#whump of a conlanger

[whumpingandsmilinglikeanidiot]

"So I was just wondering, what does 'ivol'-"

Caretaker scrunched up their face and tried again.

"'Ivor?' 'ee-vorl', um, let me see-"

"Ivoŕ?"

A replied and Caretaker brightened up a little at the perfect pronunciation.

"Yeah, that. What does that mean?"

"Well.. it's hard to translate. It's used at the start of the sentence to say that they want something a lot. And it's not 'ivoŕi' so the speaker should be someone of a lower rank."

"Okay.."

After a pause, A added some more.

"It's also a bit negative word so it should be pretty much like.. 'please do not', in English. Though it doesn't catch the meaning entirely."

A saw the Caretaker's expression darken at the explanation. A shrugged it off. It should be nothing serious, right?

[reborrowing]

a mouse in the basement - part 1/?

next

sorry for starting 546 stories instead of finishing things. kind of. this isn't as writery for me to work on. chapters linked in my pinned

David has been imprisoned. He's not sure where, he's not sure why, but he has no chance of freeing himself. Except now he's not quite alone. Kikitok links are here, if you want to try and puzzle out what the borrower character is saying throughout (more relevant later, honestly) word count: ~800 content: kidnapping & captivity, blood/injury, restraints, ~language barrier~ kind of a disclaimer note that arguably this should go on my whump blog instead of here, thematically speaking. But the point is more to flex my conlang (even if that's not yet obvious in this piece) and this blog is where I've been putting Kíkítok. I'm not really including particularly graphic violence or torture etc anyway

The only things to do in the basement were sleep and wonder why he’d been brought here. David was tired of both. The first few days, he had wrestled with the chain around his ankles and the ties around his wrist. He’d resigned himself to the aches of having his arms pinned behind his back for hours. He’d waddled around the perimeter in search of an escape. He hadn’t found one. He hadn’t even found a reason why he was here.

He didn’t think he was important enough to warrant a ransom and whoever was holding him down here only bothered to acknowledge him for about forty-five minutes per day. That was only to keep him fed. He imagined all kinds of horrible scenarios about being sold and enslaved or killed off for his organs, but he’d been down here for weeks. He didn’t have dignity but he wasn't really being humiliated either. Nothing happened, he was just locked in this crushing, monotonous isolation.

David slipped back into consciousness and stared up at the thin window on the far wall. It was still dark out. He hummed to himself, imagining words he couldn’t form through the duct tape over his mouth.

Something fell past the window.

It was such a brief flash that in any other context, if there was anything else happening, David wouldn’t have even noticed it. Something small and metal plinked across the floor. After several days of pretending to watch paint dry for entertainment, it may as well have been a fireworks show.

He didn’t waste the energy to stand and shuffled across the basement on his knees, chains clattering behind him. On the floor, almost glittering in the moonlight, was a thumbtack that hadn’t been there before. David hobbled forward towards it, trying to imagine something he could do with it. It was the only sharp thing he’d found down here and he really wanted it to be useful in some way, but it was too short to pick his cuffs or the locks around his ankles, even if he had the dexterity to try. He left it where it lay.

Another flash of movement drew his eyes to a small shadow along the wall.

Mouse, he thought at first, then, what the hell?!

The creature there was mouse-sized, as they hunched against the wall it was clear they had a perfectly humanoid shape, even covered up in a tiny gray dress. It was just that they couldn’t be more than a few inches tall. Tiny black eyes glittered up from underneath a miniature hood.

Is this real? Did the man upstairs do this to you? Is this what I’m here for?

They stared at each other for several seconds, both looking terrified. The creature—person?—took several steps to the right to start looking for an escape. David wished she would find one, but knew there was no way out but up, even for a mouse.

“Ah-I’m sorry. Pease, don’t hurt me,” the tiny thing gasped.

David shook his head no, eyes wide. He automatically started to protest that he would ever do such a thing but the duct tape over his mouth caught the words before they could get out. All he could do was stare at the poor thing.

Whatever she was, her situation was at least as bad as David’s, probably worse. Her skirt and her coat, which was fastened with a single button nearly the size of her head, were both dripping wet. She clutched at her side as if in pain and her already tiny steps were slowed by a severe limp.

David sat down and tried to look as harmless as possible (he felt most of this had already been done for him, what with the restraints). He wished he could do more to try and calm the woman's nerves. Communication was next to impossible with both hands and tongue held back. He nodded his head towards himself in a “come here” gesture that was much vaguer than he’d like.

The little woman shook her head and continued her hobbling retreat.

David leaned forward and tried again. You’re freezing, he thought as he watched her squeeze himself behind a table leg and hunker down. The cement floors would only make the cold worse. He mimed shivering as best as he could with his arms behind his back and nodded towards her, then stopped as he nodded back toward himself. Let me help you.

“I’m sorry, piyískasara wun. I’m sorry.”

David furrowed his brow as he tried to parse what the woman said before registering it as another language. He leaned back and sighed.

He refused to let the little stranger die. If he couldn’t help directly, he could still share. The shitty camping cot he’d been allowed had come with an equally shitty fleece blanket, the sort you leave in the closet for decades. Slowly and awkwardly, he kicked it across the room. It was thin and hardly any comfort to David, but it would be more than excessive for the mouse-woman on the other side of the room, presuming she was real.

[darthluna-writes]

Hello, my fellows

Hey what's up! Welcome to my thousandth side blog, you can call me Moon or Sol if you like (she/her)! I write, conlang, worldbuild, make OCs, sing, and get dragged into the black hole of every fandom in the world. Current favorites are ER, Magic of the Lost, EPIC: the musical, and I recently rewatched Frozen so I'm stuck there now too (I also like House MD, Brooklyn 99, Hetalia, Good Omens, Hazbin Hotel, Psych, and BBC Sherlock, so you know, only a few).

This is mostly a whump sideblog, heap on the suffering. I write a lot about illness/sickfics because I'm obsessed with researching everything that can possibly go wrong with our frail bodies! So expect hospital whump and emeto and things along that line. But absolutely no kink or anything NSFW or of that nature, only safe for work torture here! (Everything will be tagged accordingly)

I don't have a DNI, feel free to follow or read my stuff whoever you are, but please do not reach out to me about anything hateful or NSFW in any way.

