#creative slavery

[peacemore-springs]

Top Notch Slavery

what a slavery this slave trading is part of. it's truly top notch.

[philosophybits]

There is a difference between the creative idea and the creative act on the one hand, and the product on the other. Creativity is fire; culture is the cooling of the flame. The creative act is upflight, victory over the heaviness of the objectified world and over determinism, the product of creativity in culture is a dragging down, a process of settling.

Nikolai Berdyaev, Slavery and Freedom

[newbornwhumperfly]

no one will feed you anymore...

oh, y’all know what time it is by now, don’t you? 😈🥺😈 i stretched the definition of this delightful prompt - @whumpmasinjuly day 12: caught - and it really stirred my creativity! so it's time for morja to sufferrrrrrrrrr...😭😭😭

(sidenote: this training scenario was heavily insp. by this incredible art by @elgrajaz cause it gives such whumperflies 😍)

title insp. by this concept art quote by jenny holzer - "if you're considered useless, no on will feed you anymore."

~

Your job today is to run. 

Until, anotèros?

There’s a blister on his ankle already. The friction of the shoe against skin, the rub-rub-rub, burn, burn, heat, sore, heat, foot falling flat against the ground, push off, spring forward, burn. 

Until you catch up.

Morja blinks wet into his eyes and it stings, blurs, his feet pound their rhythm still. Can’t wipe it away. Keep going. He knows where he’s going and he doesn’t need to see. Just run. 

Chase the buggy. The small white cart and the whine of the wheels as it speeds ahead, the anotèros driving, the anotèros with the stopwatch in his hand, the black glasses, don’t watch his face, just run.  

He has caught the buggy before. Dog with rabbit in his teeth. Grab the bar, swing himself into the backseat, stopwatch clicking stop. 

But it is so hot.

What is this track made of, anotèros? 

His trainer’s eyes had squinted, slitted sideways down at Morja, and the skin of his palms itched. 

The burn is all over. Heat. Heat in the legs, the thighs, the feet, the pulse of fire through each foot. 

Raw, sharp, prick of fire, as the blister peels. Heat. Blood. Blood in the sock. Bad. Wash later. Run. 

Keep going. 

Keep going.

The heat is inescapable. It’s the worst part, really, of anything. He’s lived in heat. Used to heat. Born in it, raised in it, put in it day after day and still, it is the most inescapable. 

Polyurethane, mostly. Does that answer your question, diathèsimòs?

Morja’s palms itched harder and he squeezed them into balls behind his back.  

Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. 

Good. Now get out there and run. 

Fire jars through his chest with each breath, breath dragging sharp across his lungs, filling up with knives, throat a razor trap, chest a dozen blade tips. Breathing out is an ache but better, better than swallowing the fire of air. 

Back straight. Drag air through the nose. Thick, rubber-scented, hot. It’s so hot in the building, foggy, every window had fog on it when he walked in today. 

Polly-your-a-thane. Rubber. That’s the smell. Mixed with latex. The stuff that sticks to skin. Poured over asphalt. Bouncy over solid. 

Knowing why your shoes stick to the track in the rain, in the heat, in the cold, doesn’t make you faster. It doesn’t help. 

Morja sees sweat gleam on his trainer’s head, wrist swiping it away, the stopwatch gleaming bright, pinpoint-sharp, and the lights are bright. Big bulbs in the ceiling that hum against his skin they’re so blue-bright-sharp. 

Keep up. 

His sides pulse. The pulse has started now and the stabbing will only get stronger. Stitch. A needle pulling air through his body on a barbed thread. Poke. Drag. Poke. Drag. 

They haven’t told you to stop.

Morja always has to remind himself his throat isn’t bleeding. It feels like it is. It isn’t. Not like his feet. Those are bleeding. 

He can’t even hear the clink of his cuffs, thick leather slick and sticking to his flesh in an itching snick-snick-snick at every jostle. The piston of his elbows at his sides is short and doesn’t yank the chains trailing behind the buggy. 

