#AND you're their captive

[iliothermia]

[siredcrab]

I'm feeling horrible the only solution is lamen kisses...They will fix me

[gingermintpepper]

In my Zeus bag today so I'm just gonna put it out there that exactly none of the great Ancient Greek warrior-heroes stayed loyal and faithful and completely monogamous and yet none of them have their greatness questioned nor do we question why they had the cultural prominence that they did and still do.

Jason, the brilliant leader of the Argo, got cold feet when it came to Medea - already put off by some of her magic and then exiled from his birthland because of her political ploys, he took Creusa to bed and fully intended on marrying her despite not properly dissolving things with Medea.

Theseus was a fierce warrior and an incredibly talented king but he had a horrible temper and was almost fatally weak to women. This is the man who got imprisoned in the Underworld for trying to get a friend laid, the man who started the whole Attic War because he couldn't keep his legs closed.

And we cannot at all forget Heracles for whom a not inconsiderable amount of his joy in life was loving people then losing the people around him that he loved. Wives, children, serving boys, mentors, Heracles had a list of lovers - male and female - long enough to rival some gods and even after completing his labours and coming down to the end of his life, he did not have one wife but three.

And y'know what, just because he's a cultural darling, I'll put Achilles up here too because that man was a Theseus type where he was fantastic at the thing he was born to do (that is, fight whereas Theseus' was to rule) but that was not enough to eclipse his horrid temper and his weakness to young pretty things. This is the man that killed two of Apollo's sons because they wouldn't let him hit - Tenes because he refused to let Achilles have his sister and Troilus who refused Achilles so vehemently that he ran into Apollo's temple to avoid him and still couldn't escape.

All four of these men are still celebrated as great heroes and men. All four of these men are given the dignity of nuance, of having their flaws treated as just that, flaws which enrich their character and can be used to discuss the wider cultural point of what truly makes a hero heroic. All four of these men still have their legacies respected.

Why can that same mindset not be applied to Zeus? Zeus, who was a warrior-king raised in seclusion apart from his family. Zeus who must have learned to embrace the violence of thunder for every time he cried as a babe, the Corybantes would bang their shields to hide the sound. Zeus learned to be great because being good would not see the universe's affairs in its order.

The wonderful thing about sympathy is that we never run out of it. There's no rule stopping us from being sympathetic to multiple plights at once, there's no law that necessitate things always exist on the good-evil binary. Yes, Zeus sentenced Prometheus to sufferation in Tartarus for what (to us) seems like a cruel reason. Prometheus only wanted to help humans! But when you think about Prometheus' actions from a king's perspective, the narrative is completely different: Prometheus stole divine knowledge and gifted it to humans after Zeus explicitly told him not to. And this was after Prometheus cheated all the gods out of a huge portion of wealth by having humans keep the best part of a sacrifice's meat while the gods must delight themselves with bones, fat and skin. Yes, Zeus gave Persephone away to Hades without consulting Demeter but what king consults a woman who is not his wife about the arrangement of his daughter's marriage to another king? Yes, Zeus breaks the marriage vows he set with Hera despite his love of her but what is the Master of Fate if not its staunchest slave?

The nuance is there. Even in his most bizarre actions, the nuance and logic and reason is there. The Ancient Greeks weren't a daft people, they worshipped Zeus as their primary god for a reason and they did not associate him with half the vices modern audiences take issue with. Zeus was a father, a visitor, a protector, a fair judge of character, a guide for the lost, the arbiter of revenge for those that had been wronged, a pillar of strength for those who needed it and a shield to protect those who made their home among the biting snakes. His children were reflections of him, extensions of his will who acted both as his mercy and as his retribution, his brothers and sisters deferred to him because he was wise as well as powerful. Zeus didn't become king by accident and it is a damn shame he does not get more respect.

[conjuring-ghouls]

MONSTRANCE CLOCK, DECEMBER 7TH, 2018 (or that time someone threw a bra on stage and Cardi ran around with it for the rest of the song)

[abyssal-ilk]

the early inquisiton party is so interesting to me because you have your inquisitor, who was just imprisoned by cassandra and accused of murdering the divine, you have solas, who cassandra threatened to execute as an apostate as she suspected he had something to do with the conclave, and then you have varric, who spent the entire second game being violently interrogated by cassandra and being accused of having something to do with the chantry exploding.

just. that's 3/3 for cassandra's party members. those early days must of been Something. you think they ever talk about it?