I've got blogs for my two projects: Project.Woods and Project.Star, and the OCs from these stories are the ones I normally write about

All that said, enjoy my nonsense!

Navigation links below:

Original Works:

Works in project.Vaskar (worldbuilding project)

Defender Tales (DT): fantasy; the three Phyoean nations of Vexär, Nelare, and Vylár; focuses on wolf OCs.

This one is outdated and a lot of the characters have been reused for Gilded Stars. I wrote it when I was quite young and it's mostly a springboard for future writing/a place to test things out.

When Heavens Crumble (WHC): fantasy; focuses on the gods of Vaskar (sprits); name's a work in progress

Sands of Vaskar: fantasy; random misc stories from all over Vaskar that don't fit in either of the above catagories.

Other

World of Wolves (WOW): an AU for Defender Tales/Gilded Stars; animals living in the human world

Monsters Within Us (MWU): human world; human OCs

Also quite outdated, this one's been transformed into my new Project.Woods, these are the older stories.

Books-in-progress

Gilded Stars: fantasy; takes place on Vaskar; like DT only BETTER; follows an ambassador named Basil, an assassin named Star, a general named Alsan, and an heir named Sei as the navigate the swamps of Stowis Marsh

Stars of the Fellows (Those Who Speak the Language of the Woods & Feathers): takes place on Earth; MWU but BETTER; human OCs; Woods follows Milo and Indigo (or Fox, still deciding), and Feathers follows takes place when Milo was around five and follows her guardian, Henri.

Ao3 (all the stories I accidentally deleted from Tumblr)

tags for navigation/TW

[secret-bug-pain-blog]

Febuwhump, Day 2 - Flinching

This chapter now officially contains the sloppiest conlanging we've ever done in our life. Word may be liable to change - sounds are hard, but this at least looks like it doesn't translate to something in another language, and we can change things up later.

Pseudosequel to Love Bites, which probably doesn't count as whump but is... romantic? Targeted towards people who enjoyed TLT's bone surgery scene. TL;DR of relevant bits is that Mothiva and Zasp, via a ritual involving scarification of the neck, are bound together according to Deadlands Wasp tradition. Leif believes Something Is Up with Mothiva and Zasp due to the aftermath of this, and is leaning heavily towards the thought of domestic abuse.

Zasp wasn’t the biggest enthusiast of theatre.

He didn’t talk about it much, really. With Mothiva’s performances, half the association probably assumed it was how he met her in the first place – and while they were wrong, he wasn’t about to correct them.

The lights, the glamor, the being seen… it didn’t appeal to him so much as it made him scrunch his head back into his shoulders and hide away. He’d gotten better, in his years of being employed as Mothiva’s bodyguard, but he wasn’t… comfortable with it, and he privately suspected that he’d never be comfortable with some aspects.

Even just watching his partner on-stage would sometimes bring back memories of the brilliant floodlight of the Uljuasondier sweeping over the land, picking off bugs and-

He didn’t want to think about it.

Of course, having a partner meant he was hired for certain events a lot more often – unfortunate side effects of having decent knowledge of what a performance needed, he supposed.

And that, of course, lead him to here- stuck on a stage to make sure no one dropped anything too important during setup while the other explorers fucked around with important supplies.

He understood that charity work was no one’s favorite job, but this just seemed- absurd. Having even the most surface-level knowledge of knowledge let him know just how badly they were handling things. He’d had to pull the beetle away from the lights thrice in the past few hours, and he was far from the worst of them.

And of course, there were plenty of bugs who were taking that to a new level.

“You can’t freeze the stage lights,” Zasp hissed at Leif. “Do you want to pay for replacements?”

“We were just moving them into place-“

“By covering them with ice?!”  Zasp was sure the incredulity in his tone wasn’t particularly dignified, for a bug who was supposed to keep things in control – but for all that ice powers weren’t the sort of thing he usually had to herd around, they were quickly proving to be a pain and a half to deal with.

“He can make them float,” Vi offered, draping herself over one of the lights. “It’s how he gets around places you need to fly for.”

“That doesn’t fix ice damage.”

“I mean, nothing in the Hive breaks down even in the dead of winter, so maybe it’s just-“

“Does the hive’s equipment frost over?”

“…well-“

He didn’t give Vi the change to respond. “Don’t freeze the equipment. I can’t believe I have to say this.”

“…we won’t.”

Leif temporarily taken off-track from his destruction of property, Zasp turned back to monitoring the hall. Thankfully, no one seemed to be doing anything immediately dangerous, to the equipment or to themselves. He just had to…

…what was that clicking noise?

Another click- then a brilliant light locked onto him.

Zasp jerked in surprise- then froze in place. Adrenaline flooded his body, his limbs going rigid as a statue. His heart was beating out of his chest – he thought that they were out of the deadlands, he thought they were safe-

“…Zasp, are you feeling all right?”

Zasp burst into motion, covering half of the room in a single flesh of his wings as he jerked away from that blinding, all-consuming light. He needed to move, to find shelter, to- to-

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Zasp flinched, snapping his mandibles and flaring his wings as he turned to face-

Leif, wide-eyed and staring at the mouthful of pale yellow fluff he’d taken out of his ruff.

Shit.

Zasp backed up, stumbling- shit, shit, shit, what did he just do? He saw Leif’s mouth move, but he couldn’t hear anything through the sound of his own heartbeat. He couldn’t stay here, he had to-

“What are you morons doing?”

Mothiva.

Oh, thank the Queens.

Mothiva jumped down from backstage, storming over to them and inserting herself between Leif and Zasp. Zasp stumbled away, taking the opportunity to make space between him and the moth- If they weren’t in public, he would have kissed her right then and there.

“You,” Mothiva snarled, pointing at Leif. “Back off. You two, back there- turn the damn light off. Does this look like a performance to you?”

