“Are you a virgin, female of the crossroads?”
His eyes search for your response: they want to see your fear and disgust. You swallow again, arduously against his hand, both caressing and testing you.
The beast leans forward, as if weighing if he could somehow insult the gods by pillaging you. The rough hair of his chest meets the white cloth, it brushes against your nipples as he bends down to have a good sniff of you.
“You smell like a virgin,” he growls.
The hand leaves your throat, only to travel down your sternum. He grabs your breast nonchalantly, a little too roughly, the hot palm closing around the teat and squeezing it like it’s a toy. When you don’t react, he squeezes it again, this time hard enough to coax a whimper out of you.
“Sound like a virgin…”
Without warning, the hand dives straight between your legs next, palm forcing its way through your thighs and curving to cup your sex, moulding around it with barbaric thirst.
“Feel like a virgin, too.”
It’s thick, hot, and heavy, how he simply tries you through your dress. Fingers testing your folds, he’s clearly enjoying the subtle wetness he finds down there. You can hear another hitched grunt pushing up his throat, rugged and whiny this time, a broken groan that dissipates because of how dry his throat is.
No man has ever dared to lay his hands on you... Many have wanted, but none have tried. Even drunkards and fools respect women who belong to the dark goddess.
But he doesn’t care about the wrath of Hecate. He doesn’t give a shit about the gods. He simply takes what he wants, what falls into his lap. The fifteenth offering, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in devouring your flesh.
How easily he could simply yank that loincloth aside and drag your dress up. Force his cock into your tight, wet heat without uttering a word. You doubt that he would even take the trouble of laying you down on the ground for taking... Beasts rut when they want to: this man could fuck you against this wall if his loins demanded so, guttural groans being the last thing you hear before the candle goes out.
You don’t know if you have to spread your legs for him before this is over, but you reckon you will do even that if it means you’ll see the sun again. You’ll endure every thick thrust, and gods be cursed, you wouldn’t even be solely disgusted if this half-animal chose to breed you... As shameful as it is, you would somewhat enjoy having him rut you like an animal in heat.
And you’ve gone mad, surely.
You want to touch him too, just to test another theory.
Deciding that it's a good idea to stick your hand into the maw of hell, your fingers lift. They meet his bicep, and the lewd panting stops.
He’s not even breathing… He’s just drowsy and drunk, looking at you with a mixture of soft sleepiness and awe in his stare. Like a dog who has never been petted, even his eyes drift half closed when he forgets to threaten you, now focusing solely on your hand.
And you start to caress him, slowly, so slowly… Tracing the muscle all the way up where it meets the shoulder, you stroke even the thick cord that leads to his neck. The rest of him disappears under the bull, but the man behind it already shivers under your touch. He even bends his head a little in hopes that you would go under the mask and touch him there, and the gesture reminds you of an animal exposing its vulnerable areas, baring its very throat in submission.
Braving a quick peek down, you notice that the buckskin cloth is stretched high and wide. His whole body is tense and immobile: you could cup him through the soft animal skin and he would probably shoot his seed from a single stroke of your palm.
If this is not a virgin, you don’t know what is...
In a way, it would perhaps be wise to shove your hand down and disarm this man. That way, you would be safe for a few more minutes. Instead, you lay your palm over his chest, right over where his heart should be.
“So do you, Bull of Crete...”
His gaze flickers.
The darkness hesitates, widens, nearly swallows the azure pools whole. But he doesn’t look irate or wild... Only shocked.
It’s an impasse. A thicket. His hand on you, your hand on him.
He surrenders first: the underworld budges before the utterly pure. You bless him with grace the instant he withdraws his hand from between your legs – slowly, reluctantly, like leaving a place that belongs to him. Or to which he belongs…
“I promise I’ll help you, Minos Tauros. But I need you to give me something in return.”
You remove your hand too. Softly, slowly, like a horse master who trains and tames wild things. All words seem to have escaped his tongue: he only grunts, unsure of what a beast like him could give you in return for your help.
“You must promise to be kind to me.”
“Kind...?”
“I need you to behave,” you explain. “No bad things on the way up... No fucking.”
Everything else, he seems to accept, but during the last sentence the Minotaur blinks at you, utterly confused.
“But... You smell like you want to fuck.”
Your jaw drops open a tiny bit. Then you remember that a priestess of Hecate doesn’t gawk.
“I don’t–How would you know that…?”
The beast only shrugs. Then he leans forward and takes another sniff as if to prove it’s true that you want his cock inside you.
“You smell good,” he grunts. “Different... Female, not afraid.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to…”
He even raises his hand to inspect the slight wetness there. Fascinated by the thin film on his fingers, he rubs his thumb in it, probably thinking about bringing it under his mask to get a good sniff of your juices too.
You grab his wrist without thinking, mortified to your core by the prospect of him getting high on your slick.
“Look. We need to leave before the candle burns out.”
The obsessive stare threatens to swallow you once more, so you let go of his wrist and steel your resolve. Scooting down to grab your things, you try to ignore the violent erection still pointing straight at you.
Hecate keep you from offering yourself to this man out of your own free will...
