#introducing;; ariadne

[princessbakarina]

seeing 'new' female isekai-ed characters like katarina, yumiella, aileen and etc get dunked on online by twitter and reddit is so disheartening. dudebros making fun of them for being dumb, dense and idiotic when the male isekaied characters that they like are blander than white bread yet the most gorgeous women still fall on their feet for them. yeah so realistic. sure katarina and co aren't perfect characters but at least they have flaws and faults unlike their op conqueror bland ass printer paper looking male mcs. let women enjoy their female fantasies without being needlessly mocked by men who aren't even the target demographic. give me a break and a gun

[drac-kool-aid]

@plutodetective

I've got another entry to consider for your gothic heroine list - Ariadne from the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur.

I am working a long rant explaining just why she's so perfect a gothic heroine that I am quickly losing all control over but, listen her story fills all the tropes:

Location - this is the origin of the LABYRINTH for crying out loud. Almost every gothic location is at some point called "labyrinthine" and this is why!

Dark Family Secrets - literally the setup is that her brother (HER BROTHER) is a man-eating monster that her father locked underneath the Palace in a maze out of shame.

Evil Patriarch - Minos has no redeeming features. Like none. It's all his fault and he still blames EVERYONE but himself.

Melodramatic Hero - speaking of irredeemable - look at Theseus! Honestly from Ariadne's perspective he ceases to be a hero and turns into another antagonist.

Marriage - Ariadne's hope is that through marriage to Theseus, she may escape her father. That turns out badly for her, when Theseus up and abandons her on a deserted island. And if you learn about her sister Phaedra (whom Theseus does end up marrying instead) kind of dodged a bullet there!

Marriage part 2! - No worries, she does eventually marry, it's to Dionysus. Not only the God of Wine, but of Ritual Madness, Ecstasy, who knows the secrets of Life and Death. He's also Gender. I believe Catullus has a poem of their wedding celebration where Dionysus and Ariadne switch their expected gender roles!!

Revenge - The whole plot centers around Minos getting revenge against the Athenians (his son died in a chariot accident while in Athens once, which...yeah, he wasn't really justified). Theseus takes revenge on Minos and the Minotaur. In Catullus, at least, Ariadne gets her revenge on Theseus.

Lastly, let's look at linguistics for a moment. Mystery is a big part of gothic literature. An old spelling for "clue" is, in fact, "clew". Clew is an old word for a skein of thread. LIKE THE THREAD ARIADNE GIVES THESEUS TO NAVIGATE THE LABYRINTH.

Anyway... sorry about the long post, but I feel very strongly about this.

[videogame-ocs]

Finally Introducing….my canon Rook, ARIADNE DE RIVA!

I used the dragon age human/elf creator on Picrew for Ariadne’s image but tumblr won’t let me link it.

Ariadne’s backstory in full detail (pre veilguard):

Ariadne is an elf with Antivan and Dalish heritage but she is pretty much a city elf. biological parents are Zevran Arianni and Ashara Mahariel (all origins exist in canon, so my Mahariel still exists and has a brief encounter with Zevran. I’ll talk about my non canon characters in a later post).

Her mother, Ashara Mahariel basically had a one night stand with a familiar Antivan Crow the night after the future Hero of Ferelden, Amelia Cousland, Alistair, Morrigan and him solved the werewolf issue. Zevran had been just rejected by Amelia after a miscommunication on Amelia just trying to be nice and Zevran receiving that as flirting.

Soon after Ashara left the Sabrae Clan for unknown reasons and travelled to Tevinter where she befriended Drusilla, a scholar who took Ashara in and helped her out. Ashara would then disappear leaving her baby with Drusilla and her elven girlfriend after the baby was born c.9:31 Dragon. Drusilla called the baby Ariadne and taught her about the Dalish and everything respecting the growing elf’s belief in the Dalish gods not the maker or anything, she was more like a daughter than a slave to Drusilla (which is what she was down as in public).

However Drusilla was murdered when Ariadne was six and she was then sold into slavery. She was freed a few years later after an ‘incident’ resulting in her owner’s death involving a other Crow in Tevinter and she made her way to Antiva being helped by a mysterious grey warden Commander from Ferelden on a mission to cure the calling. It’s also around this time that her magic manifested, Inspired by that warden’s stories of her crow friend, Ariadne heads to Treviso and after a couple of years on the streets she is recruited by the crows.

Again both Zevran and Ariadne are unaware of each other’s existence so if Zev does pop up in Veilguard that doesn’t interfere.

Catarina Dellamorte and the other talons are well aware of who her father is, so they were actually very wary of Ariadne, even as she was training, hence why they never told her or put her in the right house. and they were technically right to be wary. She eventually compromised a larger mission by putting her need to help others first and well…made the talons very angry. Similar to how Zevran annoyed them but she is not yet at the point where The Crows are actively hunting her down.

[acespaceacepilot]

i got a new tattoo yesterday; done by siri montra at o tattoo studio in oakland, california

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader Theseus is dead. You’re escorting the Minotaur, more beast than a man, out of the Labyrinth. The problem is, he seems to be more interested in what’s between your legs than in his mission of killing the notorious king of Crete… (12 k. Minotaur is not an actual hybrid in this fic. Reader is Hecate’s initiate. Part 1 here.) Tags/warnings: Shameless smut mdni, dubious consent, extremely possessive behaviour, abduction, first time (König & reader are both virgins), hugs & cuddles, washing blood off your monster boyfriend, awkward flirting, semi-rough sex, shifting power dynamics, sexist insults & slurs (the citizens of Crete do not approve of your choices), implied cannibalism, fluffy ending. Mythical AU.

The candle goes out before you reach the surface.

To someone else, it would be the end of the world: to you, it’s only a hindrance, a nuisance, mostly. 

You’re not easily distressed. If you were, you wouldn’t be in the service of the greatest goddess of the Underworld. And you’re not mourning losing the sight of your warmly illuminated beast... You’re only worried about what he will do once the darkness descends. Whether he will forget about his vow, whether the baser instincts take over him once the darkness falls.

And darkness is not capable of making you lost: you can always follow the string in your hand. But without light, it’s difficult to predict the Bull’s moves: whether he decides to maim or fuck you against the wall, you can never tell. He hasn’t lived in the real world among people; he doesn’t know what’s right or wrong and what’s expected of him. Even the best of men can succumb to the demands of the flesh, so what power would a Bull Man have against his animal wants? No one ever taught him to respect the gods, let alone the maidens who serve them...

Then again, if a simple candle was the only thing that kept you alive, then what’s the point of lamenting the loss of it? Your life was already forfeit when you chose to descend here.

So you let it go: as always, the greatest lesson in life is to simply let go. Of control, of judgment, of fear, of hope. 

He doesn’t say a thing when the light flickers, then fades. The candle goes out in silence, and you let it drop before the remaining wax burns your palm.

And it’s not the absence of light, but strength, that forces you on your knees before even an hour has passed. There’s still a long way to go, and the yarn is like a thin string of hope in your hand, but you’re too exhausted, too worn out, too hungry and too tired to go on.

The Bull Man doesn’t object to your suggestion to lay down and sleep for a while. He has walked behind you in silence the whole day. Or night… You can’t tell the difference; you lost count somewhere along the way down here. The air is stale and humid, and there’s no torch, not a single candle anywhere and even if there were, you wouldn’t do anything with them without a flint. 

The horror is kept at bay only through your numerous exercises with the goddess who introduced you to darkness many, many moons ago. You were initiated during the dark Moon, the new Moon, the blood Moon, introduced to the mysteries of the maiden, mother and crone, to the secrets of both the living and the dead. You’re not afraid, but your body still warns you of danger: you just don’t know if it’s a memory from childhood or a reaction to the Bull, panting behind you – out of lust or exertion, you don’t even know. Someone who wasn’t a maiden probably could tell… At times, you curse the fact that there hasn’t been a single phallus inside you because men too possess knowledge. Taking a man into your bed would have initiated you to a different set of mysteries, but now, you are poking blind. 

The Bull Man is an animal, you remind yourself. The longer you stay in his company, the more he starts to resemble a human, even if he is a man of few words. How he even remembers them is another mystery: you thought he was sent down here as a young boy. He speaks oddly but eloquently, a remnant of his noble descent, perhaps. Or perhaps he has listened to the people speaking in the Labyrinth, eavesdropped his victims an hour or two before killing them. Whatever the reason, you have to constantly tie your tongue because there’s simply no point in talking to a beast. The less you know about him and his past, the better.

You ready yourself for sleep, but the cursed cold of the tunnels keeps your body awake. Your flesh is human even if your mind is forged to withstand hunger, thirst and pain. Endurance against cold was never your strong suit, and you miss the heat of the sun, the warmth of it on your skin, even the ample light it gives. You, a lover of the moon, missing the heat of Apollo… It’s a joke, surely.

On the stone floor, it’s even colder, the rough, damp ground making your very bones ache. How on Hecate’s name has the beast survived this place?

“Bull Man,” you speak into the darkness, thick like an impenetrable wall and thin like a virgin’s veil.

“Maiden,” he echoes with a dark, low growl, slightly amused by the name you’ve selected for him.

“Are you cold?” You whisper.

Perhaps he doesn’t quite understand the question or why you asked it. It doesn’t matter: you have to swallow your pride and ask for his help if you’re going to survive this dark prison.

“I don’t get cold,” he finally responds.

“Good. I need your heat.” 

The silence drags on, and you fear he has misunderstood you again, but then he speaks again, with the same slightly amused tone as before.

“Come take it.”

You’re not sure if you’ve completely lost your mind, crawling to him through the uneven floor of the Labyrinth. Who knows what he will do to you once he gets those arms of iron around you? You’re placing your maidenhood, your whole body at his mercy. And you’re not even sure if it’s a he, if this thing is human at all. 

Human or animal, your hand meets the bull’s head on the way to him. He has taken it off, then... It’s not a part of him, just like you suspected. Maybe he is just a giant, daunting man, born from whatever forbidden desire Pasiphae had. Who knows if she only went to a foreign lover’s arms when her husband was at war? Who knows if King Minos has trouble getting his phallus up… These things happen: women get pregnant from their lovers, they do desperate things to pacify their husbands. And you don’t need a bull to get yourself an heir...

You feel his heat before you feel his skin: the Minotaur is verily blazing. He has gotten used to the cold, it seems, his body like a small bonfire in the clammy tunnel. 

“Cold little female,” he comments when you snuggle towards him shyly, thoroughly aware of the uninviting chill of your body. 

You settle next to him, every muscle in your body tight like a bowstring, your breaths shallow when he gives you a welcoming rumble. Goosebumps prickle across your skin and your throat goes dry, the thick swallow in the tunnel echoing around you like a thief.

Arms like iron go around you, and his body is taut, just like yours, but for a whole different reason entirely. He’s not afraid or nervous; he’s just… big. Pure muscle, his whole body thick, the stock and heat of him remind you of the sun. A miniature sun down here in these dark tunnels, but while you start to slowly soften in his arms, a different threat is already emerging. It doesn’t take long before his cock stiffens against you, and with the scarce clothing you both have, you can feel its every excited twitch.

Artemis… Protect me from this beast. Turn him into a dog if he tries to penetrate me. Let him rip my throat instead… 

You’ve never prayed to the Virgin Goddess; you don’t know if she can even hear you from down here. But Hecate would only laugh if this Bull decided to breed you. No mercy would arrive from that direction: she would either send a disease of blisters upon the Minotaur for touching her chosen or then she would cackle like an old woman, thousand times raped.

“Thank you,” you whisper, hoping your kindness will distract him from what’s happening downstairs.

“My pleasure,” he grumbles, mimicking the words he probably heard as a child in his father’s great hall. 

It sends a chill down your spine and butterflies into your heart to hear him speak like a polite man of court. And again, you think of asking him about his childhood... His mother, his father, the things he remembers from the surface. How he survived here without water, if there are underground springs here somewhere. Whether he eats humans like they say... If he ever embraced the dead women he killed. 

“Can you do it again,” he rumbles against you, cutting you away from your grotesque thoughts.

“...Do what again?” 

“Touch me… With your hand.”

His words are blunt now, his speech clumsy. But the way he says it is not an order. It’s an odd beg, more like. Laced with hope and wishes far away from greed. This Bull is never greedy, per se… He’s just lacking. Starved, for so many things that you fear there’s not enough time nor kindness to give him what he needs.

Your pulse flutters when you slowly lift your hand and caress the strong cords of muscle that make his neck. The rumbling returns; it turns into a low purr as the beast relaxes under your touch. Something softens inside you when he sighs from relief. His unbridled happiness tugs at your heart, trying to yank open something forbidden. It’s the softest violation you’ve ever felt: to be held by a giant killer having a roaring erection, while the said killer clearly enjoys your caress like it’s the touch of Aphrodite herself…

You even stroke his face. His jaw, unclenching under your touch; his cheek, covered with what you suppose is simply a wild, overgrown beard. 