Zasp could faintly hear the beetle calling an apology from his position near the light settings. His joints felt week. Had he really been startled like that by-

Leif’s voice cut through the air. “Your partner reacts awfully strangely, for a bug in the show business.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” Mothiva asked.

Zasp didn’t want to be here.

Every noise seemed too loud, every bug’s footstep a potential threat, every little noise a sign of danger. He didn’t- he couldn’t-

“We mean,” Leif said, “that your partner’s been acting awfully strangely lately, especially after that trip into the deadlands, and those scars couldn’t have been made by-”

“And I thought I told you nothing happened.”

The scars in Zasp’s throat itched with anxiety. He couldn’t handle this. He needed to go, to-

Zasp made a warbling squeak, in the back of his throat, and Mothiva’s attention snapped to him- only for Leif to pounce on her distraction to push whatever point he was trying to make.

“He acted like he was in danger from a spotlight,” Leif snarled, tone frigid as ice. “Do you want us to believe that’s normal for any bug?”

“Yes, I do,” Mothiva snarled. “If you’re trying to imply anything about my partner-“ She paused, glancing over her shoulder at Zasp. “Zasp, go.”

She didn’t have to ask him twice. Something in him wanted to stay, to defend her- but he had to trust that Mothiva could handle it. Zasp leapt into the air, wings buzzing as he flickered out of the room, ignoring the shout after him.

Hopefully, Mothiva could handle them better than him.

[darthhope-in-the-woods]

Welcome!

Hi, I'm Darthhope, you can call me Sol (she/her)! I like writing and screaming into the void. This blog's like a companion to my previous blog, @darthhope-in-space, and it's about my new, even shiner book idea. Here you'll find OCs, slightly less insane worldbuilding, a few conlangs, and whatever I feel like writing!

I have a main blog, @darthhope999 where I post utter nonsense, and an Instagram and Youtube where I post crap about my characters. Follows come from my main blog.

The shiny new idea is currently called: Those Who Speak the Language of the Woods, or project.Woods. But that's most certainly subject to change.

Details:

Writing

Whump, sickfics, Hurt/comfort, Fluff

Everything will be tagged accordingly. All stories are non-kink

Feel free to leave an ask if you want to see something written!

Incorrect quotes

Headcannons

Prompts: OC prompts, writing prompts, fulfilled prompts

Characters are tagged and can be searched, parings use a slash (/) with the alphabetically first name in the front.

tags for navigation

[darthhope-in-space]

Welcome!

I‘m Darthhope, you can can call me Sol (she/her) if you want. I have a main blog, @darthhope999, where I post utter nonsense mixed with slightly less-nonsensical nonsense. This blog is for the book I’m currently struggling to write, so it’s mostly my OCs, conlanging, worldbuilding, and whatever I feel like writing.

I have an Instagram and Youtube where I post crap about my characters.

My book is currently called Gilded Stars, but that’s subject to change.

Details:

Writing

Whump, sickfics, Hurt/comfort, Fluff

Excerpts from Gilded Stars

Everything will be tagged accordingly. All stories are non-kink

Feel free to leave an ask if you want to see something written!

Incorrect quotes

Headcannons

Prompts: OC prompts, writing prompts, whump prompts, fulfilled prompts

Characters are tagged and can be searched, parings use a slash (/) with the alphabetically first name in the front.

(The posts at the end are characters for Defender Tales and Monsters Within Us, they’re quite outdated)

[ghostie-jakxy-gray]

Sooo

I am at an ill-advised crossroads of having two (ish) potential new WIPs to start. (Yes. Yes I know there are twenty-something unfinished WIPs already, just ignore that for now)

For some reason, I have decided to outsource this decision to whoever sees this post.

[wollemi-whump]

Should I make a new word for whump in my conlang or just borrow "whump" as a loanword? It'd fit phonetically and pretty much writing wise.

[deanofwhumpuniversity]

Please explain what is conlang? It sounds awesome

Oh don’t even get me started on my horrible nerd hobbies. I will legit talk for hours about dumb crap nobody cares about but me.

Conlang means constructed language. A lot of the time people who write fantasy or sci-fi will make a tiny dictionary so that the names and places in their world are consistent. Mahb = city, so Mahb Raenah = cloud city, stuff like that.

Some of us go so far as to invent whole grammars, setting the rules for how to make phrases and sentences in our made-up languages. All this is for greater immersion in the world. Some writers like to do character profiles, fleshing out every bit of character backstory and all the facets of their personality. I like to work on history and lore, especially of aliens and vampires and such, and I feel like giving my species their own language helps me do that. I can come up with fun little bits like, in Koshlau the word for cat is the same as the word for tornado.

The Elvish languages in Lord of the Rings were fully fleshed-out languages that Tolkien spent a good portion of his life working on, to make them as realistic as he could. The languages of Game of Thrones, Avatar, and Klingon from Star Trek are similarly complex things that their creators spent a lot of time building so they wouldn’t just be actors spouting gibberish. 

I know that @wildfaewhump has done some language building for the Fae in their Pathverse, but I don’t know how much or how deep it goes (Hope it’s ok I tagged you...)

It can be a fun exercise or thought experiment if you’re into linguistics, languages, general worldbuilding, whatever. Or it’s just boring nerd shit and why would anyone do this for fun? Anyway, I hope at least some of that made sense.

[whumpywhumper]

Oryn--Part 4

@castielamigos here’s part four! Part One, Two, and Three 

So this one has some conlang in it that I played around with for my big OC work. I put the translations in the parenthesis cause I wasn’t 100% how best to show what he was saying--lemme know if you have any ideas? I could’ve re-worked it but I wanted to leave it in. 