[laurents-secret-diary]

touched up one of the other sketches ( ´ ꒳ ` )

[laurents-laces]

Laurent "I needed a victory at Charcy. You provided it. It was worth enduring your fumbling attentions for that" of Vere

[poisonousquinzel]

Pamela "BDE" Isley ( & Harley) by Mindy Lee

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

[whumperly]

"Litte [animal]" type pet names for whumpees will always drive me feral, especially if they're prey animals.

"Little mouse."

"Little rabbit."

"Little deer."

"Little bird."

Oh, man, little bird is my favorite, actually. It scratches a very particular itch and has a specific undertone of affection that the others don't. Whumpee is just a little bird in a cage for whumper, something for them to admire and play with until they get bored or whumpee stops singing for them (literally or figuratively!)

Prey animal pet names don't work for every whumper or whumpee, but they are sooooooooooo good when they do. I'd love to see them used more often.

[voiceofthe]

can't believe i haven't seen anyone else say this yet-- my first thought regarding the blade around happily ever after's neck was that it was a sort of symbolic wedding ring. the pristine blade is often transferred around as a representative of trust-- you take it because you don't trust the princess; you give it to her because you do. its total absence in the wraith represents the total lack of trust that lead you there, and the blade's role in the thorn route is obvious. there's much to be said about the blade's symbolism in HEA but suffice to say that she starts with it to represent your "union" and the narrator stating that it's on a golden chain reinforces that

[serickswrites]

For Good

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture, medication, unconsciousness, passing out, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

"Whumpee, Whumpee, let me help you," Caretaker said as they hurried to Whumpee's bedside. Whumpee had been ordered by the doctor to stay in bed so that they could recover from everything Whumper had done to them. Caretaker still hadn't been able to ask Whumpee about everything. Hadn't been able to hear and hadn't wanted to trigger Whumpee.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," Whumpee said gruffly. "I should be able to go to the bathroom to wash my face by myself."

"Whumpee, you're really hurt. Please, let me help you."

Whumpee hissed with pain as they tried to sit up further. "I don't need help! Damn it!"

Caretaker tried not to take Whumpee's anger personally. They were in pain. They had endured so many unspeakable things. They were angry. But they needed help. "Are you in pain?"

"What do you think?" Whumpee said angrily. "Of course I'm in pain."

"Then please take your medicine, Whumpee. It's there to help you."

Whumpee frowned. "I won't."

"It's for your own good, Whumpee," Caretaker said exasperatedly. "Please, just take it. Let yourself sleep. Let yourself heal."

"You're always trying to drug me. Always trying to get me to just lay here. You're no better than them," Whumpee sneered.

Caretaker flinched. They were sure they knew who Whumpee meant. But they had to confirm. "Who, Whumpee?"

"Whumper."

The silence was thick and painful. Caretaker swallowed as they tried to gather themself. Whumpee had been so angry since they had gotten back. But to compare them to Whumper? That wasn't fair at all. "That's not true, Whumpee. Look," Caretaker said as Whumpe opened their mouth to protest, "you are in pain. This is pain medicine. Take it. Go to sleep. You'll feel better. It's that easy."

Whumpee held out their hand for the pill, glaring at Caretaker the entire time. They took the pill from Caretaker's hand and dry swallowed the pill. "I'm sure you just want me to pass out so you can do whatever you want to me."

Caretaker kept their expression blank. Kept Whumpee from seeing how much their words hurt Caretaker. "I want you to feel better, Whumpee."

"Yeah, right," Whumpee mumbled angrily as they blinked heavily. Fortunately the medication worked quickly--Whumpee was so weak from their ordeal. "That's what they said, too," they muttered as sleep sucked them under.

It was only after Caretaker was sure Whumpee was deeply unconscious that they allowed their mask to crumble. That they allowed themself to breakdown. They cried for themself. They cried for the situation. And most of all, they cried for Whumpee and everything that had happened to Whumpee.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@artisticdemon

[vikingpoteto]

Book 1 "princes don't neet protection, they need seasoning" okay Damen

Halfway through book 2 "That man touched Laurent and for that he was going to die" "Imagine a world where there is no animosity between Vere and Akielos and he could meet Laurent like that" OKAY DAMEN

[aspiringwarriorlibrarian]

You know, I don't think I've ever seen a direct reversal of the "At Least I Admit It" trope. You know the one, where the bad guy says "I do bad things but I acknowledge they're bad so that makes me morally superior to you", and I could go on about why that bugs me but that's not the point. The point is that Qimir and Sol are both holding someone prisoner, but Qimir is the one trying to disguise it with soft words and fake freedom while Sol is being completely honest.

