every now and then i have to think of the roman family from two thousand years ago that buried their little daughter in a boy’s athletic-themed sarcophagus and i weep a little because that’s the softest declaration of love i can possibly imagine
i am once again emotional and sleep deprived so let me elaborate to make myself feel better.
octavia paulina was a six year old girl whose sarcophagus was found in her family’s tomb at via triumphalis in rome, dated roughly around the third century a.d. her parents mourned her mors immatura, her premature death, by having the wall behind her sarcophagus painted with the image of a giant meadow with children and a chariot pulled by doves accompanied by hermes leading an unconscious girl into afterlife. (to my knowledge, the doves and the fact that they were led by hermes was a symbol for hope.)
the sarcophagus itself shows athletic competitions between girls and boys alike, and in the most important one on the front, octavia paulina appears as the winner (a palm branch in her hand, which is meant to symbolize her strength and honor, her virtus). her opponent is sitting on the floor, upset. what really stands out is that octavia paulina’s parents ordered a common sarcophagus that was usually used to bury boys with athletic interests or futures but then proceeded to have it remodeled — smaller heads and genitalia cut off etc — to include girls in the relief.
i just get very soft when i think about parents ordering a sarcophagus for their little daughter who think it’s perfect for her and who remodel it to make it even more accurate for her. the thought of parents more than 1.700 years ago thinking their six year old daughter deserves a sarcophagus that fits her personality (rather than what was expected of her as a young girl of the time) despite none being available and then ordering for it to be altered makes me wanna scream because it’s such a human and caring thing to do. maybe octavia paulina even had a say in this because it took weeks to months to make a sarcophagus this detailed.
disclaimer: a lot of this messy little thing was transcribed from what my professor has told us in his sarcophagus class and this article; this is just a rambling post, it isn’t detailed or well put or structured properly, and not fit for scientific research.
In 2000 a Roman tomb from the first century DC was found in Grottaferrata, near Rome.
Inside there were two sarcofagi in white marble identifying their occupants. Both people had died in summer, albeit years apart from each other, and had been preserved (an unusual detail that suggests they might have been followers of the cult of Isis).
They were mother and son, other inscriptions tell us the tomb had been commissioned by the woman’s younger daughter (the half sister of the man) Antestia Balbina.
The young man, Carvilio Gemello, was around 18 when he died, likely as a consequence of a bone fracture in his leg.
The woman, Aebutia, was around forty forty-five when she died and was buried wearing this ring (now housed in the Palestrina Archeological museum)
Behind the quartz window we can still see the face of Carvilio Gemello engraved in a golden miniature that his mother commissioned.
In a way, Aebutia and the parents of Octavia Paulina, succeeded in defying death with their acts of love.
After thousands of years we can still see the face of Carvilio Gemello like his mother last saw him, know that Octavia Paulina was an athletic little girl beloved by her family.
Life was unkind to both so those who loved them tried to make sure memory wouldn’t be.
You know, when I see fictional characters who repress all their emotions, they're usually aloof and very blunt about keeping people at a distance, sometimes to an edgy degree—but what I don't see nearly enough are the emotionally repressed characters who are just…mellow.
Think about it. In real life, the person that's bottling up all their emotions is not the one that's brooding in the corner and snaps at you for trying to befriend them. More often than not, it's that friendly person in your circle who makes easy conversation with you, laughs with you, and listens and gives advice whenever you're upset. But you never see them upset, in fact they seem to have endless patience for you and everything around them—and so you call them their friend, you trust them. And only after months of telling them all your secrets do you realize…
…they've never actually told you anything about themselves.
Adding onto this: characters who are so deeply repressed that they don't even realize they're not fine, or at the very least not supposed to be fine. Characters who do tell you about a situation they're in that should be bad, but instantly laugh it off saying they can handle it (spoiler: they can, in fact, not handle it). Characters who laugh with you and listen to all your woes and much later you learn that they were actually going through something at least equally bad at the time, but they wave it off and don't want to speak of it. Characters whose main coping mechanism seems to be "don't think about it" on endless loop.