The slow whir of wheels-on-rubber is just a buzz now. Everything is a buzz, ears full of static, only the thudthudthud of blood rushing, water, past his ears, like his head is under the water, don’t think just run. 

He won’t catch up to the buggy if he doesn’t run.

(It will outrun him anyway. That’s the point. It has to. Of course it will. It’s a buggy and Morja is on foot. There is no point.)

No. He can catch the buggy. He was told to and he can. 

Keep the pace. This track doesn’t end. Run. 

Inescapable.

Run.

He is a diathèsimòs and he must keep running. 

The thud of his shoes against the track, the springing-then-solid, the reaching out with one hand, no, not close enough to reach and sweat blinds him again. Fuck. 

He should have caught them already. 

He must catch them. 

Every step burns. Every breath burns. The lights burn. The track is a circle and he rounds a corner into a corner into a corner in pursuit. 

The length of chain yanks, every step jolts his ribs against the inside of his skin, like every step jolts cuff against wrist, the chain growing tauter, the breaths shorter, harsher, dragging, razorwire, like the lungs being whipped. 

The shredded grunt of each breath can’t be coming from him, he doesn’t think, but it must be. It’s so loud in his ears, like his heartbeat, as knife of breathing stabs, stabs, stabs. 

The buggy is getting further away, inch by inch, and there is no way his lungs can bleed, like a horse. He is a diathèsimòs and his lungs don’t bleed. 

Breathing and seeing are fire. 

Hot rubber and hot copper and the itch of sweat is all he can think about. The sting of it in his open blisters. The crawl of it down the waistband of the pants, into the neck of the shirt, in his dry mouth like spit, in his dry eyes like tears. 

The track is designed to help you not slip. That’s how running tracks are made. That’s why the rubber smells so strong. 

But a stab, too-sharp, too-blinding, doubles him. He jerks against the cuffs and it’s done. The buggy keeps going and Morja doesn’t and his shoes fly out from under him and he hits the track. 

Rubber. Asphalt. Body. 

All the ragged breath is slammed from his lungs as his chest hits the ground, chin tucked against the fall, and the track burns across every inch, shoulders sharp and shocking at the jarring pull, pull, pull, dragged behind the buggy-

“Stop! Time.”

The burning stops and Morja lays there, heaving, light pulsing with every sharp heartbeat behind his eyelids, and he’s curled up on the ground, arms stretching out with their chains behind the buggy. 

Get up. 

He can’t.

Then kneel. 

Rolling, belly first, then dragging one leg, burning, stabbing, shaking, up beneath him. Another. He does kneel up and his lids, bleary, blink open as the shape of his anotèros floats from the buggy. The squeak of leather as the shape bends to crouch in front of him, a rolling smell as sharp and bright and cold as the overhead bulbs swallows him up, clean scent and sharp corners, holding up a gleaming pinpoint in Morja’s face. 

The stopwatch. 

The only cold Morja’s felt today stabs into the hollow of his stomach as numbers, bright electric lines, become clear. 

Slow. 

Fuck. 

I was slow.

“Gonna have to work on your speed, diathèsimòs. Guess you didn’t manage to catch up. You know the drill - don’t stop running until we’re caught.” 

Morja tastes blood in his mouth. Not from his lungs. Of course not. He takes his teeth out of his cheek and the smell of rubber fills his nose as he bows his head to the ground. 

Polyurethane, soft against his skin. 

“…Yes, anotèros.”

~ oooh, a little glimpse into morja's training regimen, which is very fair and achievable!! 🥺🥺🥺

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @haro-whumps @whump-tr0pes @whumpthisway @i-eat-worlds

@wolfeyedwitch @whumpzone @whumping-every-day @redwingedwhump @straight-to-the-pain

@stoic-whumpee @liliability @whatgoeswhumpinthenight @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumpster-draganies

@whump-me-all-night-long @suspicious-whumping-egg @scoundrelwithboba @kixngiggles @tears-and-lilies

i hope everyone has a very merry @whumpmasinjuly! 💖💖💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

[vonclosen]

vent. sorry i’m honesty hangry and upset

actually i’m still annoyed. has anyone in this damn fandom heard of filtering tags. for shit. they don’t like

also like not to be ‘what about’ but seriously if your biggest problems are fucking shipping wars on tumblr dot com i envy you. truly.

