#group whump

[elfwhump]

homecoming (the long way around) - masterpost

like a spent gladiator

TW: Explicit non-con, disassociation, referenced/discussed torture. The first half of the rescue, from Itarata's very very disassociated perspective, and what it interrupts. He's not having a good time over here.

It’s not the first time.

Nor is it the second, or the third time, or the fourth, or the fifth, or even the fiftieth.

Itarata doesn’t know how to count them anymore. Is it each body, each different cock shoved in his mouth or ass? Each thrust, hard and violent like being impaled. When there’s no one, he feels empty— loose inside. Hollow, hanging open. Those breaks aren’t much of a reprieve, though, since they usually leave him chained up in some stress position or another.

He tries to focus on the fact that he’s allowed to have his hands against the ground in this cell now. That his shoulders aren’t slowly being torn out of their socket by the gravity he can’t resist. It doesn’t feel like much of a reprieve. He thinks this human’s been here a few times now— most of them got their fill of raping him the first day, the appeal of an older elf with enough dignity not to help them by either acquiescing to the humiliation in hopes of a mercy that’s not coming or excite them by trying fruitlessly to fight wearing off pretty quickly, but some of them have decided to stick out trying to break him.

Either that, or they’re enjoying the process even though he’s just lying there like a dead fish, his mind somewhere else. He can’t say their brutality has no effect on him— every violation still feels like a fresh piece of him is being cut off and torn away. But he can’t say much right now at all. At some point in those first few hours, the adrenaline of rage cut out and his mind abandoned him entirely. The pain is a dull ache, somewhere in the distance.

The human that’s on top of him now — straddling him, his dick forcing its way into the bruised and battered hole made accessible with force — is saying something, but he can barely make it out. Some sort of taunt. He wonders if they know he’s not really here, that they’re only raping his body when what they clearly want to do is rape his mind. It’s the pain of the brand that threatens to bring him back to reality more than anything they could shove into him. Sharper than the knives and the whips they use to slice open his back, more persistent an ache than the punches and kicks can leave. His body threatens to twist on the ground in response to the ways the pain in the brand moves around, sharpening and lessening seemingly at random even though he knows it’s in response to thoughts he’s not conscious enough to pin down. At least, it did at first, when he was still adjusting. Now, it’s just another thing numb.

They enjoy the movement, though, taking it as an excuse to accuse him of enjoying himself. If he was conscious enough to even register the words, he’d laugh them off. He’s vaguely aware he’s come a few times during this, the semen coating his ass, thighs, and stomach not entirely the result of the men spilling themselves all over him, but it’s not like that means anything. Angiel’s told him stories about accidentally orgasming from a particularly intense horseback ride. The body reacts to stimuli. That's the way this works.

It means nothing to him.

From an incredible distance, a fraction of Itarata wonders what they’ve done with his clothes as this latest bastard finishes, spraying himself all over Itarata’s chest before rubbing himself all over his cheek. He remembers it being cut away, the knives nicking his skin as they tore away at the fabric, focused only on the jewels and gold embroidered onto his tunic and paying no heed to the fact that the whole garment was worth much more than its constituent parts. Bits and pieces pried off, sold on the cheap. Offensively inefficient. Not that he was going to let them take it off more cleanly.

This one stands back up, then kicks him. Steel toed boots against his already bruised ribs. No protection for his internal organs, chained up like he is. If he were one of them, it might’ve killed him. The risk of internal bleeding would be profound, if he wasn’t as sturdy as he is. As is, it’s just an addition to the patchwork of blue and purple all over his chest. He can’t see it, but he’s familiar enough with his own body to be able to tell what sort of impacts cause what marks.

That fraction considers the possibility they’ve given up on the possibility of breaking him to the point where they could sell him — they’ve got to know if they let him heal enough to be able to stand under his own power, he’ll take the first opportunity he’s been given. However broken this Morwë is, they have to know he didn’t get that way from just a little bit of gang rape. Maybe they’re planning on keeping him. He doesn’t care either way— he’s not really here.

The door opens as this one leaves. Someone new catches the door as this person leaves. Or maybe someone old, as if he’s at all able to tell from where he is. There’s a thud as something heavy outside falls to the floor. His eyes are shut and even if they were open, it’s not like he’s crooning his head to see them. He can parse that words are being said to him as this new person crouches down next to him, but his mind just doesn’t process the noises into coherent sentences. More mockery, maybe. He feels as though he recognizes the voice, but he’s different.

Something brushes against his chest softly, almost gentle even with how much it hurts. Not the first one to play at kindness. The officer from the first day, whose name Itarata must’ve learned at some point, kept trying to use that as a way to break his disassociation. But they haven’t done that for… days? Has it been days? There’s been gaps between the men coming in that he’s wondered might be night, but his internal clock, normally so strong, is completely broken from the haze of dissociation. Either way— they’d all given up on that pretty quickly. Impatient, as all humans are.

His body shudders at this touch, unconsciously responding, and the movement makes every ache of his body worse. The words are reassuring, gentle. More mockery. Somewhere distantly, he grits his teeth.

The fraction of him that’s paying attention hears the rattle of a key in the cuffs around his ankles, then his hands. That fraction only notes it as a novelty. Plenty of them have unchained him for long enough to move him around, reposition him. They’ve flipped his body from back to front a few times, moved it so he was sitting. He doesn’t know if he could stand under his own power— when they’ve tried to make him stand, he’s forced them to use chains just to be an inconvenience. They’ve mostly left his body on the ground lately, realizing it’s not worth the effort to make him flop around when he’s not responsive enough to be anything other than a hole.