Basically, the fictional embodiment of the "this is fine" dog.
Even saying ”I’m so sorry, I completely forgot” sounds marginally better than ” I’m so sorry, I didn’t completely forget, I actually completely remembered. I thought about it the whole time and it stressed me out so much my brain built an insurmountable wall around it.”
A trope I adore: not only a drugged Whumpee, but the act of drugging Whumpee.
Pinning Whumpee’s arm to the ground or a table, keeping them still enough to push the needle into their arm
Causing a sharp, sudden pain that makes Whumpee cry out, their mouth opened just long enough to shove a pill inside—then holding a hand over Whumpee’s nose and mouth until they swallow or suffocate
Forcing Whumpee to drink something they know is laced (or don’t)
Waving a strong chemical beneath an unconscious or exhausted Whumpee’s nose, and watching the effects hit their system almost immediately
Making Whumpee finish a suspiciously chalky meal
Restraining Whumpee and hooking them up to a constant drip of fluids meant to keep them docile. Bonus: Whumpee fighting tooth and nail to keep the needle from their arm because they know—once it’s in, there’s no chance to escape
Tw: torture (past and present), conditioning, asphyxiation, whipping, and just a bunch of other good stuff :)
11:00 p.m., master isn’t home yet, then it must be time for bed. Lucas pushes himself up from his knees, still trembling from kneeling on the cold tiles for hours on end, waiting for his owner to show up. He looks down at his kneecaps just to find them tinted red, caused by the pressure from his own weight.
The Canadian winter snow is still pelting, a ghost white blankets everything in sight. He’s lost in the panoramic scene for a moment, in the dagger-like icicles and the pine trees bending under the heavy shimmering carpet that covers their every leaf and the eery silence of stillness. Through the glass door and French windows, he watches as the moon shines on the pavement that’s covered knee-high, and for an instant, he imagines the tingling of the freezing snow on his legs. Before he knows it, his mind’s filled with thoughts of the unthinkable…the impossible.
The first obstacle would be the locked front door, hardly a challenge, he knows where master keeps the spare keys - where he keeps anything for that matter- Lucas has been the one keeping this place spotless after all, for a good chunk of the past four years and seven months and fourteen days.
He’s built up quite a tolerance to cold by now, thanks to master’s ‘seasonal torture techniques’. Apparently, keeping the poor boy out in -10 degrees Celsius temperature and frozen snow in nothing but his boxers until his body starts shaking violently and he bangs his trembling fists to the glass door as he begs to be let in, is just as much an amusement as burning him or drowning him or beating him bloody. Even though he could survive several hours in that weather, he’d most definitely lose all mobility within the first hour. He will need to cover himself up, with some of his owner’s winter clothes perhaps, not that a 6’ man with an athletic build’s clothes would fit perfectly on a 5’ 3” boy with a much smaller body, but anything that keeps him warm will do.
It’s gonna be an exhaustingly long walk before he sets foot outside the property and even then, they’re probably somewhere far into the woods, they couldn’t be more than a day of walking from the city though, master goes to the city quite often for work so it must be a reasonable distance.
The thought of escaping seems more and more like an absurd fantasy as his trail of taboo thoughts continues flowing. It was never gonna be anything more than that anyways. Besides, even if he did make it outside on his own, the owner would definitely find his astray mongrel somewhere along the way and when he does, he will make sure that ungrateful mutt knows the definition of real hell. First and foremost, he will bash in his kneecaps, turn him into the dog he is, just as promised. He’ll have to crawl on all fours for the rest of his pathetic life, And that’s not even all. The mere thought of the length of consequences that await him if he steps out of line makes him freeze in his place.
11:45. Did he just spend that long thinking about escaping? It’s almost funny; after years and years of training, this is where he belongs, this is who he is, he doesn’t have a purpose in life but to obey and please his master.
At last, his legs drag him to the upstairs bedroom where he changes into his sleeping t-shirt. The room is warm and his stomach is full, a fact he will never stop being grateful for. Just as he slides under the covers, the door to the living room is opened forcefully and then slammed shut and heavy shoes stomp downstairs. Lucas sits up in the bed, expecting to greet his exasperated master, but the footsteps never make it upstairs.