“Your hand,” he groans softly, “makes me sleepy and warm…”

The cold, uncaring goddess recedes. The burdens of past, present and future dissolve. Softness takes place in your heart; the iron locks give in like brittle brass. A smile plays on your lips as you continue to pet him softly, lulling you both to sleep with your voice.

“Then sleep, Bull of Crete...”

…

You wake up to his cock pressing against you.

Not against your stomach like when you went to sleep – that you could do with – but against your cunt, barely veiled by the thin linen of your dress.

The panic is soon wrestled down with reason: you tell yourself it’s just a cock. It’s just him. You’re simply in the Minotaur’s arms, and he’s sound asleep still; there’s no reason to buck and jerk and scream. 

The darkness feels like a safe womb now, but with nothing to lock your gaze to, you have to take a moment to ground yourself into reality. And the first thing you ground into is a thick cockhead, pressing fast into your nether lips. He’s practically at the gates, and you’re lucky he’s still asleep.

It’s perhaps your fault this happened in the first place: you notice you’ve dragged your thigh over his hip; as if wanting him to fuck you in your sleep… You embrace him like Helen of Troy, and he holds you through his sleep like a man in love, perfectly content with napping on the cold ground with you.

“Mm…” The beast stirs, probably noticing how the female in his arms is tense as a rod. “You smell like you want to fuck…”

“No I don’t,” you hurry to whisper.

Gods curse this man’s ability to smell everything from miles away. Blood and humans and, apparently, a woman at her most receptive. 

What if he can actually smell the wetness between your legs?

“We need to go,” you slowly remove your leg from on top of his waist, hoping it would go unnoticed that you were clutching him like a lover. You have no such luck: he grabs your thigh and draws it back, sets it safe and snug around his waist while adjusting his grip on you, now hugging you entirely like a lover would.

“I want to mate with you,” he says softly. “You want to mate too. Why go?”

He sounds so adorable when he’s still in the process of waking up to a new day. Drowsy and sweet, voice husky from sleep, body warm as can be, the hard-on between his legs happy and stiff.

“I thought you wanted to kill the king,” you try to point out. 

“This is more important,” he gruffs. “Urgent.”

The cock pushes further up and against you, now spreading your folds under the dress, trying to penetrate into your heat. Your eyes go wide as thick need pools down to meet his greed. His body, his cock makes your head go dull for a moment; you feel like you’re not even capable of thinking actual thoughts.

“No, it’s not. We need to get up.”

You stiffen in his arms, push yourself away, and to your surprise, he actually lets you go. Reluctantly and with a hollow grunt, but he lets you go. 

You rise with a wobble, and adjust your dress, your head spinning from his advances. You swear he becomes more man-like every day, every passing hour, even. Or is it just you who’s changing…? 

The Bull Man is up before you get to ponder on that thought for too long. Your heart and head struggle to find their footing for a moment, your legs are so weak you feel like fainting. He catches you before you fall, the warm, thick arms closing around you with stout affection.

“You need more heat?” He asks softly.

You look up out of habit, even if you can't see his eyes, covered by the carcass again because his voice is muffled.

“No… I’m hungry.”

He’s silent for a moment, probably thinking what he could do to help the situation. You fear he will suggest you go back to visit his “pantry” and eat whatever horrible, half-rotten man-flesh he might have in store there, but he only holds you close to prevent you from sliding back to the ground.

“Hmm. No mice up here,” he ponders. 

“You eat mice…?”

“Sometimes.”

You leave it at that: you don’t want to know what he’s had to do to sustain himself down here. You don’t even have a fire to cook the vermin, even if you would be ready to eat even those after another day or two without food. 

“Not a long way up,” he says. “We will reach the sun soon. Then I’ll find you something to eat.”

“How do you know that…?”

“The air smells different.”

You sigh and search for the string, your lifeline to the outside world. You can’t wait to get out of here, and with both hurry and an odd dread, you hike for what seems like another whole day. Tension, hunger and thirst distort your thoughts, and you’re sure by now that the time flows differently here in the Underworld. With no small amount of pride, you feel accomplished to have survived this place so far. Even gods have had to do some tricks to escape the nether worlds: it is no small feat to charm the Minotaur and then walk out of here unharmed. 

To your knowledge, you’re the only one who has ever escaped the Labyrinth. You haven’t even had time to think about what you will unleash with you… The demon that walks on your heels will take his revenge, not only on the king but on the city who threw him here. 

Well. It’s their problem now. Minos and Pasiphae simply have to deal with their successor. The world will simply have to deal with the Underworld’s wrath. 

And oh, how Hecate would laugh if she saw this monster prince of Crete escape his prison because of you – the feared Minotaur set free, only because he’s mesmerized by a woman. You suspect he would have his cock jumping for any girl, though. It's not because you're an exceptional sorceress that he follows you: it's your cunt he's after. And it shouldn’t make you feel jealous that he probably gets distracted the moment he sees a better offer walk by.

But it does. In your darkest wishes, you would keep the Bull Man all to yourself. Get him a leash, perhaps... Feed him with your own hands and let him grope you in the dark, watch him go wild from lust when you finally give him access to your cunt. 

Many would hardly think you’re a virgin if they took a peek inside your head. But the things you’ve seen and done, the white bulls you’ve slaughtered for the dark Goddess, adorning them with cypress wreaths before slashing their throats open, would turn any woman bleak and twisted like this. For once, you would like to save the bull from slaughter.

When you see the first evidence of light, your body lets out a sigh it has been holding ever since you arrived here. Seeing the sun gives you more strength than any food or meal, and you pick up your pace while the Minotaur behind you begins to hesitate. 

“It’s too bright,” he says before you’ve even walked out of the tunnel, now turning into a vast cave, the entrance to the Labyrinth. 

You turn around to look and stop in your tracks when you see the fear in his eyes is acute. It’s mixed with wonder, the curiosity wrestling away doubt slowly but surely. He only needs a little nudge, a gentle pull, an enticing little smile and eyes that he can trust.

“You’ll get used to it soon,” you extend your hand. 

He takes a step, then another, then another, until he reaches your outstretched fingers, and hand in hand you walk out of the Labyrinth and into the bright morning sun, burning over the kingdom of Crete.

He’s only a breath away from panicking, but covers it well. You wonder if it’s truly the light that’s too bright or if the feeling of being so exposed is what makes him so afraid. Clearly, the vast space opening up before him is intimidating. 

There are grassy plains as far as the eye can see, little hills that dot the horizon, and skies so expansive and bright it must hurt his eyes. Goats are grazing under the sun, trees are bending in the wind, the rustling of leaves and the sound of birds calling him to look in all directions as he tries to make some sense of his surroundings.

“It’s alright,” you give his palm a soft squeeze, and the way he looks there under the sun, so big and powerful and able, and still so utterly lost, is giving you heartache you haven’t known since you were a child.

“There’s… so many colours,” he says, looking at the blue summer sky, the deep olive greens, the dirty whiteness of the goats, the flowers upon the grass. A butterfly, flying past, yellow like the citrus that people harvest from a few miles from here. A big blackbird with an orange beak, swooping down to catch a cricket, the slate grey pigeons flying so close to the sun that he has to shield his eyes even if they’re already safe and sheltered under the bull head.

Seeing his wonder and awe makes you look at the scenery so differently that it burns, it actually hurts: there’s so much beauty in the world, and you have always taken it for granted. Cursed the rain and the storms, cursed the droughts, cursed the gods for sending down another famine, when in truth, the world was filled with abundance, of colours, of life and joy… And all you’ve done is worship darkness. Now the darkness is out: it’s standing next to you, watching the view of your mundane everyday life like it’s nothing short of a miracle.

And when you turn back to look at him again, his eyes are upon you.

“What?” You ask, freshly caught in your moment of weakness.

“You are pretty,” he says, eyes wrinkling with delight under the mask. 

Gods damn him… 

He doesn’t know that human men don’t act like this, talk like this, or if they do, there’s usually something vile involved behind it all. He doesn’t know how to play games, he was never introduced to the lies and deceit of the world.

The Bull of Crete only looks at you with soft fondness in his stare – he doesn’t understand that he should cover that softness as well if he intends to win. Any woman could put a leash on him before another moon has passed, but he doesn’t seem to care. And it’s not even heat or hunger that makes you weak this time... It’s those eyes, looking at you with more and more warmth.

“Nonsense,” you huff without a voice, and turn towards the old road with an adoring bull on your heels.

The cold sigh of the underworld is quickly left behind you as you walk up the old carriage road, nearly grown in with weeds. The Labyrinth is located miles away from civilization, but the people living in these hills are used to the cold cave by now. They trust that the Minotaur will never escape and only turn away their heads and close the doors of their huts when the screaming, crying human sacrifices are delivered to the mouth of the cave. Little do they know that the monster is now looking at their little hills and goats with delight, not bloodlust.

For the Minotaur is fascinated with your world: he has to touch every leaf, every tree, every blade of grass, it seems. The goats are afraid of him, but one small nanny is bold enough to come and sniff his hand. Perhaps it remembers that beings walking on two feet give her apples sometimes, and the giant studies this small white animal with gentle curiosity, allows the goat to smell his hand, only chuckles when the goat gives out a little scoff when she notices there are no treats to be found there.

The vision is more adorable than when you’ve seen children play with kittens, and no matter what you do, you can’t turn your heart into ice anymore. You were taught that the Minotaur is a monster who enjoys torturing his victims, creatures far more helpless than him. Now you see him watching the she-goat with warm curiosity, rumbling softly inside his helm, far from the ravaging beast that approached you in that tunnel what seems like months ago.

You watch him with tender sadness as he marvels at the sky and remembers how he used to sit in the shade of an olive tree when he was a child. He goes to sit there now and examines how the sun filters through the massive branches of the tree as if trying to recall the memory. 

He asks questions like: “How can you humans stand this heat?” or “Why is there only one road?” and listens to your answers carefully.

He says he can smell the sea, even if the salty water is miles and miles away, and gets curious about what’s behind that hill, or that one, what about that one… You wonder if he’s even interested in killing the king anymore and suggest that he could just forget about this cruel place and buy himself a sea voyage with that expensive sword. He could get rid of his helmet and ask if anyone needs a goat herd or an able-bodied man to help at construction sites or stables; he could get work from the docks any day, sail to Athens or some other big city, forge himself a new life. 

But he doesn’t want to.

He says he has to avenge his mother who always cried when he was little.

More wretched tugs pull at your heart as you approach the city. The lovely summer’s day turns into a nightmare once people see who’s on his way to the heart of Crete.

You don’t understand their screams, not anymore, while only a few days ago you knew they preceded death. The Minotaur doesn’t kill anyone, mainly because he doesn’t have to. Everyone flees before his wake, people rush to their homes and bar the doors, even soldiers slip away to be with their loved ones or run to warn the king if they have any loyalty left. 

You’re left to walk through the marketplace in settling dust and tense silence as the Bull Man explores the abundant samples of food on display. He has to have a taste of everything from all stands, but only after he has offered figs, olives, grain, grapes, grilled meat and fish to you first.

“Eat,” he says and shoves a handful of pine seeds your way. “You were hungry?”

“This is not the way to–” you ignore the food only through sheer willpower. “This is not right. People own these things. They sell them at the market, you need to pay for these.”

“Pay? With what?”

He looks at you for a moment, unable to recall what money is and how these things are supposed to work. He probably had his mother’s servants bring him everything he needed as a child anyway, so how could he know? 

“They will take your hands for stealing,” you try to explain with softly building despair.

“I will take their heads before that.”

“The next king will hunt you down and punish you,” you rush after him, and when he won’t listen, you seize his hand and finally get him to halt. He looks down at the weak palm around his wrist, then raises his gaze to you.

“Bulls don’t have kings.”

Your attempts to tame him are futile. The things they’ve taught him to be are now being used as a way to escape responsibility, and while it’s none of your business, you refuse to let him believe that he is nothing more than an animal.

“You are not a bull,” you wail in frustration. “You’re a man.”

He hesitates, only for a moment; the gentle, loving gaze makes your legs weak.

“You’re the first to think that.” 

Then he rips himself away from you, softly but sternly.

He doesn’t need directions to the palace: he knows he has to head for the most prominent building in the city to reach the king. The grandiose heart of Crete, white-chalked and beautiful under the burning midday sun is the pride of every citizen, even if it houses another monster.

You sigh as you watch him go: the Bull Man, the demon of the underworld, the one you thought would rape you bloody before you get to crawl out of the Labyrinth. The fact that he wanted to kill his father more than he wanted to be born again into a new life wasn’t a surprise, but that he chose to bloody his sword rather than his cock is somehow... insulting, almost. 