Qimir: You can leave at any time, provided you swim across several miles of turbulent sea to a ship I locked and then fly through space with no idea how to navigate. Oh wait, you're gonna try it anyway, um....actually, first you have to stab me with a lightsaber, no this is not physically restraining you from leaving I'm just holding you in a way that prevents you from moving anywhere unless I let you, it's totally different.

Sol: I shot you in the back and handcuffed you to a bed while you were unconscious.

[blackrosesandwhump]

Whumpril Day 30: You're Pathetic

CW: werewolf whumpee, captivity, poison whump, torture

Please, make it stop…it hurts…it hurts so much, and I can’t move…

The werewolf, curled up in the corner of his prison, can barely raise his head as whumper enters and shuts the door behind him. That grin. The way whumper looks down at him, gloating, so pleased that he has a werewolf in his possession. Whumpee wants to shred him. But the dagger wound in his left side burns with agony. And it’s not healing. Which can only mean—

I’ve been poisoned. The dagger…must’ve been laced with wolfsbane…

Whumper crouches down next to whumpee, clicking his tongue. “Dear me, you look pathetic. And I assume you’ve discovered my little secret by now, given that that nasty cut isn’t healing.”

“Wolf—wolfsbane,” whumpee stutters, fighting for breath between waves of fiery pain. “You tricked me.”

“No, no,” whumper scolds, standing up. “I didn’t trick you. I merely did what I had to do.” His boot lands on whumpee’s side and grinds down.

Through the haze of torture, whumpee hears himself scream. Then another scream, and another. They burst from his parched throat in quick succession as whumper presses his heel into the poisoned gash.

Please, just kill me already…I can’t take any more…

Whumper removes his foot and steps back, and whumpee gasps for air, his chest heaving. Darkness crowds into his already blurry vision. And in the midst of it, whumper, standing over the werewolf’s wretched body, the grin gone from his face.

“Don’t you understand, whumpee? This is only what you deserve. An agonizing death, after what you did to me.”

[patroclusdefencesquad]

damen vs the general belief that he's bad in bed

[whumpitisthen]

Artificial guest

Cw: mentioned torture, creepy/intimate/possessive whumper daydreaming about whumpee, captivity whump, stalking, conditioning

They are lost in a foggy forest.

They are cold. They flinch at every sound, expecting a wolf or something to jump out at them. They are lost, so utterly lost. They have no idea how they even got here, having woken up under a tree with nothing but their winter coat and a narrow path leading deep into the misty woods.

They come to a clearing, eventually. There is a pond in the middle, similarly misty and foreboding. Past that pond, past the spruce and up a hill in the distance, they see a palace. It stands tall and lonely, all slim towers and pointed roofs; it reminds them of the shadow of a terrible beast of claws and wicked teeth, perched up high and surveying its territory.

Storm clouds are congregating overhead. They decide, with nowhere else to go, to see if the intimidating looking mansion has someone there that can help them out. If they could let them stay just as long as the storm lasts, that would be enough. They could give them directions, or even a ride. Some food — they are starving...

Unbeknownst to them, the owner of the palace watches them from afar, leaning up against a tree somewhere near the clearing, hidden by the fog and grey light preceding a deluge. They follow their guest, pleased to see them walking the path they had carved for them so perfectly. They will come across a crossroads a little bit from now, and they will have to choose where to go next. They may choose wrong, and end up lost once more. The tempest may catch them outside, thirsting them into a fever, a terrible cold.

By the time they arrive at their doorstep, shivering and small and weak, the owner of the mansion will be waiting for them. They will open up their doors to the poor thing, letting the warm air and the smell of a delicious feast dizzy them into a desperate hunger, a quiet need to enter. They might play around, act like they are suspicious of the lost lamb, think it over for a good minute; — their guest will surely beg to be let in. Their voice will quiver, their eyes will widen in terror at the prospect of having to spend the night outside, and they will beg, make promises of behaving, of not taking up their time for long, that they don't need anything just a roof over their head, just a little mercy.