Naked feet touch the wooden floor and sneak down the staircase.
“S- sir?” He calls softly.
Light peaks out of the doorway to the study and that’s where his feet take him.
“Welcome home maste-“
An empty whiskey bottle flies towards him the second he steps through the door, but his head instinctively ducks and the glass shatters as it hits the wall to his back.
“Why the fuck is my whiskey bottle empty.” It doesn’t sound like a question but Lucas answers anyway.
“I’m not allowed in the cellar when I’m alone.” His voice is small.
“I’ll fetch you one right away sir, I’m sorry” he quickly adds as he feels the angry gaze bore into his quivering figure. He looks up to the vexed man and finds him fidgeting with his tie in a failed attempt to loosen it.
“Let me.” He carefully steps closer to help his master. He’s stepping on eggshells, every step he takes might be a step too far, but master allows him to get close and slowly hook his fingers around the tie and pull. He loosens the loop enough for the man’s head to easily slip through.
“Did you have a bad day, sir?” He speaks softly, placing the tie on the desk behind him and starts unbuttoning his owner’s white shirt.
Lucas looks up at him when he doesn’t hear an answer. The man’s mind seems to be rushing with irritating thoughts, however, his attention is grabbed as the busy hands on his shirt stop wriggling.
“Very.” He sounds tired. The hands continue undressing his top until his muscular form shows as the shirt is taken away. Big hands wrap around bony wrists.
“Weren’t you supposed to be asleep by now?” The pressure on his wrists increases and the boy’s nervousness along with it. He tries to back off a bit, but his movements are blocked by the desk behind him and master’s vigorous form in front. Helplessly sandwiched in between, he presses the palms of his hands to the tattooed chest holding him captive.
“I- I heard you enter and you seemed pissed. Thought that you uh…you might want to blow off some steam, sir?” His eyes wander off to the floor in shame, he does mean what he said, but he didn’t think it through, he shouldn’t have done anything before he was ordered to and now…now he has fucked up. Although, if he is to be punished, master might appreciate the distraction. His idiocy may prove helpful afterall.
He hears a chuckle, not threatening or derisive, rather…sweet.
The man’s breathing no longer seems ragged by irritation and his heartbeat calms under Lucas’s palms.
“Oh you sweet thing. You came to me willingly, to be used and abused. Such an obedient little puppy!” One of his hands let go of the little one’s wrists to card through his silky brown locks. Lucas moans softly into his touch.
He feels like a proud owner, turning that stray animal into this adorable domestic pet, ready to serve and please, needy for his master’s touch, ready to jump off a cliff without hesitation if master orders him so. He has been trained with such delicacy, his prized possession.
The hands in the pet’s hair firmly grip the roots and they pull and twist until he winces and looks up at him through defeated eyes, only to find a sadistic dark gaze thrown his way, he keeps his hands flat on his chest, there’s not much fight in him. The fingers pull until he feels his scalp tearing from his skull and he cries out. Master smiles at the sounds he makes, like a father watching his child sweetly speak gibberish. Finally, the hand lets go, but Lucas’s eyes stay leveled with his owner’s.
“On your knees.”
He drops to his knees like it’s instinct.
“Heel.” He starts stepping towards an empty wall between the bookshelves. On the wall hang two chained handcuffs, fixated by nails on the green wallpaper, his personal modification to make the study feel more like home to his precious little pet.
Lucas follows behind him with ease, used to the scratching of his knees as he crawls by his master’s feet, the hard wood beneath him gives its place temporarily to the soft wool of the Persian rug as they cross the middle of the room and then the uncomfortable wood again.
He extends his arms so that they can be restrained. An air of superiority lines his owner’s smile and he can’t help but pat the willing puppy on the head.
Once his wrists are firmly secured, the sheer fabric covering his upper body is ripped through. He sits there awkwardly as master pulls the remains aside.