What actually haunts you is how your insides coil and turn when you rush back to your temple. It’s not like you thought the Minotaur would take you with him. Board some trade ship bound for distant shores, and ravage you ever so softly in the belly of the creaking hull. It’s not like you dreamed of petting him to sleep while you two embark on a new life. But the way your heart twists and wails inside your chest makes it clear that losing him is even more painful than losing Theseus and the life he promised you. 

You never even wanted Theseus; you only wanted him to take you away from here. His affection would have been the result of ample witchcraft at best.

He’s practically already dead, and your heart turns to stone far more slowly than you would prefer. It’s just your luck to first have the golden hero of Greece look down on you in disdain, and then witness even the Bull Man walk away from you like you never meant anything to him. Men killing each other is the oldest story in the world, and you want no part in it, but something in this beast has stirred you awake from a long, cold slumber. It’s infuriating that you can’t dispel a simple animal from your heart. Oldest story in the book, that one, too…

But oh, how you now yearn after some cruel, lowly, dirty beast… The Minotaur already owns you, and he never even had to plunge his sword inside you to prove that. Besides, you would’ve been perfectly willing had he decided to take you on the green grass, under the vast sky, while some noisy goats graze around you. You realize that that’s what you expected to happen, and when it didn’t, you’re left more than disappointed: you're left completely hollow. You always find out these things a little too late, it seems… The Bull is headed for the palace and will likely get killed after he slaughters his cruel father. There’s at least thirty spears in that building, and more will arrive when called.

You arrive at the temple, panting and with your body flushed and weak. The maidens at the entrance share a quick glance with each other before turning their fearful gazes back to you. They’re the youngest arrivals, not even initiates yet; one of them hardly even bleeds. 

“The King is dead,” you announce without bothering to even greet them, and the girls huddle up together like they’re a bunch of slaves about to get slapped.

You realize you must look like an animal with your dirty robes, dishevelled hair and your wild, alive stare. No wonder they look like they’ve seen a ghost... You basically are one, coming back from the dead like this.

“What?” 

A priestess arrives at the threshold like an image of Hecate herself, dressed in robes as black as the midnight sky, but you don’t shy away from her like you used to.

“Or he will be. Soon. The Minotaur is here.” 

“How did you… How did it...”

You’ve never seen the priestess in disarray. She’s always composed, cold and distant, but seeing you like the wraith that you are, freshly escaped from the Labyrinth, spat back from the bowels of the earth like the dark gods didn’t even want you there, makes even the greatest of Hecate’s servants a little uneasy. 

She gathers what’s left of her dignity and finds her most commanding voice. Sadly, it doesn’t have the power to shake the ground anymore.

“Where is Theseus of Athens?”

“Disemboweled… is my best guess,” you say in a listless voice, then turn your head toward the smell of fresh fruit.

Normally, you would walk these halls with dignity, but now, you simply barge in and grab the first piece of food you find. You ought to get whipped for your insolence, but no one dares to raise a hand against you. The maids and priestesses stare in shock as you eat and drink like a starved prisoner. You’re a living Hecate in certain aspects, your arrival the first toll of the bell of doom as the palace guards sound the alarm.

So…

The Minotaur has reached the king.

…

The priestesses deem it only logical that the King finally pays for his sins: the gods have been offended by the number of human sacrifices sent to the Labyrinth, and this is their way of exacting revenge. You were only an instrument of their will.

After a quick wash and some more food, you begin to feel like a human again. The maids bring you a new chiton, flowing and white: your old clothes are burned in a brazier as if that would help you forget.

And this might be the only place you don’t get blamed for unleashing a monster. You were at a crossroads with the Minotaur, and anyone would have done the same: try to talk him out of his killing spree, calm him down, entice him with a gift. No one expected that the beast could even speak, so your approach was unusual, perhaps, but it worked. Hecate guided you through the tunnels, even when the candle went out, she stilled the Bull’s loins until you reached the sunlight where the beast got distracted with other things. You leave out the Minotaur's attraction to birds, bees and butterflies because your story is unbelievable enough as it is.

But the Minotaur will be slain after he has done his deed: Minos is the one who should be punished, not the city of Crete. And it is only just to put down this beast, a mercy.

So when he appears between the pillars of temple, this time wholly covered in blood, people are bound to scream. Even the priestesses who are used to seeing blood, shriek like widows when the Minotaur steps inside the holy shrine of Hecate.

“Where is the maiden of the crossroads?”

He came back for you, after all…

The boom of his voice is familiar, and yet, you cower on the bench when you hear it. The Minotaur sounds like he’s an envoy of Hades himself, and while you’re not among those who scream and yell, it still sends shivers down your spine to hear him speak like that.

Or is it the excitement, a tiny flame of hope that makes you quiver like this?

“We all belong to the goddess,” someone peeps, the Minotaur now descending down the stairs.

The massive head turns, gaze like razor sweeping across the marbled shrine. You’re so far back that he can’t catch you, sitting behind many bodies and faces, and before you can force yourself to rise, the main priestess, the oldest, most crooked of the crones, steps forth to meet this beast.

“This is a House of Hecate,” she speaks. “No man is allowed to enter unless they are Death.”

The black carcass turns, but the priestess doesn’t waver. If anything, her spine turns into unbreakable metal before this man’s gaze.

“I am Death,” he says, far more gently than anyone would expect. Then he walks past the crone like she’s just a harmless elder. No one does a thing, because even the head of your temple is powerless now.

“She had a red string and a candle. Where is she?”

He grabs the first woman he sees, and you rise up before he decides it’s time to thrust his blade into someone to loosen the tongues of these women. 

“Please,” you take a hesitant step towards your Bull. “I’m here... I’m the one you’re looking for.”

The Minotaur lets go of the frightened initiate the instant he sees you. She’s shoved aside with little interest, the blue eyes behind the corpse now solely fixed on you. The way they soften into hazy ice makes your knees weak – that’s the stare of someone who recognizes their loved one among a thick, dull crowd…

“Come with me,” he extends a hand when he reaches you, strong legs swallowing tiles like he’s in a hurry to get back to you. You open your mouth, close it, and look at his hand, the rough, enormous palm held out for you to place your own little hand in.

“You belong to me,” he says with great weight when you don’t speak. It should spark the ire of the goddess for him to dare to talk to you like this… But mostly, your body sings. It tells you to take a step and take his hand: to let him have you, once and for all. 

“My place is here,” you utter, all power gone from your voice. All your dreams, all your fears are offering their hand to you with his, and the maidens, mothers and crones of this hall look upon your exchange with the Bull Man in stupefied silence. 

“You were sent down to me,” he presses on. “You are mine now. You belong to me.”

Your body is singing, singing, singing.

It’s not a request… Or a proposal. 

It’s a god, taking what’s his.

…

You swallow with nothing in your throat and look at the head priestess with helpless misery: she looks back with the eyes of a noxious Medusa, wholly dispassionate to the problems you brought upon yourself. And what could she even do? She’s unarmed against the claims of Hades: Death is now in love with you, and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it. 

He doesn’t want to stay in the city, as enchanting as it is, saying that it stinks and that he’s tired of the screams. No one wants him here; he already knows that, and the task he was meant to do is done. He doesn’t seem to be much moved by it either, only asking you if there is a place where he can wash the blood off himself. 

People become more bold when they see you walk out of the city. Not even the sight of a crimson demigod makes them watch their tongues. Insults and slurs follow you through the streets, shouts such as “Kingslayer!” and “Beast!” are accompanied with curses such as “You are an abomination!” and “Go back to your lair!” 

No one treats him as their prince and savior, no one sees him as the man he truly is. And because hatred thickens in crowds, you get your share of the insults as well. 

What kind of a woman would follow a beast like him? Have you sold your soul to the demons of the desert, or has Hades himself forced you to be with this monster? Are you behind the murder of their king?

“Must I remind you?” You turn on your heels, standing tall and proud with the posture of a queen. “According to the old laws, the one who slays the king is the next to rule.” 

“You led him out of the Labyrinth, didn’t you?” the voices ask.

“Gave him your cunt, too,” they sneer.

“You’re worse than the bloody Gorgon,” they mock, but you have a thick skin: if anything, you take it as a compliment to be referred to the mighty slayers of men.

What cuts through your heart is the filth and hate they spit at him, the man who has known nothing but loath since he was born. 

“Hecate’s whore… I should kill you first,” one soldier shouts with spit running down his chin.

The citizens of Crete would never hail the Minotaur as their king, but none can say the deed didn’t prove great strength. Some would even call it justice. He is the queen’s son, after all: he’s more royal than any of these dung-stinking peasants will ever be. He should never have been sent down to those tunnels in the first place.

Before you know it, the Minotaur swoops past you in haste, diving towards the screaming crowd with hunched shoulders and a fiery breath.

“Stop,” you say, and he halts immediately, gaze still directed to the one who called you a whore. The soldiers back away along with the peasants and tradesmen, these poor, humble Cretes who act like they never meant to be so mean.

“Let us go in peace,” you command, voice unwavering and stern. “Or I will curse you all. You and your families, down to the seventh son and seventh daughter.”

That manages to shut them up. The threat of a curse frightens these poor beasts even more than the enraged Minotaur breathing fire through his helm. No one wants rot and puke to follow them wherever they go; no one wants to doom their offspring with illness, death and sorrow. They disperse in all directions and only hiss and whisper as they go.

You spit on the ground as your last gift to these people, leaving the city of Crete with the ever-adoring Bull at your heels.

“You’re even prettier when you’re angry,” he says while walking next to you, voice thick with genuine passion and awe.

You roll your eyes: any man would cower before Hecate’s curse, but this one? This one only gets more horny. 

“Perhaps you are part bull after all,” you retort dryly.

“It takes more than one spear to kill me,” he boasts, but you don’t need more proof of his prowess. Surely, people have tried to kill him in the Labyrinth, but he’s survived every single attempt on his life – for that alone, he should be a decorated hero.

The only thing that makes you annoyed, however, is this childish need to prove he could’ve taken the whole city by himself just because some man happened to call you a slut.

“Mother said I’m a monster instead of a man,” he says, completely unaware that your snap wasn't meant as a compliment. He says it like he’s partly proud of it, and you finally sigh and turn. 

“Your mother was heartless. And wrong.”

The Minotaur only looks at you with a building passion that goes straight to your loins.

“But you’re not.”

“...What?”

“Heartless.”

You feel stripped naked before him, the way his eyes seem to burn away your poor dress. But the fact that he unearths your most guarded secret, just like that, is a catastrophe of a far wider scale.

You’re not sure who’s tied to whom anymore… Or if you’re tied to each other, the gods now laughing in their wine as they look down at you two: a fierce and bloodied giant following the maiden he stole like it’s you who took him and not the other way around.

You reach the roaring waters of a waterfall in silence, the night wrapping the lands inside a dark blue veil. Stars will be visible soon, and with the moon creeping up to the sky, you won’t be needing candles tonight. The silver mistress gives plenty of light for you to admire your beast, and compared to the thick darkness of the tunnels you emerged from this morning, it feels like a generous blessing.

You sit on the banks of the small, clear pond, utterly exquisite at nightfall. The sun’s heat has turned into a warm, caressing breeze, and you submerge your feet into the water, giving out a satisfied sigh as the cool pond embraces your travel worn feet. The Bull sinks to a crouch some distance away from you, curious about your obvious moment of pleasure.

“Did you meet her…? Your mother?” You ask from the cool water lapping at your feet – how can a simple man make you feel so restless and shy?

“Did you… kill her?” 

“She cursed me,” he says, sullen and wholly unsurprised. Time and time again, you are shocked by the hatred his own kin shows him. How can a mother be so cruel?

“How could I kill my own maker?”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “For everything.” 

You swallow before such unwavering love. The same man who cursed the gods yesterday  honours the womb he came from so much that he won’t raise a hand against it, not even when his own mother spits curses at him. You don’t know if it’s his greatest strength or biggest weakness, but sometimes you wonder if he’s more human than humans, this beast.

“I’m not,” he retorts immediately. “The king is dead. Mother is safe. I have you... This is the best day of my life.”

You turn to look at him. Time and again, the lack of lies and deceit in this man catches you off guard. It’s more painful than any wound, to see how the Minotaur has no protective skin against the corrupted human nature, that he is human nature before it was defiled.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you falter. 

The chiton pools around your ankles, and you wonder if the man even breathes anymore. You know your skin is glowing with the last rays of the setting sun, you’re aware that the water and moonlight play upon your skin and make you look like an illusion, powerful in its own way.

When have you ever faltered…? Back when you were a little girl, you reckon, the notion euphoric and eerie in your bones.