[guiltypleasureswriting]

Day 28: Written Apr 15, 2024

Part 17

CW: canonical treatment of house elves (sorta)

Kreacher tried to fight Regulus on who should give their blood to the warding. Regulus didn’t let him. It was his decision and he already felt terrible bringing Kreacher back to a place he almost died. When they were facing the lake with the little island of crystal that Kreacher had described to him, Regulus turned to him. 

“When we get the locket, take it straight back to Grimmauld Place. No matter the state I am in. Destroy it, Kreacher. That’s an order. 

Kreacher stood so stiffly the Regulus thought his spine might snap. He clearly wanted to sat something; to defy him. But he gave a short nod and stayed quiet.

“Thank you, Kreacher.” Whispered Regulus.

They took a dingy across the still water, sending unnatural ripples into the darkness. When the boat knocked into the island, Regulus stepped out followed closely by Kreacher. Their steps crushed and crunched crystals under their feet.

beginning | previous | next

Rambles and thoughts while writing under the cut:

So sometimes I have a lot of random thoughts while I'm writing these scenes but I don't want to make the posts super long so I'm gonna put them here.

It really bothers me how house elves are written in canon and even most fanfiction. I've read very few fics where the enslavement of house elves is seen as bad by characters. So in this story, I'm going to be changing some things about house elves, especially that they like being enslaved cuz that's just fucked up. No, Kreacher is not free. Yes, he has prejudiced ideas about blood purity seeing as he has been conditioned to from birth. Regulus treats him relatively well since I do not want to write a protagonist being happy to have a slave. (But no matter how well he treats house elves, he's still a slave owner) However, I don't think at this point Regulus would fully have a grasp on the ethics of house elf slavery and he probably doesn't have the power to free Kreacher anyway. In the future, he will regret some of his actions toward Kreacher and his opinions about house elves. Eventually, he would totally join SPEW.

All of this isn't a big part of the story but I will never write a fic that either supports or ignores slavery no matter how fictional it is.

(Usually my rambles won't be as heavy)

@zn0v1a

[blackwoolncrown]

You are not immune to propaganda.

This includes sexuality.

*transphobes DNI*

[novella-november]

Well, I now know what original story I'll be writing for Freedom February ...

👀🤖⛓️‍💥

Can't wait for people who use l33tspeak or are greek mythology nerds to immediately realize what is happening with the lore and are excited to see how it plays out.

[nashvillethotchicken]

And when I get my all black interview with the vampire remake ala the wiz then what

[xblackreader]

This is technically an attoye dream I had but I’m turning it into a free write story and gonna hyper fixate on this for a few days.

Historical romance price set in 1820-1870

A Muscogee indigenous boy, named Michael by the catholic school, is angry at the injustice of the world and wants to be free from his native residential school in Georgia. At 19, He is too old to continue school and refused to learn to read English, he can only speak it enough to converse with his bosses.

As a factory worker, he meets Miss. Celia, a 17 year old slave girl who is soft spoken and sensitive to the world. He sees her being harassed by a drunk plantation owner and protects her before she takes him to her home to patch him up.

He tells her his real name is Takoda Lanon , and she calls him that from now on.

When she figures out he can’t read, she attempts to teach him but he grows frustrated, but he continues to try because he is falling in love with her. And she is falling in love with him.

He sneaks to her little cabin in the fields every night to eat her food and try to get , her to run up north with him. She is hesitant as her life on the plantation is all she has ever known. When he gets her pregnant, she knows she has no choice however: if they find out who got her pregnant, they’ll kill her baby and hang Michael.