And you don’t have a torch, only a candle and a skein of blood-red yarn, but you know the way out, so there’s hope. There’s always hope.
“I need you to promise me,” you turn at the mouth of the tunnel, seeing that he’s still standing there, in the place where he almost took you like his first whore. As if waking up from a thrall, he straightens to his full height, picks up his sword and looks like a half-human, half-bull once more.
“I promise,” comes a booming voice from under the animal skull. “No fucking… I’ll behave.”
You nod. There's a sense of trust in the air. A promise of hope... It's mutual, invigorating -- life-giving, like the sun and blood in your hands.
You don't know if the son of Minos has ever smiled in here, but from the quick glint in his eyes, you suspect that he's smiling right now, the man under that animal mask. Somehow, it reminds you of the stars in the sky.
“Lead the way, maiden.”
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Yandere! Monster x Reader [Werewolf]
In Romanian mythology, Pricolici is an evil spirit believed to be born after the death of wicked humans, able to transform into certain animals such as ferocious dogs and wolves. The etymology is unknown, although it's suspected to be of Dacian origin, thus going as far back in time as the 1st century BC. An ancient creature has set its predatory eyes on you.
Winner of the Folklore Monster Poll celebrating Romanian history!
TW: obsessive behavior, violence, death
[Horror Masterlist] [More Headcanons]
He can tell it's a dream. Nonetheless, it always feels unbearably real. He can smell the incense, hear the hurried trample of feet underneath him. He wants to open his mouth and demand they stop. No words ever come out, the throat is dry and flattened by heavy despair. It's a dream, after all. The priests march on, and the spears are lifted. For a moment, he's blinded by their powerful, sharp glisten. As he gazes at the sacred circle, it occurs to him just how uncomfortable the shackles are. He becomes somewhat distracted by this irritating friction, so much he doesn't register the instructions given by the mysterious men.
Centuries later, he would stumble upon an old history book by Herodotus that detailed his misfortune:
"The Getae are the bravest of the Thracians and the most just. They believe they are immortal, forever living, in the following sense: they think they do not die and that the one who dies joins Zalmoxis, a divine being. Every four years, they send a messenger to Zalmoxis, who is chosen by chance. They ask him to tell Zalmoxis what they want on that occasion. The mission is performed in the following way: men standing there for that purpose hold three spears; other people take the one who is sent to Zalmoxis by his hands and feet and fling him in the air on the spears. If he dies pierced, they think that the divinity is going to help them; if he does not die, it is he who is accused and they declare that he is a bad person. And, after he has been charged, they send another one. The messenger is told the requests while he is still alive."
The foreign hands tighten around his limbs and he takes a deep breath in, ready for the plunge. Truth be told, he's not too anxious. The first time was terrifying, but one becomes accustomed to death if it repeats itself, night after night as the years pass and millennia settle over it, like a thick blanket of ash and bone and dust. He doesn't remember the pain anymore, only the bitterness. The wrath. He had no business playing God's messenger. He hadn't wished to be choking on his own blood, rippling violently at the corners of his mouth as his eyes dart over the excited masses. There are claps and cheers, and hope, and peace. Just not for him.
No matter, if they long so dearly after eternity, he'll become their very proof. A tangible undead, a creature of eternity. Let them gaze at their ardent desire as it claws their bowels out for the birds to feed on. Let them sing praise before their God as their soft throats detangle under his fangs. Before he knows it, the corpses lay mangled at his feet and he notices his horrid reflection swaying in the puddles of fresh blood.
He has become a beast.
And just like that, the nightmare ends. It always ends here. He pats the sweat off his forehead with the monotonous vigor of habit. It's already noon and the narrow street flocks with curious tourists and natives on their stroll. Every now and then he will venture into the city, just to get a glimpse of the world. He twists the knob and opens a window, enjoying the breeze that cools his skin. His tired eyes wander around with no purpose.
That's when he sees you. Your wide, carefree smile as you converse with your friend. You're drawing circles along the edge of your coffee cup, propped over the table, entranced by your discussion. Your gentle laugh rings unexpectedly loud against his ears. He finds himself frozen in place, unable to contract a single muscle.
"Oh, this trail is supposed to have some really nice sights." Your friend is shuffling through unfolded maps, spread out onto the small café table. "We should leave pretty early though, otherwise it'll get dark before the return."
You groan at the idea. Your friend responds with a chuckle.
"Remember, our tour guide joked about werewolves roaming the outskirts. Do you want to be eaten?" She inquires with a cheeky grin.
"You know I have a thing for monsters." You answer with a wink.
The jokes carry on until the bill arrives, and you eventually stand up and merrily make your way down the street. For a brief moment you feel a cold shiver running down your spine, so you peek back inquisitively. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Ah. By the time his focus returns, the sun is setting, reflecting its crimson rays over the old cobblestone. You've been gone for a while, so he must've been staring into the nothingness for good hours. He clears his throat, mildly embarrassed by his absent-mindedness. He isn't hungry, so he has trouble explaining his sudden captivation with a random human.