You rise up and undress before him nonchalantly, trying to ignore the fervid stare of your admirer. Unclasping the brooches holding up your white linen dress, you let it fall down and set you free, secretly reveling in the downright carnal stare now glued to your skin. 

Ripe for plucking, you think while stepping out of the pile of cloth and into the thin evening air. His gaze feasts on you: the plump breasts no one ever loved, the vulnerable navel down below, the dark triangle between your legs, the secret power it holds.

Heat pools into your core as you watch him: everything in your body turns warm and soft when you take in the utter heftiness of him. The mean, swelling phallus between his legs, the near inhuman strength those shoulders and chest possess. Your body is the complete opposite of him, ethereal, almost, compared to the absolute brute strength before you. 

His eyes linger there the longest until he rises too, stiff and dreamy, a beast entirely taken by a thrall. The loincloth is practically torn away, as if it’s only a nuisance he must get rid of immediately. His eyes never leave your shape while he bares himself, and the phallus, you notice, belongs to a human. It’s thick and wondrous, fully erect, adorned with dark curls and accompanied by a set of balls you’ve mainly seen on horses. Big, full and round but unlike animals, they’re covered in dark fur, almost black here in the evening light. Thick seed beads through the slit of his cock from simply seeing you, and the way his chest heaves makes it clear that this man is ready to mate as soon as he’s allowed to do so. 

“You need to take off your helm,” you lift your chin, thoroughly aware of your power over him, even if it’s laughable, a miracle that he doesn’t fuck you on the spot like the animal he is. “You’re a man, not a bull.”

His eyes don’t betray any kind of hesitation. He doesn’t seem to be interested in whether he wears his mask or not. He just blinks as if he’s indeed under a spell and nods.

“If you say so.”

The broad muscles flex as he takes it off, and what is revealed to you from underneath the head is both a surprise and a disappointment. There’s not a monster under there, only a man, a stoic, boorish, shaggy male who’s in desperate need of a wash and a comb. He’s somewhat handsome under all that facial hair and knots, actually, not bad at all – if you like your men rugged and wild. 

He lets the head drop to the ground with a thud as if it was never a part of him at all, and follows you into the pool like you’re his mother and he’s your cub about to get scrubbed clean. 

He seems to dwarf you, even when half submerged in the pond, leaning back with a sigh not unlike yours. If you’re afraid, your body has a peculiar way of showing it: even in the clear, glossy water, you can feel yourself get wet. Never have you seen such strength, not in any man: in horror and awe, you realize he could be a descendant of Zeus himself. As if providing proof to these claims, he looks up to the sky, mesmerized by the myriad stars dotting the vast, unattainable blue.

Using this momentary distraction to your advantage, you reach to pluck a handful of moss from the bank. With this soft little sponge in your hand, you hope to make it clear that this is indeed a bath, not foreplay. 

“They’re stars,” you say softly while slinking closer to him. “Have you ever seen them...?”

“Yes,” he rasps with his head lolled back, throat completely exposed. It always hurts your heart to see that he trusts you so fully. You are no threat to him – even if the gods changed the moss in your hand into a weapon of some sort, you wouldn’t pose any kind of challenge. And still, the way he allows you to creep towards him and wipe his rough hide with the makeshift sponge without so much as flinching is heartbreaking. 

“I have forgotten…” his voice drifts off as he examines the night sky, eyes filled with distant, glass-like delight.

“Beautiful, aren’t they...?” 

“Your world is pretty,” he brings his gaze back to earth and to you. “But you’re the loveliest thing I’ve seen so far.”

You almost freeze upon hearing that. His compliments always catch you off guard, but this time, something forbidden and long forgotten comes undone: a lost want, no, a need to hear such simple words of shallow praise.

“You do not scream... You do not run. Why?”

Your eyes are liquid, glass about to break as you set yourself on the task of scrubbing him clean. You refuse to get emotional in front of him: an initiate of the dark goddess, shedding tears when a horny man calls her pretty? What utter nonsense.

But then he grabs your wrist: not to seize back power, but to prevent you from escaping this fragile moment.

“You are different,” he agrees calmly, then releases you, but you reckon it’s mostly because he misses the soft rubs you were giving him. 

“Perhaps I’m crazy,” you breathe while looking at the damp curls on his chest.

Yes… That’s the only explanation for this madness. It has to be.

“Is that why you took me?” 

“I took you because you’re mine. I want you.”

“You can’t just take what you want,” you warn softly.

“Why not?” His head tilts a little to the side as he’s trying to make sense of you and the manners of your world. “Don’t you want to be mine?”

You lift your gaze and risk a look into his eyes, stripped from all facades as always. You even catch a passing wave of worry there: he had counted on you being as fascinated with him as he is with you. The hunger behind that want, the need to be something special to you, is a whole another issue that must wait until your head is more clear. Way more clear…

“Perhaps,” you confess.

“I have nothing to give you,” he shrugs, eyes looking slightly past you this time, out of shame or anxiety. It takes a while for you to understand he’s liking you to the goods at the market and thinks he’s expected to have money to be able to keep you.

“You don’t need to pay for me,” you smile, trying your best to disguise the soft amusement in your voice. His brows only furrow as he tries to calculate and think.

“I don’t understand the rules of this world,” he finally shakes his head. 

“I’ll teach you.”

For a while, he only looks on with fascination how you rub his arms and belly, basically massaging him with the wet moss. His eyes drift closed when you scrub the back of his neck, the stout erection only getting thicker under the cool water. You’re careful with his legs, not because you’re afraid he’s ticklish but because you try to avoid touching the huge cock already jutting up from happiness. It gives a few excited bounces when you wash his inner thighs, hopeful to get its needs satiated soon. 

“I can hunt for you,” he suggests. “Bring you food… Protect you.”

He’s visibly excited when figuring out a way to give you something in return. He wants to provide offerings for your company, your lore, and eventually, your cunt, too. You might be a virgin, but you’re not stupid: of course he wants the soft, wet prize between your legs. A pair of lovely tits to squeeze at night... Ears to groan hushed confessions into, thighs to nibble, bite and suck until you cry... 

“What do you think?” He asks, breath heavy from the bliss you’re already granting him by simply giving him a bath. “I could give you my heat. Please you...”

“You know how to please women?” 

“No. But you could teach me.”

The way he says it is not shy. Only tentative. A bear, walking on ice and hoping it would carry his weight. One wrong step and the ice will swallow him, spitting out his bones only in spring. 

And then…

“Do you know how to fuck?”

The ice holds, mainly because you’re too shocked to even slap or ridicule this man. His eyes bore into you with such unbridled greed that you have trouble keeping your precious pride intact.

“Of course,” you hear yourself whisper like it would be an insult to your intellect if you didn’t.

“Teach me,” he says, ever more greedily.

“I…”

Your jaw is left open, but not a word comes out. A strong palm closes around your wrist again, this time to bring you flush against him. The water laps at your skin, a distant crow cackles somewhere. Your hand is brought to his phallus, but he doesn’t have to wrap your fingers around it: you do it all by yourself, breath locked in your throat as you feel how hard and blazing he is.

“You want my cock,” he says, mouth only an inch from yours. “Don’t you...?”

You wet your lips – a mistake, because his half-lidded gaze darts to your mouth the instant your pink tongue lashes out. You’re in a predicament, but on the other hand, what else did you expect, taking your clothes off in front of a touch-starved bull?

“I’d give it to you happily,” he insists. “No female ever wanted to spread her legs for me.”

Or a leash. 

Your fingers tighten on their own, they mould around him. Like a bond…

“Really?” You breathe. “What fools they were...”

The cock gives a full throb inside your palm, exalted to be yours. But only a moment later, the dreaded Minotaur moves. 

You find yourself under him before you can even gasp for air: the soaked, hot body of a giant now pinning you on the grass and crushing you under it with ease. The weight of your error is fully pressed against you: he was never tamed, and you were a fool to think you could put him in chains.

The raw scent of earth and musk fills your nostrils, making the stars above you spin. His cock is trapped between your bodies, giving another rich pulse against your thigh. Gods, if he were throbbing like that inside you…

“You make my skin burn,” he growls into your ear, the heat of his skin now unbearable, the coarse hair prickling your skin from neck to thigh. “My loins, ache…”

“Are you a witch?” He asks, and you finally allow yourself to breathe.

If he only knew… But hexes and charms are of no use for you now: the only thing you can do is moan, apparently, as he dives for your neck, planting barbarous kisses on your skin.

Down, down, down he goes, pure avarice driving him to feast on every part of you. You’re too weak to stop him when he searches for the source of your intoxicating scent. Discovering it between your thighs, he dives nose-first into your sex, meeting your core with a hungry grunt.

Your back arcs with pleasure, your nails sink into his back: a funny thing to do when he’s already as close as can be. The trail of crude kisses leads him to your breasts, and you try to keep your whimpers in control, but a gasp erupts when he drags a hot tongue across your nipple. Massive palms close around your tits while you squirm in his hold: he doesn’t seem to be driven by the need to please you; rather, he wishes to study you first, examine how your body reacts to his groping. He leaves your breasts aching and sore, every bite and suck managing to make you wetter and wetter, your cunt screaming for attention by now.

“Gods...” you wriggle on the soft earthen bed, not expecting him to take you with his mouth first.

He withdraws, only a little, but his voice is surprisingly soft.

“Do I hurt you...?” 

“No… But this is not mating…”

“Even I know that much,” he says darkly, and grabs you by the waist, moves you around like a doll until you find yourself on your belly. 

He looks at you from between your thighs, demonic and keen. The broad shoulders force your legs wide apart when he’s seated there, waist-deep in the water, with you hauled to the shore like a siren.

Not a moment is wasted as he pulls you back to him by the hips: you’re drawn to all fours, a hot streak of cum dragging on the inside of your thigh from the cock that meets your skin. He grabs and steadies it with an annoyed grunt, and the fat tip is shoved straight into your folds, your nether lips parted with brute force almost. 

“Guide me.”

His voice is demanding, impatient as he drags the fat head up and down the entrance of your hole, coating his cock with your slick in the process. You wonder if it’s instinctual, if he knows that this is where he should poke and that it will hurt you less if he’s well-oiled. He’s about to rut you into oblivion the instant you tell him where to shove his cock, and the prospect only sends more sap flowing down your thigh.

“There…” you stutter when he finds it, the aching spot that’s leaking profusely. He pushes the head in, not by teasing but by bullying, almost forcing it inside from how tight and unreceptive you are.

“Tighter than my fist,” is his only comment, and it makes you shudder. “I will not last long…”

You wince from the burn, but the rest of it glides in like a dream, and suddenly you’re filled, to the capacity, one could say. He grunts just from the way your womanhood is hugging him, not sure what this foreign object inside you is – is it a good thing or a threat?

“Easy then,” you breathe a huff into the sweet night air, filled with fireflies and night birds who know nothing about the fucking you’re about to go through.

He doesn’t move – inside you, that is. Outside, he crawls forward until he moulds around you, heavy body enveloping you completely. The hairs on his thighs tickle the back of your legs, his chest scrapes your back just so as he demonstrates how you belong to him in every way. But when your cunt starts to squeeze him again, he swallows thickly.

“Does this feel good to you too…?”

You catch faint confusion and concern in his voice, astonished that such a soft, frail body like yours can take his cock just like that. Little does he know you’re still adjusting to his size, thanking all the gods that he doesn’t move yet.

“Yes,” you confess because it does feel good: his thickness inside you, stretching you both gently and violently, studying how it feels to be inside a loving, wet heat.

“Then I will fuck you every day,” his lips come to brush your ear. “Many times...”

You hear yourself whimper, more humble now than ever. No man would dare to take you on all fours, but here you are, like a bought bride about to get stuffed…

He withdraws a little, asks, “Like this?” when he returns with a rough, nasty thrust. The balls meet your mound, heavy on the tender nub you’ve flicked when you’re lonely, covering your mouth while you do it. Both your hands are planted on the ground now, your legs spread before this beast, cunt filled to the brim with his cock.

“Not so rough,” you warn, and he heeds your instructions to the letter until he’s moving in and out with a slow, delicious pace that allows you to feel every thick bump of him. Soaked now down to your thighs, the sounds of your mating is utterly sloppy and slick, and of course he’s curious.

“Are you always like this…?”

“Like… what,” you huff in between the slow, torturous thrusts.

“Soft,” he rasps. “Tight… Wet like rain.”

“No. It’s just when…”

“When you want to fuck?”

You whimper for an answer, mostly because he starts to slip from the agreed sluggish pace. His cock invades you with more urgency, chasing the eruption that must be generous from those thick balls that should belong to a horse.

“I knew it…” he says dreamily behind you. “Some women want to mate with bulls...”