Oryn doesn’t get a whole lotta feed back, but I appreciate all of you who seem to like him :) @0idril0 as always was a huge help 

<>

Oryn was paralyzed, his limbs refusing to move, left panting as fire enclosed him, lapped over his face with lazy swipes of its tongue. His body was useless, unable to struggle, at the mercy of the inferno that crackled over his skin. He panicked, unable to calm himself, and couldn’t stop his horrible pants of fear that sucked in huge lungfuls of smoke. He couldn’t see to reach for anything to pull himself free of the heavy weight that held him and ignited his body in heat suffocating smothering heat. Flames seared his airways with white embers and he was going to die, he was going to burn, no no no—

The soft thud of a door slipping closed woke Oryn with a harsh intake of smokeless air. He cracked his gritty eyes open and his desperate hands clutched at his blankets. His eyes, unaccustomed to the light, were assaulted by a bright lantern that had been left in the corner. He whimpered in instinctive fear, withdrawing from the fire. His skin was still alight with the searing heat of the fire from his dream. Slick drips ran down his forehead, pooling in the hollow of his throat. The image of his skin sloughing off in the heat and pooling around his bones danced in front of his eyes but, other than the lantern, there was no flames in sight. Nothing devouring his flesh.  

Where? Where was he? 

Oryn held back a weak gasp as his sore muscles strained to turn his head and take in the rest of the room. He flinched when a soaked rag flumped onto the pillow next to his face--the movement sending a sharp bolt through his neck. Eyes swimming, Oryn swallowed back nausea until the room finally settled into fuzzy detail. 

Heavy wooden blinds kept the obvious moonlight from reaching into what was clearly a study, filled with papers, specimen jars, and other baubles. He had not been in this room before, but it was not outside of Soren’s scope to want to run an experiment with his notes or tools nearby. 

The tools glimmered in the moon and fire light, sending sparks across the room to ignite the walls and play with the dripping shadows. Dread heaved it way up through Oryn's gut and he watched in transfixed terror as the sparks grew into a grin. White, pupil-less eyes looked down on him from the ceiling and he shrank back into the mattress. He can't, he doesn't want to, no more--he panted at the burgeoning panic rising in his chest.  

He raised his arms to defend his face and blinked in sudden confused realization. He looked down. He was alone and he wasn't chained down. The metal cuffs were still around his wrists, cutting him off from his magic, but he wasn’t chained down. The scabs and sores from his struggles had been bound with tight bandages underneath the cuffs. Thin splits were wedged into the bandages to keep the broken bones of his wrists straight. But he wasn’t chained down. 

Looking back to the ceiling, the monster that had appeared was gone but the lingering shadow of terror drove him to action. 

He had to get away. 

Oryn struggled with the blankets tucked around him. His hands trembled as he pushed at them, fingers clumsy and lacking their usual dexterity. A throaty groan poured from his mouth as he managed to pry his torso from the bed. Pain was building like the burgeoning cascade of water behind a beaver dam, held back only by a thin barrier of drugs and terror. A violent shiver wrench through him as the blankets slipped from his fever hot skin. Echoing cracks sprinkled through, pain starting to hiss through his frame. 

He set his teeth and tried to drag himself upright but he gagged at the onrush of pain, barely managing to hunch forward. His head became a heavy, unwieldy weight on his neck and it pulsed in time with his heart beat. Vision spiraling, he tipped forward with a quiet moan. Oryn fell with a heavy thud to the floor, unable to stop himself, his legs tangled in the bedding. Sharp, splintering agony erupted from his broken bones as he connected with the stone floor, white flashing across his vision. A scream fluttered behind his clenched teeth as a wet slick slide poured down his side from popped and snapped stitches. 

He panted, wet and small. Unable to pull in a deep enough breath. The barely conscious Fae felt more than heard the thundering boots that rushed toward the room. Oryn was unsurprised to find tears falling down his hot cheeks as he gasped and scrabbled at the stone floor. He didn’t fight the childish need to worm his way under the cot, seeking any kind of safety, before the door slammed open with resounding bang as it bounced off of the opposite wall. 

A pair of scuffed boots were all that Oryn could see from his vantage point on the floor. It was pointless to hide, there was a trail of bedding that led to his hiding place, but he couldn’t suppress the curling of his body around the blanket he had accidentally drug under with him. Trying to make himself smaller. Less of a target. 

A heavy knee dropped to the floor in front of Oryn’s shelter accompanied by a gray, wrinkled face with deep set brown eyes that peered under the cot. The stranger’s concern was illuminated by a stray beam of light from the lantern. “Oh lad,” the rough voice whispered, “what have you done to yourself?” 

Oryn’s pitiful growl sounded like a mewl even to his own ears. He pressed his back against the cold wall, giving himself mere inches of distance from the stranger. The narrow cot was not deep enough to keep the strong hands that gripped the side of it from reaching him, and he wheezed with fright. 

“I know you feel safer under there, little pup,” the older man tried to soothe, “but I think you have opened your stitches.” He didn’t reach for him, but held his gnarled palm out. 

Oryn flinched and drew his blood-tacky hands further away, pressing at his stomach to stem the bleeding. He grunted, turning his face away to the cool stone. Shivering violently, his gut sank as his eyes arrested on dark wiggling lines on the floor. Fear crawled up his spine. He snarled, showing sharp teeth when those shadows became reaching claws. 

“What are you seeing, lad?” the man questioned. 

Fevered, yellow eyes snapped over to the one speaking, and he shuddered. Shadows ate away the stranger's face, leaving it gaunt and misshapen. The shadows would eat everything, everyone, taking it from the Mother’s embrace. He couldn’t do anything, he was powerless, weak. He was already cut off from Celüne's power, he could not be taken by their corruption too. 

Oryn squeezed his eyes shut and he shook his head.  His ribs ached. “Mi’hael naught," (Don't touch me) he wept, sudden sobs tearing from his throat, "n’ya triske, Celüne, därog pæl.”  (I don't want to, Celüne, please (emphatic)) The sæthe spilled from his lips in a fervent prayer, and he sniffled through his tears. 

"I don't understand, lad," the voice murmured to him, trying to soothe. "You have to come out of there, pup, you're burning up with fever." 

He didn't understand. He didn't want to be burned up. He didn't want to be corrupted. He wanted to be left alone. 

A wail forced its way through Oryn's teeth when a dry hand brushed against his bare shoulder and he jerked away. "Naught," (Don’t) he pleaded, "naught! Mi'zenÿa salleine!" (don't! Leave me alone!) He flailed under the bed,  "Celüne, mi'cuita!," (Celüne, help me) he gasped beseechingly, eyes still squeezed shut. Panic raced through his chest. Panic and pain. He coughed and a lance stabbed through his ribs--forcing the air from his lungs. He cried out, gasping for air.  