Standing off to the side, hidden, they feel a chill down their spine at the pleasant thought.

And they will let them inside, of course. They will help them out of their dirty, torn, wet clothes. They will offer a warm bath, lend a bed to sleep, dinner to enjoy. Their guest will find it a little scary, all alone in such a huge, strange home with a stranger, but what other choice do they have besides freezing to death in the mud outside? They will be so sweet, so timid, quiet and unobtrusive. They will feel guilt for bothering someone like this, demanding them to let them in their home like this. They will go to bed — lie their head on their pillow, in their magnificent guest room, among the softest duvets, in a bed surely ten times the size of their own back in their own home, — feeling remorse at needing help, feeling like a burden, out of place, a nuisance.

Like they don't deserve good things. Like they have to make up for being useless, have to earn their mercies.

When day comes, they will wake slowly. Their clothes will be thinner, their stomach empty. Their bed will have morphed into concrete. Their wrists will pound with the force of their pumping veins, finding chains tethering them to the floor. Their hands will clasp around a metal shackle ensnaring that beautiful, toned throat, their pupils blown wide in the near pitch black of the dungeon, and then —

Then they will know. They will know fear. They will know helplessness, vulnerability. They will get acquainted with the way the air around them turns thin sometimes. They will recognise — if not right then, then a bit later on, — but they will recognise that they are trapped; truly, completely, hopelessly trapped. They will yell, and no one will come. They will scream, and no one will hear. They will beg, and cry, and sob, and keen — and the only one who will listen will be the kind stranger that let them stay.

They will come see them, of course. They will descend the long staircase leading down to their Hell, and they will tell them, simply, that they will be hurt. They will hurt, and they will hurt, and hurt, and hurt, until they know nothing but pain. Until their entire existence becomes agony; a trembling, uncertain, exhausted, meek little life between these four unforgiving cement walls, living at the whims of their saviour, their one connection to what was once a livable, if not pleasant life, with friends and family and things they knew, things that made sense.

They will see no one but their captor. They will hear no one but their captor. They will feel no one, but their captor. They will learn soon enough, a crushing, terrifying truth. The truth that their life has become their captor.

They will only think about them; they will not be allowed to have thoughts about anything else. They will only look forward to seeing them. They will live for the little moments in-between two sessions of suffering, where they are told they did well enough to receive dinner that day, for the proud, fond words of praise that humiliate and bring tarnished, disgusting delight at the same time, at the kind touches running down long healed scars and deep-purple bruises and bubbling burns, gently promising more, admiring the carnage and letting them know that the one person in the world that matters is pleased with their pain, and that they will return again soon to see more of it.

For late nights, where they will weep, brokenly, weakly, sweetly, into the embrace of their captor, their worst nightmare, the only one that cares, the only one that matters, and they will hush them, gently rocking them back and forth, keeping them warm, pressing a loving kiss to the top of their head, hair wet with sweat and blood, and hold them.

They will remind them of the day they became theirs. How they were allowed in without issue, even though they didn't really know how to beg yet. How they were allowed food, their own bed, their own room, a fireplace, a bath. How they took it all, so flustered and nervous they barely remembered to say thank you. How later on, once their cold had really shown its ugly, feverish colours, they were given things like medicine, a blanket, tea, painkillers... And not only had they refused to thank their captor, but cursed them out, too outraged and afraid to accept their generous gifts. They will remind them of the day they saved them, and their little lamb will cringe at the memories, curl up in shame, apologising every time, earnestly, for all their stupidity and ungratefulness, forever regretting ever thinking they were anybody but their saviour's little broken toy, a sweet little pet spending all their time waiting for their owner to return and play with them so they can earn their little mercies one by one.

Theirs. Hopelessly, utterly, irreversibly theirs.

Their guest has long disappeared into the fog, climbing their way up the hill, all hope and full of life. Perhaps it's time to return home. Set the fire. Fish out the fluffiest blanket from deep within the closet. Pick out replacement clothes in their size. See how the chef is doing with dinner. Make sure the chains downstairs are holding steady, the blades are all sharpened, the collar won't cut off too much air, the cement floor won't scrape at their delicate flesh too deep. Many things to take care of before their guest arrives.

They shiver in excitement. Finally, someone new to keep the dungeon warm.

<3

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Taglist (tagged in everything I write): @morning-star-whump @whumprince