He punctuates his newfound pride with a full, deep thrust, and you wince.

“You’re not a–”

“Keep telling yourself that, little maiden.”

He exhales a hot smile next to your ear, and you’re neck deep in love. Your mouth hangs open, your lids half closed and fluttering from the way he pounds into your poor, abused cunt. Heavy balls slap your swollen nub with careless abandon, making you squeeze his thickness every time he hits the end of you. His grunts become more animalistic with every thrust, and your cunt is a wild thing, leaking and weeping and throbbing until you fear there’s something wrong with you – no woman is supposed to be this needy for a beast…

I’m going to come… You realize in horror as the slick sounds of fucking overthrow even the coursing roar of the waterfall. The knowledge shoots your body full of dark, hot ink; it explodes inside your core like a liquid star, throbbing through your cunt currently being ploughed like you’re nothing but a needy, sloppy hole for him. You’re swimming in so much pleasure that it’s almost painful, the revelation some secret of the gods, no doubt. 

He growls when you moan, heavy arm snaking its way around your middle to keep you in place for him. The purr is eager and low, the rumble erupts from his chest like a thick, loving volcano, a statement of how perfect you are. He nuzzles his nose into your neck and rubs his scent all over you while fucking you through it, the divine rapture that leaves your throat dry from moans. 

He doesn’t need to be told what it means when you’re crying like that: he doesn’t need to be explained that his cock is giving you ample pleasure. It’s so desperate, how much he wants to both fuck and please you, just own you and fulfill you, that you start to shake, your frail body not capable of handling the orgasm he just gave you. 

Your strength fails, and you find yourself on your elbows, cunt even more exposed to him now, the cock pistoning into you with a relentless pace. He’s like a titan upon you, taking pleasure from your quivering, weak frame and the tight wet hole that belongs to it. You’re still in rapture when he starts to sound like broken, wounded man.

“You were made for me,” he huffs. “You were made...for me…”

His voice evaporates along with your thin, adoring mewls, just before he fucks himself over the edge. You can feel the hot, thick spurts, filling you as he roars into your hair, balls pressed flush against your sex, thighs meeting yours in a moment frozen in time. 

They can probably hear him all the way to the city, hear what a cunt like yours does to an invincible beast like him… But his cries are only met with silence; the night sky looks back with disinterest, the birds continue their songs when they notice it was only the roar of a mighty beast that filled the land. Before long, he’s groaning above you, using your hole more softly; loving it until the last drop is milked. 

When he stops, his whole body is trembling from release, but you’re not given a moment of reprieve. He forces you to the ground with him on your back, the rough, thick body never leaving yours. Coarse beard chafes your neck, his body trapping you completely under him, he even opens his jaw to take your shoulder between his teeth and bites you while his cock is still pulsing fat inside you. 

“I can’t get enough of you,” he pants into your ear, angry, almost.

“Good,” you breathe a smile, but he’s not satisfied.

“You couldn’t get enough of me too… I noticed.”

“You gave me pleasure,” you agree. “Lots of it.”

“That was a lot of seed… I haven’t spilled in days.”

He huffs into your ear, astonished and proud that he could do such a thing. You feel him shift to take a better look at you, fingers arrive to graze your temple as if to make sure you’re real, as if having his cock inside you wasn’t enough proof of that. They’re a little shaky, a little uncouth, but the touch is gentle enough, and sweet.

He's boasting again perhaps, you don’t know, but you give him a soft laugh, notice how he stops breathing momentarily when hearing the bright sound.

“I am filled to the brim with you, yes… It will take a while before I can take more.”

“...You have other holes in you,” he offers after a while, quite seriously, in fact. 

“Get off me, you beast,” you huff and squirm to get out from under him, but there’s a luscious grin on your face, a smile that tells him you would more than approve of his obscene ideas later. 

“This feels good,” he murmurs into your hair. “This feels right...”

He allows you to leave from under him, only whines when his cock gets exiled from your cunt. He misses the wet heat like a newborn child misses the womb, but you need to recover from the recent invasion. Seed gushes out from your hole, making a mess on the ground as he pulls you against him, wanting to cuddle you next.

You wonder if he even knows what cuddling means as you lie there with a sticky mess between your legs and the heat of an entire sun on your cheeks. You smile into the coarse, sweaty body hair tickling your nose, deciding it doesn’t matter whether he knows or not: the most important thing is that he wants to hold you like this.

“Yes,” you smile. “This feels right…”

Something blooms in your chest. An odd flower, persistent and sweet. 

The stars above are cold but motherly as they look down on you two: born again into a world that doesn’t want either of you. The only things that accept you now are flowers, birds, the wind and the rain, bees and salty sea, but that’s aplenty. That’s more than the whole of Crete could ever give you.

“Are you thinking about your hero,” he asks above you.

“What? No…”

“Good,” he rasps, so softly now that you start to fear he’s about to cry.

You are more than capable of lying, but Theseus hasn’t crossed your mind in hours: the last time it did, the memory was received with loath and disdain. Thinking about Theseus while you’re draped all over your Bull, his seed flowing out of your womb... What a ridiculous idea. 

The reason for his hardly disguised anger is laid out plain before you: he's just jealous like any other man. Somehow, it makes you feel even more glowy inside.You’re my hero, you want to say, but have no courage to spill out the words. He was balls deep inside you mere moments ago, but telling him this intimate truth seems to be too much.

It never occurred to him, then, that you would enjoy copulating with him. He fucked you with the impression that you needed thoughts of another man to make you wet… That perhaps with the help of the image of Theseus in your mind, you were able to come with his cock inside you. 

“My Bull,” you whisper. “Tell me your name. You must have a name…?”

His breath stops only for a moment, the heart in his chest gives an arduous beat before he answers.

“Asterion.”

Starry one…

Of course.

All monsters have names, usually the opposite of what they’re claimed to be. His birth is in heaven, in the stars; he belongs to the company of heroes and gods.

“Asterion,” you whisper it out into the night air while the animal an man both find their new home in your arms. “Your birth is written in the stars. Did you even know…?”

“Does that make me a hero?” He snorts, more old wounds torn open right before your eyes. 

You wriggle yourself out of his hold, but he avoids your stare. You lift a hand to bring those beautiful Olympian eyes back to you.

“It makes you immortal.”

Perhaps you should’ve known he would be enticed with an apple instead of tethers and deals. Or with a palm, held out with no intent to strike… 

It’s lovely, how he blinks every time he’s confused. You’ve yet to see him shy, but if he ever is, this might be the moment… You even catch him swallowing under that wild facial hair, an awkward blob right after that blink when his birthright is acknowledged.

But even more dumbfounded he becomes when he realizes you’re truly and veritably admiring him. When you whisper it to him – you’re my hero – and watch something shatter in him that was supposed to wrench itself free, that’s when he’s truly granted divinity.

Perhaps it was all about becoming animal again, allowing the other to have a sniff. Baring your throat and embracing the instinct to trust. Marrying your wild soul… The deepest magic of all.

[thealtoduck]

Sweet Juice

Clark Kent x Male Reader

Content: Greek Mythology AU

Warnings: Smut, Bottom!Reader, Top!Clark, semi-public sex, anal sex, unprotected sex, drunken sex, skinny dipping, spit as lube, missionary position…

Summary: You’re a member of Dionysus following and during a feast you meet a demigod son of Zeus, Clark, also known as the man of steel…

——

You were a lesser deity in a world filled with powerful gods, monsters and heroes. You were the son of the now famous naiad, Daphne. Unfortunately though your mother was no longer with you as she had been turned in to a laurel tree as a form of mercy.

It was considered mercy because the only other option she had was to be violated by Apollo, who was under the spell of Eros after an argument between the two. Apollo feeling bad about the whole ordeal apologised by finding you a place in the retinue of Dionysus and Ariadne.

You didn’t mind this as your duties were pretty much drink, dance, fuck, drink more and generally just to have a good time. It was just constant partying and celebration.

One night when the party had yet to start a visitor came for Dionysus. You were sat close to the god’s throne, you were petting one of his pet leopards when a strange man appeared and entered the god’s camp. He walked slowly towards the olympian. You noted his handsome appearance as he stopped in front of Dionysus.

”Lord Dionysus, you sent for me” the man said in a deep tone. ”I did” Dionysus confirmed before standing up saying loudly ”Everyone! Let me introduce to you to Clark, you may know him as the man of steel!… And also one of my younger half brothers”.

Dionysus followers broke out in cheers for the hero, who seemed slightly confused by the big welcoming. ”I’ve called him here to save us all from the cyclops that has been attacking in the night” Dionysus declared and everyone once again cheered.

”What?! You never told me of any cyclops?!” Clark asked agitated. ”Actually I didn’t tell you anything but you showed up anyway” Dionysus teased him. ”Why don’t you save them yourself?” Clark questioned. However Dionysus only responded with a simple ”Where’s the fun in that?”.

Clark looked irretated at Dionysus and said ”I will not be tricked in to fighting someone else’s battle”. Making the on looking crowd let out disappointed murmurs. Dionysus walked up to the hero and put a hand on his shoulder.

”Come on Clark, do us this favour and we’ll give you the biggest celebration you’ll experince in a life time, with the finest wine and feast, our best music and dancers and if you want you can take to bed anyone you fancy, we don’t judge” Dionysus offered.

Clark took a moment looking around at the crowd surrounding him until his eyes landed on you for a swift moment. He then turned back to Dionysus and said ”Very well, i shall do you this favour”. Once again the crowd including you broke out in cheers and applause for the demigod.

The very next day gifted Clark with a sword, armour and food by Dionysus as he and his followers saw off the hero on his way to save them from the threat of the cyclops.

I didn’t take long for Clark to return as he was back at the camp by next day. He came back in the afternoon covered from head to toe in dirt, dust and a little cyclops blood. Throwing the red painted sword by Dionysus feet.

”Well done” Dionysus complimented looking at the blood drenched sword. Dionysus then turned towards you ”Y/n, take our hero somewhere he can wash off” he commanded. ”Yes, lord Dionysus” you said with a quick bow. He then turned back to Clark and said ”When you return, we feast”.

You went and collected a basket with a bottle of scented oil, a strigil (a tool they used in ancient greece to wash themselves) and a new chiton. ”This way, my lord” you said to Clark and started guiding him through the forest. ”Please, just Clark is fine” he said humbly following you.

You guided him to a secluded pond. ”Impressive, how did you find this place so quickly?” Clark complimented. ”My mother was a naiad, it’s an instinct��� you explained putting down the basket next to the pond.

”Would you like me to bring you anything else?” you asked Clark as he started undressing out of the dented armour and dirty chiton. ”You’ve already done enough for me, thank you” he said gentlemanly. Clark was now naked, revealing his muscled body and impressive manhood, which you tried not to look at.

He stepped down in the pond, the water reaching up to his hips. ”Why don’t you join me?” he suggested gesturing towards the water. ”I’d love too, but i have to help the others prepare everything for tonight” you said. ”Come on, only for a short time” Clark tempted. ”Okay” you said with a smile, taking off your chiton and sandals.

Clark watched your naked form with interest as you stepped down in to the water. ”See, it’s nice” Clark said starting to wash himself off using the scented oil you brought for him. You tried not to stare at his oiled up chest but you were 90% sure he caught you looking but he didn’t say anything, he only smirked.

You relaxed in the cool water for a while until you remembered you needed to get back to the others. You climbed out of the pond and started putting on your clothing once again. ”Thanks for the company, hope i’ll see you tonight” Clark said. ”Hope, i’ll see you too” you said and started walking through the forest back towards camp.

That night the music rang loudly through the forest as you celebrated the death of cyclops and your new hero, Clark. You drank and danced wildly with your friends. Some others were already passed out from drinking, some were gambling and playing games and one couple were fucking against a tree.

You saw Clark sitting on a pillow next to Dionysus talking, goblet in hand. You made your way over to the olympian and the demigod. ”Y/n” Dionysus exclaimed happily as he noted your presence. He patted a pillow next to him saying ”Come sit down”.

You took the offer sitting down next to the god, he made your empty goblet instantly refill and put an arm around you. ”I was just telling Clark of my inner circle” Dionysus revealed and continued ”Y/n, here you’ve met, he is my and Ariandne’s favourite attendant and friend” he said sweetly.

”Also he has a body as if sculpted by Pygmalion, carved and smoothed to absolute perfection. You should hope to have a look upon it someday” Dionysus said taking another sip from his goblet.

”Actually i already have” Clark stated boldly making Dionysus spill some wine on himself. ”Y/n, joined me for a swim in the pond” Clark explained making your cheeks heat up slightly. ”Is that so?” Dionysus questioned looking towards you.