Even more bizarre is the consequence of the accidental encounter. The following nights are devoid of the usual torment. Has he ever had a peaceful slumber before? He can't recall. And yet here he is, vacantly eyeing the ceiling without the labored breath or cold shivers, faintly reminiscing about your amused expression. He frowns slightly at the realization that his recollection seems to contain less details compared to yesterday. Your face is smudged by the intense light of the noon, titled at an angle that allows no shadows to discern the features. What will he do when it's entirely gone? A faceless memory, anchored in the depths of his heart as a reminder of what could've been. Is there some universal law that dictates only misery remains unforgotten, or is he just exceptionally unlucky? Infuriating.
The overwhelming sensation creeps upon him again. A primordial vengefulness that hasn't yet released him from its cold, bony fingers. For once, can't he be granted fairness? His jaw clenches and he marches out of the room.
Tonight shall be a feast.
The lights are still on in the little tavern inn, and through the small windows he can make out the lively movement of the people inside. He glances at the waning moon one final time. The world may change, and the years may pass, but one thing has never left him throughout the centuries. Always bearing the same pallid, melancholic countenance, his taciturn companion rises, indifferent to the Universe.
His back arches outwards, the bones tear and twist, the joints dislocate and the skin is giving way to coarse, thick fur. His eyes now carry an amber glow as they rest on the modest building. Without further hesitation, he pounces on the door and it folds like cardboard under his inhuman strength. The room goes quiet and all heads turn to him. He recognizes that look. A fleeting second of fear and curiosity, before true panic settles in. But they rarely have the time to scream. Just as the vocal chords contract and vibrate, their chests are trashed and limbs are tattered. Splattered visceral remains and blood coat the ground under his feral attack.
You squeeze your eyes closed and force your hands over your mouth to ensure your stillness to the massacre. You were just returning from the bathroom when you heard the wails and the wet sounds of mutilated flesh. You'd ducked behind the wall and hid under an end table. What the hell is that creature? You initially thought a wild wolf had somehow made its way into the tavern, but no animal can be this large. There is a backdoor, but on the other side of this hall. You'd have to sprint across the archway that leads into the main room. Then again, if it's this busy ripping the others apart...
No need to ponder your options much. Silence falls behind you, which means the creature must have finished its horrid sport early. His snout picks up a particular scent and he tenses up, expectantly. Could it be?
The wooden parquet tiles creak under the weight of foreign footsteps; a human approaching you. You look up from under the table. Has someone dealt with the beast? Although you immediately regret revealing yourself. You freeze in your spot, hands propped on the ground, like prey awaiting execution.
The man is unnaturally tall, having to crouch under the ceiling, with wild black hair and rough features. His chiseled face is painted red, and his clothing is torn apart and soaked in blood. His large hands end in sharp claws, and amid his ruffled locks you can distinguish animal ears.
There you are.
Well, quite the irony to meet you here of all times and places. From this distance, you look even prettier. He bends over slightly to examine the details that have faded since the first encounter. A surreal experience, really. Seeing you kneel right in front of him and not as a figment of his imagination. He extends his fingers over your face and presses his nails in, leaving a vague trail of swollen, red skin. What a frail being you are.
"Your friend is alive, by the way." His deep, dissonant voice pierces the silence.
"O-oh." You gasp. You were so anxious you barely understood the meaning of his words.
"You may check on her if you so desire, however..."
He considers it. Normally, even after allowing his anger to seep into cadavers and ruins, all he's left with is disgust and emptiness. Yet your presence seems to fill him with unfamiliar comfort. If one is drowning, is it truly selfish to hold onto the first thing that keeps them afloat? The only people who'd condemn such beggar are the ones that have never been underwater. They don't know what it's like to have your lungs tighten and collapse under the heavy pressure, waving your arms towards a surface that's never reached.
"...You'll be coming with me afterwards."
You can only stare.
"Don't worry, I won't kill you." He attempts to simulate a smile. "I suppose I'm not too convincing like this", he jokes as he gestures towards his body, "But you have my word I'll never harm you."
"Why, though?" You manage to stutter, frowning in confusion.
He's taken aback by your inquiry. Perhaps his statement is indeed more threatening than anything else. On the other hand, he hasn't conversed with humans in...longer than he can remember. What might pose as convincing in this case? Drawing out a rose and confessing his undying love among the bodies he murdered feels rather ridiculous. Suddenly, a passage he's once read comes to mind. At the time, it depressed him greatly. Now it feels like the only fitting reasoning.
"Do you believe in destiny? That even the powers of time can be altered for a single purpose? That the luckiest man who walks on this earth is the one who finds… true love?"
"Isn't that from Stoker's Dracula? How is it-"
You pause and search his eyes. Golden trenches of loneliness and gloom. Your heart is heavy and your mouth curls into a grimace the longer you stare into these pools swirling with agony.
"I understand." Is all you can mutter as you stand up.
Have you had a choice to begin with? Not even the frothing waves of a storming ocean can come between a dying man and his only raft.
#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere x darling#yandere fic#yandere imagines#yandere monster#yandere monster x reader#monster x reader#werewolf x reader#yandere werewolf#female reader#gender neutral reader#yandere horror#horror x reader#yandere oc#romanian folklore
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