A curse from the man, and he called out, "EMRIK! Get in here!" The hands returned to his body, and he thrashed to keep them away. The cot thunked as the wooden frame knocked into the wall, "Fuck, lad, I am not going to hurt you! Be still!" 

"Galen?! What's wrong?!"  A young voice interrupted the coarse cursing of the man trying to wrangle Oryn, and he opened his eyes to see tiny boots run into the room.

"His fever is spiking. I think he’s hurt himself. Help me calm him. I don't know what he's saying." 

A silvery silvan face dropped into view beside the now normal wrinkled one. Shimmering blue eyes met Oryn’s panicked yellow, and the Fae hissed with his remaining air at the lesser seelie when he raised a hand toward him. 

"Naught-ila råné," (Literally-- "We don’t hurt") the silvan murmured in a harsh accent, jumbling and forgetting syllables. 

Oryn startled at the sæthe, eyes growing wide as he panted air through a reed.

 "Please," he continued, and Oryn watched his fingers knot a spell, a dyät, for calming but didn't release it, waiting. "Triske-ila—damnit—we want to - to- cuita, that’s it!—triske-ila cuita.” (We want to help)

 The Fae continued to struggle against the hands that were trying to drag him from under the cot by his shoulders, movements becoming uncoordinated and jerky. “N’ya regrovat-il,” (I don't believe you) he panted between tiny gasps of air. His chest was screaming like a banshee, impossible to ignore, making his hands feel numb. 

A concerned frown creased the young seelie‘s unlined face. “Let him go, Galen,” the silvan murmured. “Just for a second.” 

Galen looked at the silvan with worry, "We have to get him out from under there," he said, but removed his hands. Holding them at the ready as he backed away.  

The injured Fae trembled and used the last of his remaining feeble strength to pull his arms back to his chest. His throat was raw, and he couldn't get enough air. He writhed under the cot, pressing at the pain in his chest. He whined, everything hurt, tears cascaded down his hot cheeks and he curled in on himself. "Celüne," he implored, his voice wet and breathy. 

“Galen, open the blinds,” Emrik whispered urgently, and the human moved with creaking agility to do as the silvan asked. “El-aith, look.” (She is here)

Oryn’s heart clenched as the blinds were drawn away from the windows to allow moonlight to spill across the floor.  Gentle light reached through  the room and without thinking he moved his hand forward to meet it. He sobbed, thin reedy noises of his lungs barely able to bring in air.  

A sound of skin on stone, and Oryn saw the silvan reaching for him again, the delicate bird-like bones standing out in the moonlight. “Mi’regrovat,” (believe me) he said.  

His bloody hand didn’t twitch away from the dyät knot that Emrik showed him this time, allowing the warm feeling of comfort to envelope him. Eyelids fluttering, Oryn's body relaxed into the stone of the floor. The pain wasn't less but the overwhelming panic that surged through him had faded to a low thrum in the back of his mind.  

The silvan slumped as the magic ran from himself to Oryn. The Fae watched through cloudy eyes as Galen caught his shoulders before the lesser seelie face planted and deftly moved him out of the way. 

They turned to face Oryn, and he felt a buzz of fear push at the dyät knot, "Easy, it's okay," Emrik murmured, sending a note of peace. He brushed Oryn's hair back from his forehead before leveraging his arm under the dark head. "Galen, get his legs." 

Galen moved in synchronization with the silvan, drawing his limp body out from under the cot with gentle hands. They settled him on the floor, stretched out on his back, and Oryn wheezed at the strain on his chest. "I know, pup, I know," Galen murmured, his hands prodding at his ribs. "There's no movement  on this side," he said to Emrik. Oryn felt the slide of a hand on his side and saw the old mans face turn dark, "fuck, that's air. Grab my bag from that table." 

Oryn drifted as the two others worked around him, the dyät knot keeping him limp and malleable. He turned his face toward the windows, glassy eyes settling on the waxing moon. He struggled to breathe still but the lingering panic from the shortness of breath had been shuttered away. 

His caretakers jostled him, moving his arm to the side, and he moaned softly when pain rolled down his body. He shuddered and reached out instinctively, finding the sleeve of the silvan. The silvery face appeared over his own and grabbed his cheeks. "I need you to listen to me," Emrik said, "this will hurt but it has to be done, okay?" 

The lack of understanding must have shown on his face because he grabbed Oryn's left hand and held it tightly, up and away from his chest and placed his other hand on his shoulder, holding him down. Creases appeared at the corners of Emrik’s eyes, and he sent a wave of comfort through the dyät. "Now, Galen," he ordered. 

Oryn cried out when something popped into his side, between his ribs, and he tried to arch away. The tiny silvan held fast, using his weight to keep him from moving. Panic surged and broke through the dyät when Oryn felt something move inside of him. This hurt, it hurt it hurt make it stop, he couldn’t breathe and this hurt. He opened his mouth, trying to shove air down his throat and heard a wild croak erupt from his lips. "Därog! St--Stagni!"  (Please! Stop!)

They said that they didn't want to hurt him. He didn't understand. Why? He shook his head, desperate, and clawed at the dyät, feeling it shred and weaken in places. 

Emrik grunted at the attack, "Hurry!"  

"Almost," Galen said to himself, with the metallic clink of a metal tool being thrown away.  

With a last jolt of pain, the huge weight that had settled on Oryn's lungs was removed. Air, blessed air, filled his chest and the wave of oxygen sent a high through him. He threw his head back, taking as big of gulps as his broken ribs would allow. His body sank into the relief of being able to breathe—muscles spasming with exhaustion and fatigue. A low overwhelmed moan rumbled in his throat. He hovered at unconsciousness, feeling his heartbeat in every injury. 

“That’s it, breathe.” He heard a great sigh and a hand rested on his breast bone, his skin sliding under a calloused palm. “Breathe, pup.” 