”Well, i’ve got to go find Ariadne” Dionysus said getting up leaving you and Clark. ”Are you and Dionysus-?” Clark started but you cut him off saying ”No, he and Ariadne just have a very open relationship”. ”How has your night been?” you then questioned the hero.

”Enjoyable but i’ve never been much of a party person” he said then taking a sip from his cup. ”I get it, before i came here i wasn’t either” you told him and then got an idea. ”Wanna go for a walk for some peace and quiet?” you asked. ”Sure, i’d love too” Clark said and the two of you stood up and walked off in to the forest behind you bringing your goblets with you.

You walked and talked for a while, drinking until your goblets were didn’t have a single drop left in them. Dionysus must’ve brought out the strong stuff because you and Clark were stumbling around and slurring your speech, you were laughing loudly at each others stories, sitting very close together.

Finally the two of you ended up behind some bushes close by to the party. You started to passionately make out, you laying on your back in the soft grass and Clark on top of you. Clark tore open your chiton and undressed you, leaving your naked form beneath him.

He then took off his own clothes revealing his muscular body and his hard cock. Clark took his hand and brought it to your mouth, you sucked on his fingers to get them wet, then he brought his moist fingers to your enterance and started pushing finger inside you.

You let out a small gasp as Clark started to finger you open, he added another fiinger and then another until you were ready to take him. Clark spit in to his hand and rubbed it over his erect manhood.

”It’s time i claim my reward” Clark said spreading your legs, he lined himself up with you and started pushing his hard cock in to your warmth. Clark loved the seeing the face you made as his cock slowly filled you up.

”Fuck your so big” you hissed as the demigod was fully sheated deep inside you. He then slowy started moving pushing himself in and out of you as a wave of pleasure started washing over you.

Your legs were wrapped around Clark as he thrusted in to you. ”I’m gonna fuck your little nymph hole full with my seed” Clark groaned in to your ear and placed kisses all along your neck. The demigod started speeding up his thrusts.

”Clark, fuck yeah! Take me” you said in ecstasy grabbing at his back as he fucked your hole. Both of your bodies had started gleaming from sweat as he mounted you under the moonlight, as his reward for defeating the cyclops.

Clark’s thrusts became rougher as he wanted to take you like a real demigod would, he loved how your walls clenched around his thick cock. He brutally fucked you with all the strength of his godly heritage to bring you to your release.

You let out breathy moans as Clark pounded your gaping hole, thrusting against your prostate. You felt yourself getting close to your orgasm. You dug your nails in to the grass below as Clark’s cock made you see Mount Olympus.

”Clark, i’m gonna cum” you said panting heavily making Clark thrust deeper as he wanted to push you over the edge. Then your cock started spraying cum all over your and Clark’s stomachs. Clark’s own release was getting close.

”I’m gonna plant my seed deep inside you” Clark moaned and his rough thrusts became uneven and sloppy. Clark delivered one last deep stroke in to you and he erupted inside you, he flooding your insides with his cum.

Both of you panted heavily and Clark rolled over and layed next to you in the grass. ”You were amazing” Clark praised while softly stroking your cheek. The two of you then used your torn clothes as blankets as you cuddled close together and you both fell asleep under the starry sky.

[eloquentlytired]

the knight — a logan howlett fic

pairing: old! logan howlett x plus size! reader

warnings for this fic: age gap, built up tension, eventual smut, reader is over 20, cheating, timetable is set centuries ago (18th-wise maybe) except rotten mindsets/opinions, fatphobia, the royals suck a$$ but who's surprised, themes of violence and blood

summary: you're of the highest noble class and married off to your land’s prince. during your time in the palace and your struggling effort to fit in, you realize that no one is what they claim to be except one man alone. logan howlett, the king’s right hand and best knight, strips himself off every comfort and sworn oath as he accompanies you through the horror of royalty. in the end, your feelings shift and chaos ensues.

Prologue

There was nothing uncommon about a girl of a noble family being forced to marry a man of an even wealthier better status. Except the damn prince. Your parents were delighted and had arranged everything themselves when the question was asked to them. Not to you.

A lady had no say in her marriage after all, unless she was commonly born.

“Maybe he's nice.” Your maid said as she packed your things for tomorrow’s moving. You'd been living in a castle, a castle of all things, alongside your new husband starting tomorrow.

“Maybe he's the worst.” Your voice barely came out as you sat on your bed, fidgeting with your night dress.

Cassandra, your maid and best friend, sat by your side with a reassuring smile. “Well in that case I will have to whoop him once in a while, won't I?”

She knew you like the back of her hand so it was easy to cast light upon your sour mood and expression.

You both gazed at each other and began laughing as you held her.

“I will miss you. I'll try to visit as soon as I can.” You promised her and Cassandra graced you with her signature loving smile.

“May the gods give you everything you wish for.” And to her words, you prayed the same.

The ride to the castle was not bad, just tiring. You did this travel alongside your father who put on his best facade before the queen and king. It felt surreal, and more so anxious, to stand before the most important people of this land.

You bowed before them just like you were taught, with your shaky hands gripping your dress.

“Let me see you.” The queen cooed while gripping your chin harshly. Your image of her immediately shifted from a fairy to whatever monster may look like her.

“Such a beauty, isn't she?” Your father asked before he was rudely interrupted.

“Now now. Adjustments can be made.” The Queen said in a monotonous voice which made your blood freeze within you.

Adjustments?

You didn't dare move as she continued inspecting you under the silence of her husband the King and your father. Her long, thin fingers moved creepily around your face resembling spider legs.

“You’re a full girl but I have just the solution. I too had to drop the cakes you know.” She laughed, then the King laughed then your father. It was a strained sound coming from him, something that was forced for the whole purpose of pleasing his queen, but it still wounded you inside.

You felt thankful when you were quickly dismissed so that your father would discuss the marriage details with the queen and the king.

Your new maid, who didn't seem to be over eighteen, was the sweetest girl ever. She escorted you to your chambers immediately and began sorting out whatever you'd brought along.

“What is your name?” You asked her and you were sad to see her so startled, almost fearful. Were they treating her badly here?

The girl looked at you and spoke with a stutter.

“Ariadne, my princess.” What a pretty name, you thought.

“Well, Ariadne, it's nice to meet you. And please call me by my name, not a formal title.” The girl seemed to ease up slowly when you introduced yourself and looked at her so kindly, almost motherly.

You spent your afternoon being pampered by servants to an overwhelming point. In the bath, when you brushed your hair, when you clothed yourself, even when you were to paint your face with your personal make-up they would not let you do it alone.

“The queen likes red, princess.” Ariadne whispered in your ear when she saw your confused expression. You didn't bother correcting her when she called you by formality. You were too overwhelmed at that moment.

When the preparations were finally done, you turned to the mirror only to find a reflection... unknown.

“You look marvelous, princess.” The maids around you complimented and did some final adjustments to your red dress and makeup. The dress itself was red all over made of expensive fabric. The skirt was high and bouncy around you and the corset beneath was all but allowing you to breath. The corset’s tightness forced your breasts to be pushed into a higher position — they were evidently exposed because of the dress’ low cleavage.

“Perhaps there's something I could wear over this?” You asked but they all looked at you as if you were crazy.

“Her Majesty chose this for you. Said it's most suitable for a girl like you.”

The reply you received from one of the maids made you wonder. What exactly did that mean? In the back of your mind you knew all too well that she was referring to your body but once again you did not speak.

You were with your father, walking around the palace grounds and getting familiar with the gigantic space that overwhelmed you. Your arm was comfortably hooked around his own as you walked.

“How do you find your new home?” He asked with a grin upon his face, one you didn't want to ruin.

“It’s lovely, father.”

Your lack of effort went unnoticed by him per usual.

The sound of commotion startled both of you, making you stare at each other. You pulled away from your father and walked towards the large windows of the castle, gazing down at the courtyard. And then you saw him.

The prince was obvious amongst the many guards that surrounded him, wearing his distinguished cape and a crown smaller than the king's and queen's. He stood proudly upon his horse, blonde hair and blue eyes shimmering but it wasn't enough to draw your attention.

Your father hurriedly marched by your side and spoke. “That’s your husband to be. The most handsome in this kingdom indeed.”

His words barely registered into your mind.

Your gaze was fixated elsewhere as you stared at the royal guard riding beside the prince; a worn out face, an ashy coloured beard and a proudly puffed out chest. He looked like he'd seen better days or that he'd barely smiled in his whole life but even then you couldn't stop staring.

“Yes. The most handsome.” Was all you could say in response to your father as he held your hand and pulled you away from the window.

The prince turned to his right hand, to his most essential and strongest guard.

“Being a prince is a wonderful thing, wouldn't you say sir Howlett?” The prince asked as he addressed the knight by his side.

Logan nodded in response, his years of service having taught him better than to disagree with the hands that fed him.

“That is correct, my prince.”

His eyes glanced at the young boy — a ruler to be. But Logan knew there was no hope for this land and Kingdom; not if this was their future king.

“But being King is more than wonderful. And I intend to experience that glory with you as my protector.” The way those words came out of the prince's mouth was different — cruel and thirsty. Logan had heard that tone before. From men overwhelmed with power that in the end ended up dead.

“Of course, my prince.”

Something alarmed Logan, like a scratch by the ear.

He snapped his head to the left and gazed at the palace’s high windows. There was no one there but he felt his gaze and presence drawn to whatever that area was; the same area that you had walked by with your father.

As he and the guards parted from the prince to enter the stables, he heard whispers that barely intrigued him.

“The new princess, our future queen, has arrived.” His ears picked up many comments — good and bad — but he paid no mind as he took care of his horse.

“Are you not curious to see her, Logan?” One of his fellows in the royal guard asked while the others replied for him.

“He is the prince’s right hand. He will see whether he likes it or not.” The men laughed but Logan busied himself with cleaning after his horse, scrubbing its brown fur silently.

Another knight interfered while slowly retreating from the stables.

“You better tell us if she's worth it!”

Logan gave him a dirty look before resuming his work quietly.

He was just about done caring for his horse when a servant boy approached him, carrying a paper wrapped package in his arms. The boy seemed flushed and out of breath, signaling that he'd been in a hurry.

“Sir Howlett!” The servant boy called and Logan looked at him while wiping his arms with an old rug.

“Spill it,kid.” He mumbled in a tired tone.

“The prince demands your presence in tonight’s dinner.” Logan paused.

“It is Scott’s shift—”

The servant boy cut him off. “H—He said he'll cut off my head if you decline.”

Yes. Those were the moments he hated, the moments he considered rebellion or brutality. But he also knew better than to have an entire royal army chase after him on the crown’s behalf.

“I'll do it. Go home,kid.” He ignored the youthful tears and the repeated thank yous of the servant boy as he ran away. Logan knew how it was, how it felt. He wouldn't say you're welcome for not taking away a life; all of that process was fucked up.

The time for dinner was nearing as Logan dressed himself with a newer, cleaner armor. One that was requested by the prince himself.

Logan stared in the mirror of the confined room he lived in. His reflection was someone unknown.

“Let’s do this.” He whispered gruffly as his hands instinctively wrapped around his sword.

He could feel it in his old bones and the fluttering sensation in his gut. Tonight would make everything shift.

author’s note: hi lovelies. this is so self indulgent ngl 😭 I have somehow already written the first chapter too but I'll post it tomorrow. just felt really inspired all of a sudden. also noticed the reflection parallels with the reader and Logan? I stan! hope u enjoyed and if u like this pls leave a like, reblog and comment!🩷

[thel1ghtningthief]

demigod oc concepts i let rot in my notes app

feel free to steal w or w/o credit idrc

child of medusa & athena

siren child of poseidon

child of psychopomp hermes

child of persephone

children of psyche with butterfly wings

child of arke

children of kymopoleia

child of phthisis

child of harpocrates who cant talk

colourblind child of iris

children of selene, helios + eos

children of the muses

demititans!!!

children of the four sorceress'- hecate, pasiphae, circe, medea

child of aeolus

children of the asclepiades

child of thea

child of asteria

child of thalassa

child of eleos

child of bia

children of zelos

child of aristaeus

children of zagreus, makaria & melinoe

child of thanatos

child of astraeus

child of khione

child of ariadne

demigod child of athena whos actually quite dumb, but is a MACHINE when it comes to weaving

child of chiron who's so done with people asking if chirons actually her dad

demigod who was born in ancient greece but fucked around and found out when it came to the lotus shit

demi-nymphs & demi-satyrs

child of prometheus who can lowkey see the future

idk if you could tell but i may have. a little brainrot. also shoutout to theoi.com for introducing me to some of these god/desses

[fyeahaudiodrama]

Happy @podcastgirlsweek to all who celebrate! While I haven't had the time to properly work on fics (and probably won't this week because oops, hurt my hands yesterday) I still wanted to take the time to highlight some favorite podcast girlies along with everyone else!