Will they escape Georgia before she begins to show, will he be caught running away from the catholic school? 🤭

[beatleshalloween]

It's been a while but I finally updated another chapter of "The Lost Is Found."

Ringo Starr's ship ports in the Americas and he and Leo get to spend some quality time together.

Then back at sea to Caribbean islands.

What could possibly go wrong passing Florida?

Chapter updated 11/26/2024

[peacemore-springs]

Disallowed commenting on a software platform known as YouTube? No reason given? Comments deleted from comments section of posts after posting?

These clever slavery families with their ties to policed government and journalism had best explain why all of my literary ideas were and still are turning up in tabloids, broadsheets, periodicals, BBC broadcasts, without my ever having given my approval.

Thank you for illegally enslaving my biology so as to reduce my thought and reflection of living to petty arguments over intellectual copyright infringement.

what's not to like?

[philosophybits]

Creativeness is liberation from slavery. Man is free when he finds himself in a state of creative activity. Creativeness leads to ecstasy of the moment. The products of creativeness are within time, but the creative act itself lies outside time.

Nikolai Berdyaev, Slavery and Freedom

[humanconditionpoetry]

Orochimaru - Snake Gain, Human Pain

Hello Everyone, as those who follow me know. One of many favorite shows is called Naruto! I have been rewatching it as of late.

I thought today will be the Perfect day to release an Orochimaru Poem as today is his birthday. Look, he has done many awful things in the show and I do not fully trust him in the new show called Boruto( I have not watched much of the show).

However, Orochimaru is my top three favorite villains in Naurto and Probably the only Villain that was actually a Villain.

Without Further Ado, I present the Orochiamru Poem!

However, before that....

T.W/Tags - This Poem deals with the topics of: Death , Violence, War and Body Horror! If these topics are a trigger for you, please read at your risk!

Again, T.W/Tags - For Death, Violence, Slavery, War and Body Horror!

Snake Gain, Human Pain:

Parents Died in a Grave. The Ninja World only brings about Slaves. Till they are dead in a single day. I did not even get to meet them or have a say. The hope was lost and their was no path or way... Till I saw a white shed of a snake... My Mentor says a rebirth and good fortune will rake... It gave me a goal, an idea.... that the whole world would put at stake. It matter not.... I wished to live forever, death shall not be caught. I wish to have all the knowledge, to find truth.... If I do not live forever, eventually my knowledge and gains would be lost. In order to find this eternal youth.... I must go to a realm, where humans dare to cross. The gather of orphans... The lost of Nameless Shinobi.... I took them under my wings... Making promises to them, only if there serve me and bring. Otherwise, no use for such a Fling that only Clings. After all, I lost and seen may die in all of the Ninja Wars.... My Parents were a tip of the score... So, Attachments forgone and no more. I finally found a way to achieve my goal... It involves the use of young boys and girls at their core. Switching bodies and souls....till I find one that last forevermore. But in doing so, many tried to bring me to decay.... They are all dead now, by the way. But sometimes, they almost succeeded... But can they not see, that they made me use another body like pullings out Flowers that later turn into weeds. It matters not, because I have to do every three years... Not ideal, the next goal is to find one that last forever, this I would adhere. I found someone.... But he later become sick and was done a number by a ton. I found another one.... This one have won. My goal was put on hold.... Till Escaped and enter the cold.... The Foruth Great Ninja War.... I stood, seeing my ideals of old. Would have lead me, if I stayed as What I told. Horrified... I no longer wish to contrive. However, my knowledge is needed to make many survive. So I reanimated the Four Kage in strive. It might have mean my death, but I am still alive. My goal is achieved.... I have reached Immortality. All I dream.... Is Now within Reach.

That is the Poem, I hope that you all Liked it! Let me Know what you guys think the comments down below!

That Said, Happy Birthday Orochimaru!

[auroragehenna]

AI-less Whumptober

Day 3 - Trauma Thursday (Shared trauma, survivor’s guilt, “It’s not your fault.”)