Emrik released Oryn's shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze to his hand as the Fae settled.  The silvan slumped back with a slight thump on the floor. "Fuck," he muttered,  "That was, uh, what the fuck." 

"Are you alright?," Galen asked. 

"Yes," Emrik murmured, "that, shit, that took more than I thought it would." 

“You sure?” the human asked as he continued his work at Oryn’s side, the clink of bottles and rustling of cloth. 

“Hmph,” a dismissive noise, “let me go get the water and miscallum while you finish.”  

Oryn allowed himself to float between consciousness when the silvan left the room, listening to the quiet humming that the human started. It was a lullaby, the simple melody soothing on the coarse vocal cords. Exhaustion coated every fiber that made him, and he could feel the heat of fever on his cheeks as it flared.  Small sparks of pain rose from  his side where the old man's hands remained, but they weren't enough to draw him back. 

He stirred a time later when he was moved by hands under his shoulders and knees. His eyelashes brushed against his cheeks, “Nuh…” 

“Just getting you back in the bed, lad,” a voice murmured into his hair. He whimpered at how his bones ground together at the movement, but they settled him quickly, wrapping him in warm blankets. He shivered when a cold weight was placed on his forehead and tried to turn away. 

"I know, I know it feels cold-" fingers pushed through his hair, "-but your fever needs to come down." 

A whisper, "This should help him get to sleep." 

Oryn flinched when something pricked the soft skin of his inner elbow but the hand didn't leave his hair, rubbing at his scalp with soothing circles. 

His caretakers murmured between themselves, and Oryn allowed the black tide of sleep to take him under. 

[itstimeforstarwars]

I'm glad that everyone in this fandom is a Fuckin Nerd. I'm over here making academic bureaucracy for Mandalore and playing with conlangs until they break. Some of you are inventing space TSA or actually understand how a military works. Others are therapists trying to bring CBT to the masses by way of Obi-Wan whump. I love seeing everyone's special Things™️ in their fics.

[whump-cravings]

Symbiosis - Branded

previous

Xhaqo is back!! so I could NOT pronounce the way I had planned his name, so he’s now “(Horse-click)ha-ko” instead of the doorknock click in the middle of his name. It’s uh... still pretty hard to say lmfao.

Also, for those curious, I’ve coded the humans’ speech with a simple Caesar cipher/letter shift of 3. A -> D. It would be much more exciting to do a conlang for it but no energy lmao

~1.5k | Original Work

Content: vampire whump, bound and caged, fear & anxiety, sensory overload, noncon drugging, strapped to a table, branding

They were stories. Creatures that looked like vampires but ate a beast's food, who would steal naughty fanglettes away and leave them in the sun.

They had been stories.

Now one of them held a cup barely past the bars of the cage. "Khb. Ydpsluh."

Xhaqo felt he barely had the strength to lift his head and look at the human through hazy eyes. Even after days of starving him and leaving him to suffer from his injuries, the three of them still treated him with the utmost caution. So it was that Xhaqo had to strain forward to bring his lips to the cup, pulling on bound and raw wrists and sore shoulders. The thin liquid did little more than wet his tongue and made his fangs ache.

Managing only a single sip, the vampire slumped back, chin dipping to his chest, breath raspy and shoulders shaking. Water wasn't what he needed anyways, not really.

Once Xhaqo thought about it, he remembered the stories had mentioned a human's alluring taste. How if you tasted but a single drop of their blood, all other creatures would taste of ash. No wonder it had been such an effective lure.

"Tch," the human man said. "Kh'v qrw gulqnlqj."

"Lw'v ilqh; zh'oo eh wkhuh vrrq dqbzdbv," the female of the trio replied. "Sxoo wkh wdus edfn ryhu."

The man pulled the covering back over Xhaqo's cage, blocking out the sun's light as they set to packing their things and moving. A beast similar to a deer but bigger and noisier pulled the contraption Xhaqo was set atop of, something made of wood and bent into a shape that could travel across land.

As the sound of hooves and clanking filled the vampire's ears, he fell into a daze. Only once before had he been so hungry and tired, when a plague had ravaged the deer population during a particularly harsh winter. Xhaqo's family, numbering five back then, had had only three deer between them. Being children, he and Cile had been given feeding priority, but it still hadn't been enough. Baba had died that year.

A bump and sharp jolt of pain from his leg brought Xhaqo, whining softly, back to the present. The texture and sound of the terrain had changed, the ride suddenly smoothing out and hooves becoming sharp and clipped. Faint conversation from different directions reached his ears, as well as the sounds of other animals. What...?

Anxiety crept up his spine as everything grew louder, and soon Xhaqo was bathed in voices on every side. He pressed back against the cage, heart and breathing speeding up.

"Zkdw kdyh brx jrw wkhuh? Ohw'v kdyh d orrn."

They stopped moving suddenly. "Qhz fdwfk, riilfhu."

Xhaqo started as one side of the cover suddenly flipped up, letting light and gazes in. Two new faces peered closely at him, and more humans passing behind them slowed to peer inward too. The vampire hissed, shrinking away.

The cover dropped back into place, granting Xhaqo the illusion of separation. He breathed into his knees.

"Vruub, riilfhuv. Wkh qhz rqhv jhw djlwdwhg hdvlob."

"Wkdw'v douljkw. Zh'oo ohw brx eh rq brxu zdb."

They started rolling through the crowded place again, and the barrage of voices was endless. There were so many people. So many humans. Why were they all together like this? It was too much, too much.

By the time they stopped again, Xhaqo was panting and sweating. He flinched as the cover was yanked off and shrunk into himself, whimpering—but sunlight didn't fall upon him. He looked up cautiously, then around at the structure he found himself in, so much bigger than anything he had ever seen. Why was was it missing a wall? That wasn't very practical for a shelter. And it smelled of fire and something reminiscent of blood but distinctly not.

One other human stood with the hunters now, large and smeared with soot and looking over Xhaqo with an appraising eye.

"Gr brxu wklqj," the female hunter said, gesturing at Xhaqo.