The prompt for Monday is highlighting podcasts with women in the leading roles, so here's a few of mine (and hopefully, some new ones of yours if you don't know them yet):

Back Again, Back Again: Ilyaas, you absolutely fantastic disaster of a fantasy ace, never stop trying.

Breathing Space: While the show is anthology with a rotating cast, some of my favorites from across its run include:

Evie Yuriskin

Amity Archer

Any characters who were introduced one episode and then started referring to each other as "my wife" by the end or by their next appearance

Camlann: Some apocalypse survivors interpret dangerous dreams about dark magic to cope. Some knit sweaters. Both are valid and should kiss.

City of Ghosts: Featuring the grungy, disgruntled, tormented-by-visions LADY detective of your dreams.

Desperado: Take note - give your ladies knives. And god powers. And witchcraft. And a sniper rifle, for good measure.

Do You Copy?: I think [REDACTED] deserves three weeks of paid vacation

Fawx & Stallion: Madge Stallion is THE moment. She's six feet tall. She can't stop making innuendos. She's not your fucking Mrs. Hudson (although, she is - no, I shan't say).

Hi Nay: Mari & Laura are my everything - the loving and self-sacrificing hero and the newfound friend who chooses to stand by her side (fire axe and all).

Inn Between: Oh, my Inn Between girlies, where do I start? Fina and Betty, the OGs and life partners that even death couldn't stall? Rosie and Zara, the new best pals who chose to stay together? Phoebe, just one step at a time learning what she deserves and what she doesn't? All impeccable, A+.

It Makes A Sound: Any show focused on music is going to be a slam dunk for me, but Deirdre's quest to reclaim her memories as well as those that tied her to her mother is so damn real and compelling.

The Kingmaker Histories: No female character in this show has ever done anything wrong. Colette gets a migraine pass. Ariadne can turn people inside out. Daphne is owed this for working in a theme park.

Life With LEO(h): Janiiiiiine, so messy and smart and dedicated and she cares so much, I love yoooooou.

Me and AU: Kate's worries and desires and doubts are some of the realest out of any audio drama so when do I find an Ella too

Palimpsest: My faaaaavorite gothic horror anthology, each one fresh with a different brand of haunted, tormented, secret-keeping (and quite frequently gay) gothic protagonist

The Pasithea Powder: Jane and Sophie. Sophie and Jane. What more could you need? <3

The Silt Verses: Women who start cults/leave cults/seek an end to the endless cycle of meaningless sacrifice as so valid. For all your wet cat(fish) woman needs.

Second Star to the Left: Because I always love a good Ishani performance. Hi Gwen, please tell Boots I love them.

Small Victories: You want sad wet cat women? How about one that literally can't stop self-sabotaging (but at least manages to draw the line at sabotaging others...occasionally). She even gets stabbed!

Starfall: I mean, kind of a given, but anyway, Leona definitely exists because she's the kind of action protagonist woman I always wanted - one that could be unapologetically powerful, but still full of flaws and desires (especially ones that weren't about falling in love and minimizing her own strengths). She's even autistic!

Stories From Ylelmore: Keryth! Keryth, Keryth, Keryth! She reminds me so much of the kinds of characters I would make up when I was younger - I love her and her small magic so dearly.

The Strange Case of Starship Iris: Hi queer space pirates <3

Unseen: Another anthology show, but Harry Winters and Never-Ending Circles remains one of the most perfect premiere episodes I've ever heard in audio drama.

The Way We Haunt Now: Get your podcast ladies here, dead or alive!

We Fix Space Junk: My favorite type of repairman is a woman who could kick my ass.

Wolf 359: I don't think I need say much more here - y'all know and love 'em just as much as I do.

[d4rkshad0w]

this is an appreciation post for very underrated tsc character that deserves more love than they receive and i honestly don’t remember the last time i saw a post about any of these characters and if you’re seeing this please take the time to make a post or two abt them

(they may or may not all be from TLH)

• first on the list is the fascinating and abrasive Alastair Carstairs who hid his fathers addiction from Cordelia to protect, who helped Thomas during his trial even thought they weren’t in the best of terms

•second on the list is our beloved Ariadne Bridgestock who survived a very vicious demonic attack (poison) and helped Grace in moving to London when we all know she didn’t deserve it

•third on the list is our precious and eccentric Christopher Lightwood who created a cure for a demonic poison, invented the fire messages and gave James his amazing gun that killed Belial

• fourth is the beautiful and troublesome Jessamine Lovelace who helped Will find where Tessa was and helped Kit lead Julian and Emma to Malcolm’s cottage

•fifth is our adored and talented Charlotte Fairchild who ran an entire institute at 23 and practically raised three kids who weren’t hers and wasn’t under any obligation to care for she also became the first ever female consul

•sixth is our absentminded and extraordinary Henry Branwell who invented theportal, introduced Magnus to glitter and fought against Leviathan even though he was partially paralyzed, he also wrote a memoir;)

these character all deserve so much more love if you do make a post abt them please tag #underrated character appreciation post 😂

[jupitermelichios]

here's a fun fact for you:

most of agatha christie's murder mysteries exist in a shared universe. Inspector Battle, Colonel Race, Hercule Poirot, and Tommy and Tuppence share a universe (i'm 99% sure about tommy and tuppence, but I may be wrong, they may exist in their own universe. the others are indisputable though)

Miss Marple does not, becuase Miss Marple is a fictional character in the HPSU (hercule poirot shared universe)

In 'cards on the table', ariadne oliver, agatha christie's self-depricating self-insert detective novelist character, is confirmed to have written the book 'the body in the library', which in reality was a miss marple mystery written by agatha christie.

that's mildly interesting, but here's where it gets really fun:

agatha christie exists in the Miss Marple universe.

in the irl cards on the table, a character mentions having autographs from several famous detective novelist, and specifically names dorothy l sayers and agatha christie.

which means that agatha christie is the fictional self-insert of her fictional self-insert.

and also begs the question: did the agatha christie who exists in Miss Marple's unverse write a novel called cards on the table in which she introduced an author self insert called ariadne oliver?

is this a case of infinite agatha christie recursion?

[rutilation]

I sincerely doubt I'm the first person to have noticed this, but I'm currently riding the high of having just connected some dots, so I'm going to jot down my thought process regardless.

Because I am the sort of person who reads dictionaries for fun, one of the first things I did after being introduced to this game last month was look into the etymologies of various characters’ names. We play as an android named magpie?  What a cute little reference to our gameplay loop of exploring and picking up stuff.  We’re looking for a girl named Alina Ariane?  That’s pretty juicy as well.  Ariane, and variations thereupon, are derived from the Greek Ariadne, which is the name of the woman who lead Theseus through the labyrinth with her ball of yarn—a fitting metaphor for Ariane’s role as the beacon guiding Elster through this surreal narrative.

Anyway, a little while ago, I found myself watching this playthrough of the game, and it was quite helpful because the person playing can read Chinese, and I myself am pretty helpless when it comes to characters that I can’t easily copy-paste into a dictionary.  Leng means 'cold,' you say?  Well, I'm happy to finally learn that!  A ways into the playthrough, she points out that one of the hanzi in the red desert sequence is likely to be Ariane’s last name.  Intrigued, I looked it up, and found out it means poplar.

That made me wonder if there was some rationale behind choosing that surname in particular.  After all, if the first half of Ariane's name was so obviously symbolic, why wouldn’t the second half also be so?  I ask myself: what do trees have to do with her?  My brain answers: “Die Toteninsel, obviously.”

The trees in that painting are cypress, though.  I start wondering: okay, if you’re going to name this character after a tree, why not name her after the tree that holds significance to the story—to her story?  Moreover, what do poplars even look like? I’m not an arborist…

They’re not cypress, but what I saw in google images looked like they could be mistaken for them at a distance. Their lenticular shape, at least, was reminiscent of the trees in Die Toteninsel. A new hypothesis starts germinating in my head at this point. Suppose the hanzi for ‘cypress,’ whatever that may be, isn’t in use as a surname.  If so, perhaps the devs had to work their way down the line, and pick out a tree that they could use as a last name, one that at least looked like the tree they had in mind, so that they could still evoke the image of the painting through Ariane’s name.

Obviously, I had to return to my precious dictionaries, and test this hypothesis.  It failed immediately.  柏 means cypress, and it is indeed used as a surname.  Now back to square one, my initial question becomes even more pressing.  Why did the devs name Ariane ‘poplar’ instead of ‘cypress?’  If the more meaningful option was already right there in front of them, why didn't they take it?

It was at this point my brain cells finally deigned to rub together, and the answer smacked me across the face.  There’s another painting I hadn’t been taking into account, and I’d already seen the shape and form of a poplar, even before I pulled up my search results.

The tall green trees on the left side of the Die Lebensinsel are unmistakably poplars.  My earlier observation that poplars and cypresses had similar silhouettes possibly had some merit after all—that may have been what was going through Böcklin’s mind as he worked on this painting which was the intentional antithesis to Die Toteninsel.

(I say “unmistakably,” but, again, I’m no arborist.  While some cursory googling didn’t reveal a gloss for the flora in this painting, someone on r/whatisthisplant also thought that these seem to be poplars, for what it’s worth.)

So, Ariane is named not after the isle of the dead, but the isle of life.  My reward for answering my initial question is, of course, more questions.  Why have Ariane’s name hearken to this painting? I haven't figured that out, but I do think that in order to answer that question, one first has to ask what Die Lebensinsel means to Signalis in the first place, and my thoughts are a little more substantial in that regard.  Substantial, but also pretty subjective. Everything prior to this point is trivia dug up by a dictionary-enjoyer, and everything past this point is me free-associating my way through confusing imagery, like our overlord, the big red eye, intended.

As for me, I associate Die Lebensinsel with the artifact ending.  Not so much because of how happy it is per se, (highly debatable,) but because of how both the ending and the painting are obfuscated by the game.  In Signalis, you can't get away from the other two paintings.  They dominate the red desert sequence, they're found decorating the occasional wall in overworld, and you even walk across the shore of oblivion yourself.  Die Lebensinsel, on the other hand, is never as tangible as the other two, only ever flitting across the screen for a single frame at a time.  It's almost completely imperceptible in the moment; you have to already know to look for it to glimpse it, or else discover it by playing back the red desert cutscene frame-by-frame.  All this mirrors how the artifact ending is integrated into the story. The keys to it are right in your face—the safe, the code, a strange signal on your radio, the lilies interspersed throughout game—but it's nigh impossible to grasp any of those things without hindsight, without picking it apart after the fact. You have to really look to find Die Lebensinsel, and you have to really look to find the artifact ending.

There’s also the subject matter of the paintings to consider.  Die Toteninsel depicts a psychopomp ferrying a soul to the eponymous isle of the dead, and the story of Signlais is about trying help Ariane die, with the normal endings representing all the ways Elster succeeds and fails in doing so.  In the artifact ending, however, we are not trying to put anyone out of their misery.  We’re beseeching the King in Yellow, or the Almighty Red Hexagon, or the Music of the Universe, or whoever the fuck, to grant us our own little pocket-dream-dimension where we never have to die and can dance with our wife forever, amidst the decay of a solar system which has just contracted cancer.  We’ve already cast off from the shore of oblivion by this point, but the island we’ve landed on in this ending can’t really be considered the isle of the dead. We're dancing, after all, so this must be the isle of life.

This interpretation of Die Lebensinsel having crystallized in my mind, I circled back around to my most recent question: why is Ariane named after the artifact ending?  I still wasn’t sure.  But, as I ruminated on it, I realized that you can also draw a direct line from Elster’s name to the artifact ending.  After all, Elster=Lilith, and Lilith=lilies, and lilies=the artifact ending. 

To surmise, my question has gone from “Why is Ariane named after poplar?” to "Why isn't Ariane named after cypress?" to “Why is Ariane named after Die Lebensinsel?” to “Why is Ariane named after the artifact ending?” to “Why are Elster and Ariane both named after the artifact ending?”  What could it all mean?  Maybe in a few weeks/months/years, I’ll come upon an answer I’m satisfied with.

[lesbianbanana]

Screaming while thinking about how Dionysus got introduced to Olympus.

Beginning his life (if you don't count the Orphic myths) he's handed to Hermes who's constantly trying to find a babysitter for him while Hera is hunting him down. Eventually he goes to live with Rhea for a bit and then trains with Chiron before going out and exploring and stuff.

The Gigantomachy. Dionysus is either on the verge of ascending to godhood of a VERY VERY new god when Zeus announces it's time to go fight great-grandma's new batch of kids. Heracles is still kicking during this time, and Heracles is also sometimes there when Dionysus goes down to the Underworld to get his mother and ascend to Olympus, so they're around the same age-ish. So yeah, great introduction to the fam.

