Anatomically correct angel for my biology class

Wanted to make this for real but didn’t get any volunteers and was told that would be a human rights violation. No one understands my genius 😔

I stumbled across a man talking about having survived the 2004 Boxing Day Tsunami when he was a small boy, and he mentioned in passing an entire village that had been swept away - that a foreign government rebuilt the buildings, but that the village has remained empty, as people fear unsettled spirits of the dead are still there.

I don't blame them. I think I wouldn't be able to move in to one of those buildings either, for the same reason.

There are still emptied-out towns in Japan since the Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami in 2011. Even when people are told they can go back to rebuilt homes, few do. Retaking the towns happens slowly, uneasily. People live alongside a wrenching tear in the universe where their loved ones should be, surrounded by spaces where half-second glimpses of those long gone can happen at any time. With every breath, every blink.

I keep thinking about buildings as grave markers, empty rooms with ghosts living within them but no breath ever moving the air. Vines and leaves winding up walls and flowers blooming on pathways where there should have been footsteps. The sounds of birds singing in buildings that once held a crush and chatter of crowds.

Buildings as cairns, as tombs without bodies.

Buildings as empty memorials to a life that abruptly ended even for the survivors of the day itself. What was rebuilt was something else entirely. Can you live inside a wooden ghost? Can you sleep in a bed within its lungs? Can you wake up each morning and look up at bones?

Buildings as places where a teacup left on a saucer for twenty years seems still like it might suddenly rise to cool lips. Buildings where chairs line up before an arcade, dust-covered and decrepit but still brightly-colored, ready to welcome in players who are never coming. Buildings with the eyes of people. Buildings that watch, and wait, for the living to come and remember the dead.

Buildings as places where your fingers are always just brushing those of someone who should still be here. The weight of their presence in those empty rooms. The way you can almost hear their voice calling for you from just out of sight.

Buildings as memories of a future that didn't happen.

Buildings as reminders of a universe where this loss hadn't happened yet, where this confluence of horrifying moments hadn't yet come together. Buildings as grave markers, as memorials, as defiance against nature that indifferently destroyed us and never took notice of the loss. Buildings as our insistence on remembering that there was a loss, and that grief lives and breathes even if those we lost no longer do.

Buildings as our cries that you should still be here.

Buildings as thousands of voices whispering back, I am here. I will always be here. And so will a part of you.

please, please unmute this.

Some crimes can never be forgiven

the last line hit me like a fuckin sledgehammer

the last line hit me like a fuckin sledgehammer

GOSH I SAW THE MIRROR REF FROM @adorkastock AND I COULDN’T GET TO DRAWING FAST ENOUGH

When you’ve been so many different people it’s hard to know which is real…

In the end I think they all are.

Uuuuh this is so so cool 👀✨️ awesome work

a visitor

@ashintheairlikesnow

Superhero's pet

WoW's birthday event: day 9: aftermath of rescue | sickness | "you're burning up"

Taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

Caretaker's rescued Villain from Superhero from years in his 'care'. But that doesn't mean things are easy, especially when he's still her boss.

The blame for this goes entirely to @echo-goes-mmm.

1.9k

CWs: Villain whump, pet whump, severe self-dehumanisation, past dehumanisation, past animalisation, asking for punishment, past torture

Chapter two: Ivar.

CW: Slaves in a medieval society,  abuse, 

The only thing keeping Ivar alive in this hellhole was his desperate desire to kill Katherine Blackthorne.

It was a freezing November night and Ivar knew he was supposed to die here, trapped in this narrow kennel in the middle of the castle's courtyard.

During the day, he was on perfect display, stripped of his clothes and dignity for the English to gawk at. But now, the night engulfed him in darkness as thick as the northern sea during a night dive.

Pain pulsed through Ivar’s legs. They twitched, unable to straighten in the cramped space.

The kennel's icy bars warmed as they pressed into his shins and he leaned his clammy forehead against them. They felt almost good against the burn of his fever.

His back must have gotten infected after the last whipping. The soiled hay in his kennel stuck to the dried blood on his back, irritating the crisscross of partly crusted wounds. Every twitch pulled his skin painfully, and he trembled violently in the frigid air.

Somewhere to his right, a heavy metal door slammed shut. The servants’'s entrance? It was too loud for a wooden door and not loud enough for a castle gate. But this late at night?

A pair of heavy steps rushed towards the courtyard, joined by a couple lighter ones. Nervous whispers echoed through the cloister walk as they drew near.

“Does Lady Blackthorne know of this?” asked an older maid. Ivar strained to listen. Nothing ever happened in Blackthorn castle without the bitch’tes knowledge. And explicit permission.

“Not yet,” came the gruff reply.

“But- you can’t bring a stranger inside! Who even is this girl? Oh gods, what if she's a witch?”

“Doubtful. Found her out in the woods, totally out of it.”

“But- The woods? At this time? A girl shouldn’t be in the woods at night. And why- why is she naked?” The woman's voice pitched high within discomfort on the last question.

“Dunno. Should I have left her to freeze to death?”