The large human grunted and came forward. Though he knew full well by now it was not a deterrent, the vampire hissed at her anyways, flashing his fangs.

"Shh," she said, the sound soft like rain. Her voice was level and soothing as she said, "Brx'uh rndb. Lw'v rndb. L'p jlylqj brx vrphwklqj wr khos. Jrrg ydpsluh."

Xhaqo stared at her as she drew level with him, his body still vibrating with tension. That was the tone he would use with a spooked deer to calm it. It certainly fell nicer on his ears than the way the hunters had spoken to him, but he didn't trust it.

She slowly reached through the bars to grasp his arm. The vampire growled, glaring at the hand, but the grip was gentle. "Wklv lv rqob jrlqj wr kxuw d olwwoh, L surplvh."

Then the needle came out, no longer concealed by the human's other hand. It wasn't like the bone needles Xhaqo had used to sew hides together, but it was long and sharp with light glinting off it.

Xhaqo gave a piercing scream, trying to wrench his arm away, but the human held firm as the thing plunged into him. Screeching, he twisted and gnashed, pain lancing through his arm. It burned cold for a second, and then—

"Wkdw'v lw, brx'uh doo grqh!" the sooty woman said, backing up. Panting, Xhaqo looked at his arm, now needle free, and then up at her. She bared her teeth at him. "L nqrz wkdw'v uhdoob vfdub. L grq'w olnh qhhgohv hlwkhu."

He bared his teeth back, turning his head away and into his knees, hiding his tears. His arm hurt. And his wrists ached—he'd twisted too hard.

Conversation started up and he glanced back to find the hunters and woman resting against things, talking to each other. They sent glances his way, but didn't seem to be talking about him.

Slowly, something strange began to happen. A flush of comfortable warmth ran through Xhaqo, and things started seeming... distant. The pain of injuries and the discomfort of the cage; the smells and voices of the humans. No longer was he shaking or crying, and his breathing and heart had slowed. He blinked, eyelids a little heavy.

"Wkhuh lw lv," the sooty woman said. "Ohw'v jhw klp rxw."

The humans approached him again, and the vampire felt... he knew he should feel fear. But he was numb as they opened up the cage. One of them released his bound hands and Xhaqo sagged forward with a deep sigh of relief. They tugged at his limbs, pulling him out of the cage. Outside of the cage was... probably not good, but Xhaqo couldn't muster up energy to fight any of the hands. His limbs were abnormally heavy, and he slumped between the two humans that carried him. It was all he could do to keep his injured foot from dragging.

For the first time in days, the humans let him lay down. They deposited him on a wooden slab before lifting his legs onto it. He whimpered softly as his ankle flared in pain.

Fingers carded through his hair. "Shh," the sooty human soothed again. Tears welled up in Xhaqo's eyes and he pressed his head into the gentle contact, throat rumbling with a purr. "Brx'uh d vzhhw olwwoh jxb, duhq'w brx? Shh."

Hands were pulling at his other limbs. He purred louder, tears rolling down his cheek, when leather folded over his stinging wrists and ankles and bound them against the wood, as if his sound might drown out what was happening. Not that he knew what was happening.

"L nqrz," said the sooty woman, still stroking his head. "Lw'oo eh ryhu txlfn. L qhhg brx wr elwh grzq rq wklv, krq." Her hand lowered to his chin, gently pressing in his cheeks and tugging at his lower jaw. Reluctantly, he let his mouth fall open, and she slotted something between his teeth. It was firm but gave a little when he bit down. She stroked his hair some more. "Jrrg mre."

Xhaqo closed his eyes, breathing through his nose. A few moments later, a warm wetness gently swiped at his cheek. Unconsciously, he purred at the grooming, tears still slipping out.

A final strap went tightly across his forehead, and his purring stopped. He whined softly, breath stuttering with tears.

When he opened his eyes, they flew wide as he saw red descending towards his face, red like fire, red like death. A jolt of terror ran through him even before he felt the heat and he cried out past the leather in his mouth, bucking against the restraints.

The red pressed into his cheek and it burned and Xhaqo screamed, writhing, the scent of death in his nose.

And then it was over, the worst of the pain vanishing along with the pressure. The sooty human took off the head strap, stroking his hair again. He whimpered, turning his head away as he cried.

taglist: @emcscared-whumps​ @whumpy-writings​ @nabanna​ @thecyrulik​ @suspicious-whumping-egg (ask if you wanna be tagged or removed!)

[pythagoreanwhump]

Whumpmas in July Day 1

(Re-)Introduce yourself and/or your creations!

Hello y'all! I'm Remington/Rem, and my pronouns are they/them, ley/lem, ta/ta/tade, and ul/anı/anıñ. My favourite color is dark green with purple coming in a close second, as you can probably tell from my blog theme 😅(the accent is mint green now but I used to have the entire background as dark green ksjdhf. Thought the purple fir my ✨theme✨ a bit better tho)

I am firmly over on the torture side of whump ksjhfskjf! I do enjoy reading a bit of comfort/softness sometimes but it's always the brutal sadistic torture that gives me whumperflies. I write a lot of military/espionage whump, especially Cold War stuff, but plenty of modern stuff too! My writing masterlist is here, and here's all my OCs presented as slideshows <3

If I tagged everyone whose works I liked this post would get way too long! Besides I do have a few more opportunities to do that later this month. So here's a few of the people I know that write the best military and espionage whump <3 and please if you know anyone else recommend them to me too! But yeah @straight-to-the-pain, @pretty-face-breaker, and @just-horrible-things I love your scary military vibes and scary torture ladies and feral torture men ksjfskdjf

I also do a lot of worldbuilding! I love it so much. My main world right now is the VMD, originally short for Vague Military Dictatorship but officially Varðmargdaga/Varðmarkdaxa, shared with @straight-to-the-pain. I've got a bunch of super detailed history and lore for it, as well as a conlang that is a creole of Icelandic and Greenlandic. I am very proud of it and if you ask me about it I will absolutely infodump!

[popsicletheduck]

@witchfall decided that I should be called out, and so called out I shall be

-

How many works do you have on AO3? 27. Many of those are unfinished.