Then. The Trojan War. The Trojan War would only be maybe a decade and a half later, really. Considering Heracles is in the Gigantomachy, and in that one myth he accidentally kills (?) Chiron, Achilles is just there in the background. There's also something about him fistfighting the brother of Tyndareus, the (adoptive) father of Helen. Dionysus isn't mentioned in the Iliad (I don't think) probably because he and his new wife Ariadne are hiding under their blankets in absolute horror of Olympus. Imagine Dionysus chatting with Apollo or Poseidon after the Gigantomachy and then watching them absolutely go murderous during the Trojan War. Dionysus is just sitting there in the background while Athena drags Ares and Aphrodite and Hera whoops Artemis' ass.

And then??? Everyone just goes back to being chill again??? Apollo is no longer murdering absolutely everyone but instead defending his bestie Orestes in court??? Athena isn't being a crazy bloodthirsty madwoman and has taken up a new gig as a judge??? Dionysus turns to Hermes and is like "is this normal??!3?$$@" and Hermes just sighs really loudly and nods.

[spiralingemptyness]

just a what if but

Hyacinthus alive (idk how), immortalized and in pjo

Sally: oh geez, I forgot to ask your name.

Hyacinthus: you’re fine, it’s Hyacinthus.

Sally: something about this seems familiar…. Isn’t Hyacinth a flower, so your parents named you after the flower?

Hyacinthus: hm? Oh no, the flower was named after me

Sally: Haha but the flower was named a shitload of years ago by- …..oh gods, you’re actually… you’re Apollo’s lover, how are you-

Hyacinthus: alive. Well, Apollo is known to be.. pouty when his love life eventually fails and to put it in simple terms, it’s similar to what Dionysus and Ariadne have going on.

Sally: I can’t believe I just blanked, you have the scar and Apollo even introduced us, wow I’m usually better at this.

[azurecrystalz]

A Guide to Reading Crazy:B Stories!!

A quick note: I won't be linking any stories for the sake of the fact that this is meant to be a guide not a directory. However, if there is something on this list you can't find anywhere and want translated, please don't hesitate to drop an ask and I'll consider it !! Last Updated: Launch Day (1-24-2023)

I'll be making edits to this frequently if any suggestions + new stories come up !! I also invite other unit producers to make their own story guides and I can maybe host a guide masterlist so that anyone can reference it!!

Things to Know Before Reading This Guide

This is going to be an ongoing post that will be updated frequently, so if there's any errors, questions, suggestions, concerns, etc drop an ask/dm on here/twitter !! For the time being, I'll leave Double Face sort of out of this until I compile information about them. Please do not repost this guide anywhere. You can link it in whatever you'd like and share it with your friends but don't repost it please and thanks.

Getting to Know Crazy:B

The Importance of the Main Story: A majority of Crazy:B’s content lies in the main story. I highly recommend, before reading any Crazy:B story, to read the main story first. The main story not only gives you an idea of who each character is, but it also gives you insight on how existing characters think of them and hints at multiple things that still need to be elaborated on in future events. Plus, most Crazy:B stories go back and reference “MDM”, which is like it’s own arc in the main story that has a huge impact on the characterization of Crazy:B (both individually and as a whole). It’s available on the English Enstars server, please try to read it if you get the chance. It’s not like a requirement to read it, but you’d be missing out on references and characterization if you don’t.

Rinne Idol Story 3: If for any reason you can’t read the main story, this is a good story to start. It’s a very basic, one-chapter story that includes all four members of Crazy:B and it introduces them and their dynamics on a semi-basic level. Nothing is explained here but the story brings up enough unexplained points that make you curious enough to learn more.

Reading the First Idol Story of Each Member: If you can't read the Rinne Idol Story since you haven't unlocked it or something, read the basic introduction idol stories. Every idol in the game has one and it gives you a feel for their personalities on a basic level. Crazy:B has the advantage of having theirs voiced too. So, if all else is no good, start there.

Specific Pair Dynamics:

The following explains what stories to read when looking for development between two specific characters:

Bold indicates major development, italics indicates semi-major development, and no edit indicates very brief but still important development

Rinne + Niki: Hot Limit, Sweets Hunter, A Cup's Worth By Yourself, Niki Idol Story 2

Rinne + HiMERU: Nightclub, The "Runrun" Calamity, Prerequisites for a Win

Rinne + Kohaku: Sudden Death, Honeybee

HiMERU + Niki: Ariadne, Lucky SCRAMBLE

HiMERU + Kohaku: Honeybee, Romantic? Date, HiMERU Idol Story 2

Stories that hint at Kaname: Obbligato, Past, Present, And..., Ariadne, Roaring Sea Marina, A Pursuit in Plain Sight, HiMERU Idol Story 2

Niki + Kohaku: Spider, Secret Service, Kohaku Idol Story 2

Rinne + Crazy:B as a whole: The Bee's Knees, A New Game making the Rounds

HiMERU + Crazy:B as a whole: Ariadne, Romantic? Date, Lucky SCRAMBLE

Kohaku + Crazy:B as a whole: Spider, Honeybee, A Spring Evening's Respite, Sakura Sakura

Niki + Crazy:B as a whole: Hot Limit

Specific Members:

The following explains what stories to read when looking for development of a specific character:

Bold indicates major development, italics indicates semi-major development, non-edited indicates very brief but still important development. It is not recommended to read the ones marked with ** immediately.

Rinne: Main Story, Nightclub, AOSOBI

HiMERU: Obbligato**, Ariadne, Past, Present, And..., HiMERU Idol Story 3

Niki: Hot Limit

Kohaku: Sudden Death**, Spider, Honeybee

Fun Stories

Not everyone wants to read 42 chapters of a Reminiscence story, or sometimes you’re in the mood for something silly. The following is a list of lighter stories for each member that aren’t too heavy on the feels. These stories can either be from cards belonging to them or stories they appear in.

Rinne: AOSOBI

HiMERU: Lucky SCRAMBLE, The Principles of Sex Appeal

Niki: Sweet Sweet Hunger, Sweets Hunter, Sweets Box

Kohaku: Spider, Fruitful October, Storm Cloud FUMBLE, Lullaby

Lore Heavy Stories

The following explains the stories to read if you want full background closure on a specific member, meaning you want a story that explains a large part of their individual origins. These are more informational (and emotionally heavy) stories that need not only a good grasp on the member themselves to understand, but other characters in relationship to them as well.

Rinne: Select sections of Main Story

HiMERU: Obbligato

Niki: N/A

Kohaku: Sudden Death

Other Story Appearances

This is a list that contains idol stories that Crazy:B members make appearances in. The card and story don't belong to them but they still have dialogue in it.

Return Trip Service (Yuuta 3* Featuring Rinne)

The Principles of Sex Appeal (Jun 3* Featuring HiMERU)

Other Units Interacted With

2wink: Nightclub, A Spring Evening's Respite, Love Letter, FUSION Unit Collection 07 Live Story

Knights: Sudden Death

Most, if not all other units: Main Story

Stories Not Yet Sorted into the Guide

As far as my knowledge goes, the stories I haven't included featuring any of the four members are: Decadence, White Tiger, Nighthead (Shuffle) , Butlers (Shuffle) , A-Z (Shuffle) , Black Snow (Shuffle), Bankara, Chill Yellow, Easter (Shuffle)

Thanks for reading!! If there's anything missing from this that you'd like to suggest, please don't hesitate to ask!!

[mask131]

The myth of Dionysos (5)

Follow-up of the loose translation/recap of the article I began covering here.

II) The Frenzied God

Voluptuousness and cruelty

In The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche associates those two words to define “Dionysism”. Indeed, they are the two faces of drunkenness, and thus the two aspects of the magic of the god. While he is able to create flows of milk, honey and wine for the prosperity of mankind, Dionysos can also cause disaster-and-misfortune-inducing metamorphosis. The daughters of Minyas, that refused to leave their husbands to follow Bacchus, are terrified when milk and wine starts pouring from the ceiling above them.

The women that follow Dionysos become Maenads or Bacchants: under the influence of the “mania” (the divine possession) they become invulnerable, with an enormous strength, and they are plunged in a murderous delirium that forces them to rip into pieces the young beasts they just breastfed – sometimes they even kill their own children. The Bacchic “orgia” (rite, ritual) happens in three steps. First the oribasia, the disheveled race of the women through the mountain ; then the disparagmos, the sacrifice by ripping apart. This is the part of the ritual that is illustrated by Euripides’ Bacchants (405 BCE), with the murder of Pentheus by his mother Agave. “Foaming at the mouth, with rolling eyes, having lost her mind, possessed by Bacchus […] she took with both hands his left arm and, pushing with her foot against the flank of the unfortunate one, she disarticulated and ripped away the shoulder, not just with her sole strength, but with the power the god offered her.” The third time of the ritual is the omophagia, the devouring of the raw, barely dead, meat that was just lacerated.

The Dionysian cult introduces a ritual cruelty. In Arcadia, women are flagellated. In Boeotia, women are chased by the priest of Dionysos, who is armed with a sword ; and as a substitute to a human victim, a young veal wearing cothurnus and symbolizing a child is killed for the god. Through the “mania”, Dionysos imposes upon his followers the cruelty of which he was a victim: he was chased by Lycurgus, he was ripped apart and devoured by the Titans. From this arises the voluptuousness that is tied to the cruelty of the Bacchants, as they can, by satisfying their darkest instincts, life again the suffering of the god that possesses them.

Between life and death: contradictions

The ambiguity of the Dionysian intoxication, bringing joy and fury, life and death, is reflected in the animals that follow the god. On one side, animals of fecundity, such as the goat, the donkey, the bull. On the other side, ferocious and murderous beasts, such as the lion, the lynx or the panther. This contradiction is a symbol of what Nietzsche calls the “deadly-silent clatter”, the Dithyrambes of Dionysos. This god, nicknamed Bromios (the roaring one) is followed by a parade of loud music made by tambourines, flutes and cymbals, loud music that makes the Maenads dance to the point of convulsions. But, the god can also suddenly impose a strong silence, where even the Maenads stay immobile and frozen, as if petrified.

Even the origins of the god are placed in this contradiction, since his birth mixes life and death. Which is probably why the dead have such an important place in both his cult and myth. Horace tells of how Dionysos went into the Underworld to fetch back his mother. In Aristophane’s parody The Frogs (405 BCE), he goes in the realm of Hades to bring back Euripides. The third day of the Anthesteria, is dedicated to the dead, who are supposed to come back to haunt the living. The affinities of Dionysos with dead will even allow Heraclite to identify Dionysos to Hades, saying they both were the “Plouton”, the “giver of riches”. The various versions of Dionysos’ romance with Ariadne also prove this oscillation between life and death: sometimes Dionysos is the one that consoles and comforts Ariadne after Theseus abandonment, other times (such as in Homer’s Odyssey) he is rather a jealous lover who sends death to Ariadne through Artemis. The many contradictions of the Dionysism, and especially its unstoppable cruelty, made it very difficult to locate it within a political system, and it explains as such its subversive role in Greek society.

Disturbing the social and political order

If Dionysos is presented as a foreign god, it is because such an exoticism translates the strangeness of a god with no fixed place, of a cult that disdains temples to rather have a mobile and open worship. The “thiasis”, the very basis of the Dionysian religion, is found outside of all the social norms, since this group gathers without recognizing any distinction between men and women, poor and rich, citizens and slaves. On another hand, Dionysos is composed of a feminine strength and a subversive power that makes the effeminate god a champion of the “dark” or “nocturnal side”, as a counterpart to the diurnal, ordered and masculine power of Apollo. This god, that drags women away from their loom to hunt them down the mountains, can only break down the familial order – and thus, by extension, weaken the political order. The paroxysm of this disturbance is reached within The Bacchants, where the social, then political, dislocation of Thebes is crowned by the destruction of the palace, the very symbol of the royal power.

But even beyond all this, it is the very human values that are disturbed by Dionysos’ very existence: he is a god born from a mortal woman, a deity that stays close to humans and that allows them to be assimilated to him. Unlike the cult of all the other Greek gods, the Dionysian religion destroys the frontier between humanity and divinity.

As such, the cult of Dionysos had a cathartic role in Ancient Greece: it set mankind free (at least for a time) from his civic past and duties, as well as from his cruel desires and instincts. Imported in Rome, the “orgia” degenerated into a licentious feast and will soon be forbidden. Rome will rather honor Bacchus through art, by highlighting his role as a god of wine, and as the joyful musician of the bacchanals, which will be a loved subject of the European classical painting. It is this “weakened” or “watered-down” version of Dionysism that will survive in European culture until the end of the 19th century, when the philosophers and the poets will rediscover the true roots of the god.