“No! But- but I have nothing to do with this, you hear. Nothing.”

A lone lantern flame cast their long shadows onto the courtyard as they rounded a corner. Hissing, Ivar shifted onto his side to see them set foot on the wet cobblestones. They glittered in the light.

The head of housemaids hurried ahead, head turning hectic on her long neck to spot any possible witnesses lurking in the dark. Her bonnet sat askew on graying brown hair, thrown on in a rush no doubt, but her black servants dress fell straight down to her ankles, the dark linen pristine and bar any wrinkles.  In stark contrast to the bulky, mud smeared appearance of the huntsman following her. 

His boots and leather trousers were crusted in late autumn slush. A thick scarf and hat obscured half his face. Only his frostbitten red nose and grim eyes were visible, looking down at the person he carried bundled in his coat. 

“By the gods, did you hear that?”  Ivar could see the woman's face now, her sharp features drawn tight in displeasure. Her thin lips pursed as she spat out:  “I think that Norse pig is awake.”

The huntsman didn’t answer. Instead he wrapped his brown leather coat tighter around the unconscious girl in his arms. Pale, dangling legs and a shock of blond hair stuck out of it.

“How can you be this calm?” The woman spat, black skirt swishing as she faced him. “What if he rats us out for some extra food?”

The huntsman's bushy brows furrowed.  “The Norse are too proud to bargain for food scraps.”

Ivars dry lips cracked in a smile, when a sudden burst of wind whipped across the courtyard, its howl drowning out the servants' protests and extinguishing the lantern flame. When it hit him, his black salt-sweaty hair blew into his gray eyes, hay flying everywhere.

“A bad omen,” hissed the maid. Cloth rustled and a match scraped against a matchbox’s striking strip. Once. Twice. “I tell you all this is a bad omen.” It lit with a crackling sizzle.

The wind carried a smell that sent goosebumps down Ivar’s back.

The stench of angels.

The sweet decay of death hit him like a battering ram, catapulting his thoughts to abandoned battlefields full of angels sprouting from the ground, decomposing the corpses of his comrades.

Why would the huntsman haul an angel touched corpse from the woods? Ivar wondered, swallowing down bile.

After some fumbling the maid’s lantern flickered back to life and Ivar noticed the small puffs of warm breath escaping from the unconscious girl. So she wasn’t dead?

A draugr perhaps? No, Ivar doubted it. Never would the huntsman make such a mistake.

But angels only took the living. And never let go of the dead.

Whatever this girl was, a living corpse or a human, Ivar knew at least one thing for sure:

She was an unplanned disturbance in Katherine’s meticulously run machinery of a castle.

And during war, disturbances meant chances. 

Ivar curled up in his frigid kennel, back burning at the stretch. For the first time since his capture, he smiled. 

Taglist:

@ashintheairlikesnow @vickytokio @newbornwhumperfly @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @studyofwhump @dragyouthroughthewhump @studyofwhump @secretwhumplair @whump-queen @whump-captain

Is there anyone in the whump community currently obsessing over these two guys or is it just me?

Hello! I am 34, female. Writing has always been a hobby of mine, but I just recently, in the last few weeks, have discovered the type of writing I like to do actually has a name and a community! I am brand new to whump and to Tumblr, so forgive me as I'm figuring out everything.

My some of my favorite whump tropes:

Fantasy

Captured/imprisoned

Public disgrace/humiliation of a high ranking/notorious Whumpee.

Gags/muzzled

Restrained/bondage

Self-sacrifice/ made a deal

Gaurd dog

I am currently working on my first novel but really enjoy writing short stories in between, so if there's anything anyone wants me to write something, please feel free to shoot me a message! I look forward to interacting with this community and reading people's work!

Welcome to the community ✨️

A Kindness

CW: Runaway whumpee, referenced hunger/malnourishment

Timeline: After Jameson escaped from Robert but before he found a safehouse

For @amonthofwhump Tropeathon Day 3: A Long Cold Night

-

It’s fucking freezing out here. Jameson thought California wasn’t supposed to get cold like this, but just his goddamn luck, it definitely does. 

He’s curled up against the heavy concrete beneath the overpass, using it to block the worst of the wind. There are a scattering of tents around him, others who have figured out some slim form of shelter. There’s a couple fires going, too, but Jameson doesn’t want anything to do with the people circled around them, sharing stories and in-jokes. They’ve been out here for long enough to know each other. To trust each other, more or less.

Like everywhere else he goes, Jameson doesn’t fit.

He sure as fuck doesn't trust.

When he finds other runaway pets, they think he’s frightening. The twisted scar near his mouth catches the firelight too well. He's too brash, too angry, someone who might be violent.

When he tries to stick around non-pets, they read him like a book and treat him like shit on the bottom of their shoes. Or try to sneak up on him when he sleeps and get a hand down his pants, assuming that he won’t fight back, because everyone knows Box Boys will lie back and take it, right?

Well, Jameson isn’t like other pets.

He isn't just any Box Boy.

Nanda taught him how to survive, no matter what it cost. Nanda taught him-

Goddamn fucking dead Nanda.