What’s your total AO3 word count? 108,563. More than I was expecting, honestly. I write a lot more than I ever publish, and there is perhaps a whole era of my fic writing that has never and will never make it to AO3.

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they? On AO3 at least, 9. Batman, Resident Evil, Callisto 6, Critical Role, Detroit: Become Human, Sanders Sides, Star Trek, The Witcher, and Undertale.

What are your top five fics by kudos? 1. Did You Truly Know Fear Before? 2. Ignore the Beating of My Heart 3. I’ll Do What Must Be Done 4. Not Quite Electric Sheep 5. My Name is Connor, I’m... The first three are all Witcher fics and all part of a series that still gets traffic to this day, though I’ve got no idea why. Mind control whump is popular, I guess. The last two are D:BH and the last one in particular is bad? Why did people like that it was just poorly justified whump.

Do you respond to comments, why or why not? Generally not unless someone is asking a question I can answer. idk, it feels really weird to respond when it’s just someone being nice? Like it’s self congratulatory or something. I did try to respond to all comments for a bit but it just felt weird.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? Probably a tie between Self Destruct and On the Question of Life and Death. Both end with major character death, the first by suicide and the second by having his heart ripped out... The same character too. I really don’t generally write sad endings even if I do write a lot of angst, but there was a period of my life where I was, uh, very depressed and coping very poorly through writing. I try to be better these days.

Do you write crossovers? If so, what’s the craziest one you’ve ever written? I don’t. Generally I run more in OC and AU territory. Not particularly a fan of crossovers in general, though obviously everyone is free to do what they want.

Have you ever received hate on a fic? Not technically? I did get a review once from someone who really liked my writing but also hated my OC and wanted her to die which uh. Killed that series dead in its tracks. But they didn’t intend the comment as hate? Was a weird situation.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Nope. I read it but I don’t write it.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? No one would want to steal my writing and even if they did, how would I know?

What’s your all-time favorite ship? I don’t ship, as a rule of thumb. I’ve got a lot of feelings about familial and platonic relationships, but romance doesn’t normally do it for me. I was planning on writing Geralt/Jaskier (with alloaro Geralt) but never actually got around to anything other than some vague pining. And also I’m not really a fan of that ship, it’s just really popular in the fandom. idk, I’m aro.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will? Most of them. Most of all Hand in Unsteady Hand and the whole Inextricable ‘verse. I have some really interesting ideas for how the story plays out but I got stuck on the nitty gritty details of the first story and just ground to a halt.

What are your writing strengths? I’ve been told recently I’m good at writing big, overwhelming emotions. I like to think that my descriptions of places and objects are good, when I remember to put them in?

What are your writing weaknesses? Physical descriptions of people, action scenes, pacing, dialogue tags. Actually finishing something.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in fic? I only speak one language so I wouldn’t be one to try, google translate is not reliable. And if I was going to write dialogue in a fake language, I would feel like I would have to invent the whole language which would definitely stop me from doing it, even if conlangs and linguistics are so cool.

What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written? uhhhhh three way tie between Hand in Unsteady Hand, Burden of Guilt, and The Absence of Color. Not because I think any of them are particularly good, but because I think I enjoyed the process the most for those and also don’t have any negative associations for them in the present day.

-

tagging @pristine-starlight if you want to, and anyone else who would like to

[whumpprince]

brb developing an entire conlang for the sake of writing a prayer for a fake religion in a high fantasy world for a brief self indulgent whump scene involving a religious character

[echo-bleu]

5, 17, 22

Thank you! I’m so late answering these, I reblog some ask memes and then I didn’t have the spoons to answer the asks I got *eyeroll*. Anyway, here goes.

5. Top five formative books?

- Harry Potter, if only because I was obsessed with it for years and that’s where I first wrote fanfics.

- Le Pacte des Marchombres (Pierre Bottero). I don’t think that was ever translated into English, but it was my favorite book for a long time. It taught me a lot about storytelling, poetry, worldbuilding and more.

- The Lord of the Rings, because reasons. Plus, amazing conlangs, and a lot of great art that shapes my imaginary worlds.

- The Count of Monte-Christo (Alexandre Dumas). It was one of the first “adult” books I read that weren’t for school, and it shook me.

- Basically any Discworld book, but especially Night Watch and the Tiffany series. How to weave worldbuilding and political commentary, plus, well, the political commentary itself. And incredible characters.

17. What things (scenes/topics/character types) are you most comfortable writing?

Angst and whump, all the way. Hurt/Comfort is my happy place, I think. These just come much easier to me than happy fluff or basically anything else, and for a truly angsty fic, I can chuck out several thousand words in one go. But what I actually like the most is the comfort/recovery part, even if it doesn’t come as easily.

In terms of characters, it’s a delight for me to write autistic characters, because I don’t have to spend half my time thinking “what would an allistic person do in this situation” and having to relate it to things I’ve seen other people do. I can just close my eyes and feel. But I also enjoy the challenge of writing other perspectives, especially characters with different disabilities. I try not to tell stories that aren’t mine to tell, but the border isn’t always easy to find.

22. Tell us about the books (fics) on your “to write” list

There are so many! I have 3 RNM WIPs currently being posted (our hands clasped so tight, Power Through and Complicated Truths), two The Gifted WIPs (but they’re on hiatus at this point, even though I still hope to get back to them) and a whole bunch of Leverage fics I haven’t touched in a while.

Fics that I haven’t started posting yet:

- the sequel to setting fire to our insides. It’s started, but I’ve put it on the backburner for a bit because of RL events that made it hit too close to home. I will write it, though.

- a s2 fix-it slash soulmate AU that doesn’t have a title yet (Malex, no love triangle). I won’t start posting it until the end of the season, but it’s coming along nicely.

- a Leverage fusion that will probably be my Big Bang fic.

- a sequel to my Musketeers fusion (RNM Musketeers AU) where they finally take down Jesse Manes.

- maybe, at some point, a Malex AU where Michael is a painter and Alex a model with body image issues since the accident that took his leg.

- I still have a bunch of prompts to fill, so those too.