"No matter how much you squirm you won't get away" - Universe

TW/CW: Angel whumpee, demon whumper, electrocution, food whump, dehumanization, degradation, mind games, conditioning, physical whump, psycholgical whump, group whump(?), scared whumpee, reluctant whumpee, merciless whumper (here), Word count: 981

"And remember if anyone tries to help her you're all going to pay for it!", Electra warned her dolls. The group of them seated around the banquet table. Only one seat was still free, the one at the very top. The demoness standing next to the table. She gave the nixie sitting there one last gentle yet posessive pet over her head before leaving the room-letting the next events unfold.

Harmonia was let out of her room at the same time as Electra left the other one. They didn't cross each other but the angel had gotten pretty strict instructions on how to behave. Instructions she still didn't like but decided to disgruntedly accept to avoid more pain. At least she'd get food from whatever this was going to be. "Simple Dinner" she had said. Likely story!

Accompanied guarded by maids the former mercenary made it to the prepared room. The two servants halted at the door and gestured for her to go inside. They would wait outside.

Alright then, let's do this. She pushed open the doors and entered the, compared, small dining hall. Inside there were already a small amount and variety of creatures sitting around a banquet table. She scanned the room. Nobody was looking at her or rather dared to look at her. Of course, I'm new, the walking time bomb, the health hazard, she thought bitterly. Even if deep down she knew it wasn't fair of her. They most likely all went through the same things she had. Was going through. They were all stolen and captured creatures, imprisoned and trained for her profit. But wait-! Another hushed look around the room confirmed it. There was only one seat still free. At the top of the table. Harmonia's wings flapped nervously. Her muscles twitching as if before the hairy part of a mission. She Electra had instructed her clearly to be seated by the time she returned to the hall. And the punish for disobedience in front of other people was much higher than without other people, that much she had learned even in these few times. Still something about that seat didn't seem right to her. Something was off. But maybe she was simply over-reactive after all the torture. Most likely Electra just wanted to have her isolated and spotlighted and that's why she was seated there. Either way she didn't have time to waste, if she wasn't seated there would be hell to pay! So come on, just sit down! Now! Carefully she walked to the seat and sat down on it, examing her enviroment closely.

The nixie who previously had Electra's attention drops her head a little lower. The faintest ghost of a guluteral sound escaping from her body but otherwise nothing. Like all the others. Mute, still, waiting.

Then two decorated wooden door wings behind Harmonia opened. It made the angel shiver but she managed to resist the urge to jerk around and see what was going on and probably break a rule. They did nothing wrong, they did nothing wrong, they followed the order, they were seated. A pale hand appeared in Harmonia's peripheral vision. Moving forward until settling casually on the armrest of the lean chair she was sitting in. Then a cold voice.

"Harmonia, my dearest. What do you think you're doing?"

Oh. OH GOD. Her actual name. She used her actual name! Harmonia froze from head to toe completely without magic. Her spine felt as if drenched in ice water. She didn't dare speak-couldn't.

While the one hand stayed where it was Electra's other hand weaved into Harmonia's rosey, messy hair and at once pulled back harshly. "I asked you a question, doll. And when I do that I expect an answer! Understand!?", the demoness hissed coldly.

The angel whimpered. She forced herself to speak: "Yes, M'am. I apologize." With her head angeled she was forced to maintain eye contact with Electra. Vainly she searched in those glacier eyes for mercy. Or at least a sign that her apology had been good enough. But there was no mercy to be found.

"I'm waiting, Harmonia.", the demoness warned. Small strings of electricity crackling out of her fingertips into Harmonia's scalp.

Another broken whimper. Even with so little the pain was excruciating. Directly into her head. Question, right the question! "I-Your order was that I be seated when you arrive I only attempted to follow your orders, M'am."

"And you think you did well? Do you believe, my little angel, that I am satisifed with the result?"