If he wasn't so fucking dead none of this would be happening.

Jameson closes his eyes against a hot rush of tears he refuses to allow out, not now. Not when he knows he's being watched, considered for whether he might have a few dollars that could be stolen or if he could be held down and made to accept their touch. He won't be.

The ones who try learn that real fast not to try again, once they have busted lips and black eyes and, in one case, a set of balls so bruised and twisted that the asshole who tried to make Jameson kneel for him is definitely sterile now.

Cold nights make his legs ache, the final loving legacy of the braces he’d worn for too long that never let him stand all the way up. Two goddamn assholes had put those on him, and he'll never be free of the pain. Jameson ignores it, grinds his teeth until his jaw hurts worse than his legs ever could. He can ignore it just fine until the weather gets cold.

Mostly.

There’s a scraping off to his left, footsteps crunching on gravel and shards of broken glass. Jameson’s knife is in his hand as easily as he breathes and he’s already got it brandished when he turns, putting a sneer on his face, leaning into the ugliness of the scar that twists one side of his mouth more than the other. “Listen, motherfucker, try to stick your dick anywhere near me and I’ll fucking cut it off-... shit.”

Naaaaw Jameson 🥺🥹💖 he is so sweet. And seeing his sweet soft side come out so early into his journey is just so special.

Bad Space Comics: The Suit

this gave me chills! Amazing horror. Just amazing!!!!

Bluebeard's Pet - Part I

This is a whumpy retelling of the folk/fairytale figure of Bluebeard in three parts. It replaces Bluebeard's new wife with a male "pet" (slave/concubine). It takes place in an indeterminate year in a fictional medieval Europe.

cw: slavery, pet whump, slave auction, stocks, power imbalance, language barriers, gruesome elements like torture, execution, and draconian policies throughout, whipping, sexually explicit scenes, dubcon because of social status, light knifeplay, alcohol consumption, praise kink

Part One: The Hare Moon

Luca’s wrists and back ached stiffly from the stocks at the slave auction. The back of his neck was burned from the sun, and his throat hurt from the long day's thirst.

Oh this is sooo cool I love it 👀💖

Already looking g forward to the spice 👀

okay this reminded me of the strongest human being (I use that label with some reservation) I have ever met and I still think about him like once a week because about 4 years ago on Thanksgiving night my sister, cousin, and I were going to pick up a friend about a 40 minute drive from home, and I got lost and tried to turn around on a little gravel pull-off on the side of the road, but my front tires got stuck in the snow.

we were in the middle of nowhere with no cell reception, and the only sign of life was a single, completely dark house across the road from us.

We all did our best to push the car out, and we’re strong people, but we couldn’t make it budge. Cold and stuck, we climbed back and wondered what to do. A car full of men pulled over beside us and asked if we needed help, but getting out of our locked car on a backroad at night with strange men felt like a bad idea, so we said a tow was coming and waved them along. We did that twice before finally deciding our only option was to accept the next offer for help and just risk it,

when a man came out of the house across the street.

He’d clearly been watching us and figured out why we’d been lying to people, which really surprised me & he said “it’s okay, you can stay in your car and keep the doors locked. Just start backing up when I say so.”

I had the window cracked and told him “it’s too stuck. There’s no way we’re getting out. Could you call a tow?”

And he said “just back up when I say so.”

So he walked around the front of the car, squatted, and said “okay back up,”

and I did, and

he lifted

the front of the car Into The Air. Off its front wheels, and we backed up while he essentially wheel-barrowed us back onto the road.

And we were honest to god yelling. We couldn’t help it. We just yelled until all four wheels were back on the ground and he was waving us off while we thanked him.

And then I looked at my sister and cousin & said “he REALLY told us we can KEEP our doors locked as if THAT WOULD’VE FUCKING STOPPED HIM!!!! As if he couldn’t have just RIPPED EM OFF THE HINGES.”

I later looked up the weight of my car, and it’s 3200 pounds without anything or anyone in it.

This haunts me.

the power of respecting women

this is the only valid response on this post

Tatiana Blass, Penelope, wife of Odysseus 

This looks so cool but I don’t understand it 🥺 can someone maybe explain?

I’d live to learn some stuff about the odyssey 💕

Yeah!

So, I’m sure that other people will be able to add more, or may have a different interpretation, but:

In the Odyssey, Penelope was Odysseus’ wife. While he is away for 20 years, she remains faithful, despite people insisting that he’s dead and she should remarry. Since she wasn’t in a position to really refuse, she devises schemes to throw them off her trail. She says that she is weaving a shroud for her father to very exacting standards, but in truth she sneaks back to the loom at night and unpicks her work so that she will never complete the project, and wait for her husband to return

In this piece, the artist has connected the central carpet in a church to a loom at the alter. This is where the interpretation comes in - Is the path to the alter being unpicked and spread out into the world? Or are the threads of everything being brought in and woven into this path leading towards the alter? And by naming it Penelope, does she imply that this meeting of mortal and divine is a futile pursuit?

You can see more pictures here

Thank you 💕✨️