His vision is limited to the wall in front of him now. Footsteps track distant and stop a few feet behind him. He listens intently now, all his senses heightened, they always are in these situations, when his brain knows something bad, something painful, is going to happen and his body is unable to do anything but stay still and notice every sensory trigger possible. Now even his mind won’t do anything but sit still and take it all in, defiance is no longer defined in his dictionary. The sound his hypersensitive ears catch next is that of a belt undone, followed by his next command.
“Stretch your back for me darling”
He does as told, moving his knees and elbows in opposite directions until every inch of his back - littered with wounds and physical implications of mental trauma - is exposed and stretched to full capacity.
“You ready sweetheart?”
Lucas keeps his head down and squeezes his eyes shut as if that makes anything better. He belatedly answers when he realizes he is expected to.
“Y- yes, master.”
The belt cracks in the air before it lands on his back. The leather is thick and heavy, and the pain that spreads through his bones and muscles is sickening.
His sweet voice breaks into a scream, so pleasant that his tormentor stops to appreciate it for a second. Another blow brings another sweet cry out of him. He could do this forever.
“Your body’s such a beautiful canvas, it would be a shame not to cover it with art.”
Lucas doesn’t move his composition an inch, offering his naked back for his owner to take his rage out on. However, he yawps as the belt whips his tender skin, one blow from the right and one from the left rhythmically, and the occasional cracks in the air just to make the already tremoring boy flinch even harder in anticipation of pain.
His tears slide straight onto the parquet and his head falls down between his strained arms, chin touching the chest. Master must see it because the next blow comes down on him harsher and faster than the rest and the edges of the belt cut into his skin.
His head rises, he shrieks and tears stream down his reddened eyes, his perfect posture is disturbed slightly. Such a sight. Though it is fun to break defiant brats, it’s even more enjoyable to crush an obedient mutt.
“M- master- “ he sobs. Several cuts on his back are bleeding now.
“What is it, pet?” He stops and walks closer to the bleeding trembling boy.
Lucas ducks his head back down. He had learned time and time again that asking for it to stop only brings him punishment. That word was involuntary, he regrets saying anything at all, even more so when his head is yanked backward by his brown curls drawing a wince out of him. Master’s dark eyes drill a hole into his blushing cheeks.
“Don’t be shy now boy. Beg me to stop. Cry for my mercy. All your wishes just might eventually come true.”
He smiles. It’s frightening and hits the naked boy’s body like a winter blizzard, sending visible shivers down his spine.
His head is let go just to fall limply between his arms again and he can hear footsteps retracting through loud sobs.
Suddenly, something soft grips his neck, silky…the tie. The loop he helped loosen earlier, tightens around his neck more than it should and it’s pulled up until he chokes out. Master looks at him with pity eyes as he loses composure and chokes himself even harder. He claws at the floor with his feet to keep his head up but the noose moves higher and higher, blocking all oxygen from ever touching his windpipe.
“If you want to breathe, ask nicely.”
His eyes turn in their place to stare innocently into those of his master. There’s not much air left in him to form coherent words.
“S- sir…p- nghh; please…Ah” only whispers leave his mouth. He gasps for air with his mouth open and a stream of tears down his messed-up face.
“-ease p-..mas- Ha- hngha.. mast- “ his face turns a dark shade of purple, matching the violet tie around his throat.
His owner only lets go of his lead a moment before he loses consciousness, or maybe one after. Either way the boy’s head falls to his chest, his weak naked body spattered across the room, only hanging up by tied-up wrists. The gradually fastening rise and fall of his chest is all the movement he makes. He mercifully undoes his restraints so the boy can catch his breath
Master pulls a chair to sit beside his panting mess of a pet on the ground and lights his cigarette calmly. Lucas slowly regains consciousness and pulls himself to sit on his knees, the tie still wrapped around his slender neck and vision still disoriented, back still hurting and bleeding, the exhaustion overtakes the pain by the slightest.
A snap of fingers. That means there’s an order to follow. His eyes look for the source of the sound. Master gestures for him to come closer.