"No-No, M'am. But I'm sorry I don't know what I did wrong."

Electra's grip in her hair tightened and at once she brutually pulled her head to the side and threw the starved body onto the surprisngly dirty floor, leaving the chair miraciously standing. Her ice blue eyes looked down at the sad figure in the dirt. "May this be a reminder to you to never. ever. attempt to sit where I sit. You are all but the dirt underneath my sole! Something like you could never be someone like me, doll! Remember this. And know your place!" And with those words she turned away and sat down, ordering her still seated dolls to look up and look alive and waited for dinner to be served.

Harmonia didn't get up, she just lay there in the dirt on her bruised side. Didn't dare move without permission. A silent tear rolling down her face-not shining. Her head still felt on fire inside. When the food was finally served Harmonia took a plate-probably originally known for her and threw it onto the dirty floor next to her, uncaring off the shards digging into her marble skin. Electra looked down at her angel, then without another word she stepped on the food and dug it deeper into the dirt with her heel.

"Eat!", she ordered simply.

Taglist: @ailesswhumptober, @yourlocalgaefae33, @princessofhe11, @greatkittencloud, @bisexuawolfsalt, @shattermind-8

[inkandpaperqwerty]

I had so many plans for this weekend. So many different things I was going to work on. And then Rehearsing Tragedies (my Slave!Castiel story) consumed my soul, and I spent my entire Saturday writing it. Somehow, I got from an incredibly amusing scene where Dean half-jokingly threatens to spank Castiel (in a non-sexy way) for being so violent and uncooperative all the time to an absolutely gut-wrenching scene where Castiel is terrified out of his mind but can’t do anything to stop what’s happening to him because he’s been drugged but is fully aware. Yet, it’s all linear. One thing leads to the next. Castiel’s constant resistance leads to… something that I’m not giving away right now. Point is, I gave myself whiplash, so I can’t imagine what it’s going to do to you guys. Ahem.

But I did manage to get some other stuff done, including some work on Through the Gate (Criminal Minds x Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood)! I’ve got about six chapters done, and I’ll be posting the first chapter on Wednesday, 05/22/2024. I don’t know if I’m going to be posting every Wednesday like I have been or if I’m going to do every other Wednesday, at least until I have more completed. We’re gonna see how it goes!

I got some work done on Sparkling Eyes and Cigarette Burns, though not as much as I wanted (because Slave!Castiel consumed my soul). I’ll be working on it throughout the week during my lunch breaks and when I get home from work, so hopefully I’ll at least have the chapter complete, if not ready to post, by next weekend.

I don’t want to talk about publishing. I just… don’t want to talk about it. Ugh.

Thanks for reading!

[theprofessionalpromptmaker]

Person A sold themself as a minor to the local fighting arena after forging their parent’s signature, so that all the money they make in matches is sent to their parents, since their family is poor. All they have to do is keeping surviving and winning fights for their family to keep getting an income, while also not having to spend money feeding or caring for them. But Person A notices something strange about the arena in the private ‘rooms’/cells where the fighters are kept - there’s a strange freezer in the center, that their room is next too. One day, when being brought out of their room for a match, they see the door to the large freezer open and a curled up, seemingly sleeping but shivering person on the ground, with the owner of the arena and a visitor standing over them. Person A has never seen them as a fighter and has never seen the freezer opened in the long time they’ve been a fighter there. Person B, the person in the freezer, is a god of life and health, and the arena owner acquired them and keeps them in the freezer to keep them in a dormant/sleeping state,  and placed the freezer among the fighters’ rooms to make them heal up faster, for more impressive battles and less loss of fighters from various injuries. The better a fighter is, the closer they’re placed to the freezer to get the most benefit from the life god’s passive powers. Person A eventually catches the eye of the child of the arena owner and is freed to be their trophy spouse, and Person A’s spouse ends up inheriting the arena when the owner dies, and Person A has the opportunity to find out more about Person B and decides to let them wake up and find out more about them and how they ended up there.