@haro-whumps / haro-whumps.tumblr.com
Next
Warnings: past dub/noncon
Silas paced in his room.
As much as he hated solitude, he’d grown accustomed to it. Now that he had company, what was there to say?
He’d gotten what he wanted, but it didn’t help the emptiness inside him.
Typical.
He stopped, sighing. Maybe… maybe he just needed some time. To get used to another person again; or maybe time for the pain of rejection to leave.
If it ever left.
[haikaveh🌱🏛] love a little kidnap and rescue :3c
reblogging my whumpy stuff here as usual
Had a particularly bad day and went and found your group whump story. Not sure why its become my comfort story or what that says about me but...re-reading make me feel better.
Your writing is cool
Aww thank you!! That makes me really happy to hear! Maybe one day I'll come back to them...
Different walking speeds
(Also for anyone interested in this character I will start tagging posts about the book I’m writing with its title:
Daemonic Possessions and Other Oddities
[hehe you see it’s funny because possession can mean two different things ok I’ll see myself out])
I’ve already been tagging the name for the whole series (VxLI) but ye
:)
This is something old I wrote a few years ago, maybe 2020? I've had bad writing block for a bit so I thought digging this back up might help. I was thinking about rewriting this but I think the original is still good as it is.
TW: lady whump, blood, brief nudity, possessive whumper, manipulation
Everything ached, Lila knew that much. Even her flickering eyelids were heavy. Light burning her eyes, she threw an arm over her face on reflex, sending a fresh wave of pain down to her shoulder. She groaned.
“Oh goodness, you’re alive.” Echoing footsteps accompanied the approaching voice. “I was debating whether to bury you or not.”
WRITE IT!!! WRITE THAT SELF INDULGENT SHIT!!!
i dunno what possessed me to draw this
i love this character so much......i hope they get seriously injured and almost die
keep forgetting to post this but i'm working on another cos comic! this time about poor little doru
I will love you until the day I die.
[IMAGE DESCRIPTION] A monochrome sketch of Thistle from dungeon meshi being spoon fed soup from disembodied hands off extending from the left of the screen. one of the hands is holding his cheek gently and wiping tears from under his eye with their thumb. Thistle is looking upwards, crying and clearly exhausted with his hair undone and dark bags under his eyes
Next
Warnings: dehumanization, objectification
“Wake up, my treasure,” said a soft voice in his ear. River blearily opened his eyes to see Master sitting next to him, a warm smile on his face.
It seemed early, and Noct had never woken him up before. River yawned and sat up.
“What is it, Master?”
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:
I Know You Remember Me
John recognizes a wealthy client’s stolen pet immediately, even filthy, with two black eyes. He moves quickly to buy him back from the box truck driver in possession of him, and then must think what to do about this. Meanwhile, he looks after the abused pet in a motel room.
CW: lay it on thick hurt/comfort, pet whump universe (not bbu), caretaker has some ulterior motives but is largely sympathetic, offscreen noncon with multiple whumpers, sti mention, underweight whumpee mention, whumpee offering sex, bruises, burns & cigarette burns, nonsexual nudity and bathing, platonic bed-sharing, medically inaccurate care I’m sure, one shot probably
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“I know you remember me. I’m sure I remember you.”
The unfortunate creature— for he looked more a creature than a boy in the low light, in the filthy west Texas motel room John had rented for the night with cash— dared to steal a glance up at him.
His eyes were dark, and bright with fear. Bruises ringed both of them like an unlucky fighter, purple as the Easter cloth draped on all the crosses they’d driven past. John knew from the taut look of the eyelids they’d been swollen shut a day or so earlier. The boy pet had dried blood caked in his nostrils and on one side of his downturned mouth. His hair was a matted and filthy mop that fell over his forehead and ears in greasy, wavy sections crusted together with more old blood.
putting my OCs in Situations
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.
— I hear the king of Akielos has sent me a gift.