His numb limbs are having a hard time trying to follow his brain’s orders but eventually, he pulls himself to all fours and crawls to the bigger man in the chair. The tie dangles around his neck like a runaway dog’s leash; except he could never run away, he has an extremely thoughtful owner, always alert and cautious, even after…four years and seven months and fourteen days - well fifteen now.
His sweaty palms make sticky sounds against the floor until he’s at his sir’s feet. He fits his body between his legs and rests his dizzy head on the lap of the other.
He knows this ritual by heart, after every single play or training or punishment or ‘let me take everything out on you because I can’ session, master smokes his cigarette as he winds down and then…zzzz…signs his brutalized body with the hot end of the cigarette. He hardly even flinches at the burning pain anymore, he’s way too beaten and it’s way too familiar. It almost feels reassuring even, a sign that agony is over for the time being. He’s relieved.
His body is carpeted in these marks, he couldn’t count them even if he wanted to. Most of them overlap, but master has his favorite spots, his neck and shoulders for example.
A loving hand sorts out his tangled locks and he dozes off to the touch, right there on master’s thigh. His eyes open sluggishly and look up for another order, or permission to pass out.
“Ah. Thank you pet, I feel much better now. Bring me that whiskey after you’re done cleaning yourself up, would you?”
“Mmhm…yes, sir”
He gently brushes off the stray strands of hair sticking to his sweaty face and bends his neck to press a gentle kiss to the boy’s temple.
“Up now. You’ve been such a good boy for me tonight. You can go to bed when you’ve done as I said. It’s way past your bedtime.” He whispers into his ears with a deep calm voice.
“Mmm..” Lucas nods and gets up on his feet lazily. He tries his best not to stumble over his own feet as he makes his way to the cellar.
Lucas is glad he proved himself useful for his master tonight.
Inspired by one of @whumpitisthen’s dialouge prompts.
A gun pressed to a feverish Whumpee’s forehead, but they’re so delirious and the cold feels so good against their flushed skin, they can’t help but lean into it, much to Whumper’s shock or delight.
Whumpees being kept in small cages are lovely. Watch them try to excape, pull the cage apart, Anything to get Out- Than their limbs start cramping, pins and needles setting in, and their forced to just try and find a comfortable position to be in.
a defiant whumpee trying to claw at whumper’s arms in protest as their body reacts to the sedative that was just injected into them. they can only muster aggravated, painful groans and whimpers as whumper cards a hand through their hair.
“shh, my love… don’t fight it,” they whisper, guiding their captive to lay back down.
Whumpers who use affection to pacify aggressive Whumpees.
Whumper's voice is calming and motherly, whispering praises as they run a hand through Whumpee's hair, offering sweets or pleasantries. In return, Whumpee adores them wholeheartedly. Whumpee puts on any restraints they are ordered to, comforts Whumper when they're stressed out, all that.
But as soon as Whumper makes the command to tear someone apart? God have mercy on their soul, because Whumpee surely won't.
As blood drips down Whumpee's chin, they nuzzle Whumper's hand, and puts the muzzle back on. Whumper gently whispers in Whumpee's ear: "Well done. Let's get you some treats."
wtf why do you all like this so much
dehumanize your whumpees!! put cigarettes out on their bruised skin. make them eat days-old food. carve degrading and insulting words into their skin. give them expired medicine. keep them chained to the wall by a leash and collar that’s too tight and barely gives them any room for movement. make them ask for permission before speaking or standing or breathing. dehumanize your whumpees. <3
i just love love love a whumper brutally beating the defiance out of their whumpee—
perhaps it’s only temporary, once their head stops spinning they’ll go back to spitting and cursing at whumper…. but whumper just beats the daylights out of them until theyre dazed and growling and angry— whumpee’s spitting words giving way to more and more absolutely humiliating sounds as whumper beats them into the ground again and again and —
eventually, there’s just this sound—halfway between a choked gasp and a strangled groan
and whumper finally stops to listen to whumpee’s panted breaths, to wipe the strands of hair from their forehead, to admire how red whumpee’s cheeks have gotten from the embarrassment and whumper’s hand striking them over and over mere moments ago
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
kaledo-art