But this one’s careful in moving him, not letting his head smack against the ground. Mindful of the wounds. Another person enters the room, or maybe two? One of them is louder than the other, if that’s the case. Or being held awkward. It doesn’t matter. Maybe they want to fuck him at the same time.

He feels his hair being brushed out of his face, and then— there’s a kiss against his forehead. Soft.

And that’s when the distant part of him realizes the words being whispered to him are in Quenya. Not Revkian. His eyes fly open, and he’s nowhere near entirely present, but—

“Esto—”

His voice is so weak, like he’s been screaming. Was he screaming? He thought he’d managed to stay quiet. He trails off, unable to ask the question. There’s been things he’s thought might be hallucinations, but nothing like this…

There’s a pause, before his oldest friend tells him, “Save your breath. Getting in was the easy part.”

Of course. There'll be times for reunion later.

[pyrepostings]

Whumpee who needs a surgery but they have Trauma about being knocked out and things Done to them.

Do they get the surgery while paralyzed and numb, but awake? Is caretaker there to still walk them through what's happening to them?

Do they agree to go under full anesthesia but only if caretaker is there both when they go under and wake up, and very specific instructions about how they want to be treated during the process?

"Fine, just, can you be there when I'm waking up? And please don't judge me if I react poorly to you, I- I don't always know where I am when I'm coming out of it."

"Let me hold the gas to my own face. Don't touch me until I'm out. Make sure I'm dressed the same by the time I'm coming up. Do what you have to do while I'm out, I don't want to hear details about it unless I ask, just get it done."

[lesiasmadness]

Thinking abt how Hersh probably had no idea what he was getting into having two sidekicks who are both keen on observation and analysis. Like it does make sense that the people hanging around the puzzle guy both take extensive notes on stuff but as soon as that bleeds outside of the puzzle and work stuff I bet that bites Layton in the ass

Like imagine he's trying to be nice knowing both Emmy and Luke get hungry quickly, so he skips out on his portion of the lunch they packed to later conveniently be like "oh what's this we still have some food lying around" but then it turns out Luke remembers exactly how much they had with them and figures out Hersh hasn't been eating at all

Or Hersh is like "aw don't worry that's not an issue" abt something he doesn't want to raise a fuss about at work if he's like... being treated differently or smth, but then Emmy slams the notebook on the table with pages dogeared and notes highlighted with exactly how many times that has been an issue

Bro thrives on not telling stuff but unfortunately he also loves teaching others to figure stuff out and suddenly he's surrounded people who figure him out

[whumppuppeteer]

So apparently its been almost exactly FIVE YEARS(?!) since I posted this. The passage of time has been creeping up on me lately, so this is long overdue for a redraw.

I'm a huge fan of @haro-whumps group whump series, so I drew the crew together! I love all of these characters! Lilah was the hardest to draw, but I love her chaotic gremlin energy!

[comfortingcatharsis]

Two characters, or a small group, in desperate need of and seeking help- one limply supported and sagging onto the arms or shoulder holding them up, the other(s) bracing against their increasing weight and keeping a white-knuckle grip to stop them slipping down any further- standing on a doorstep pounding on the door to be let in, pleading for shelter and assistance, partially propping the ailing character against the doorframe for support, huddling as much under cover of the doorway as possible, glancing furtively around at their surroundings for either threat or aid, turning beseeching faces toward whoever answers the door...

[elfwhump]

hold him down - masterpost

TW: threatened gang rape with a fade to black, threatened branding, fantasy racism, non con touching, references to past pogroms, de"humanizing" language/objectification., misogynistic language.

-

Introducing Itarata (formerly free elf, defiant and unaging whumpee) and what he's been up to. (Namely, not having a good time.) Itarata POV.

Itarata promises himself that the humans that have him bound will not hear him scream.

They are nothing but children to him. He was here in this world before their grandparents’ grandparents were born, and he will be here when they are nothing but dust in the ground. There will come a time where he is the only living being to remember any of their names, or there would be that time if he intended on learning any of them.

The rage at the indignity of being bound in this way, with a collar of iron heavy around his throat connected by chains to the cuffs around his wrists behind his back with barely enough slack for him to lean forward or twist his head without choking himself and the cuffs around his ankles that keep threatening to trip him, burns so bright that he leaves no time for fear. Not to mention the chain that dangles loose from the collar, down in front of him, like a leash.

He is not the child he was when Mírwen was cut down, her first life ended before either of them had even reached adulthood. He is not the young adult that had to step up to lead his people when his parents faltered, so lost to their grief that they might have, through their inability to serve the roles they’d been appointed when what would become the Orontdrim had set out in their exile from Minyas, allowed their tribe to be destroyed before it had even begun. He is the nér that endured the Dark Days and built a haven with his sword and hammer alike.

He repeats these truths to himself with every step even as he hears the humans mocking him to each other. They mostly speak Revkian, some with thicker and more noticeable accents than others. He doesn’t allow himself to react to any of the taunts. Even if he acknowledged them as meaningful, he’d rather not let on that he knows their language.

He’s never traveled through a portal before, and the trip which is mundane for the Revkians leaves him dizzy and disoriented. It doesn’t help that one of them shoves him through it. He stumbles, instinctively going to put his hands forward, but he can’t with the chains. He grunts, narrowly managing to avoid being forced to his knees in the clearing. There’s a difference in altitude, between where he was and where he is now.

He doesn’t know how far a distance he’s traveled, but it can’t be that far. The scout-mage comes through the portal she’d opened last, sweating like it’s the height of summer rather than a crisp autumn day, but capable of standing on her own power. The clouds above them are different, having moved by at minimum, around a hundred miles, but it’s clearly the same weather system. They’ve gone from an enemy camp less than a day’s ride from Fendetaras, from the safe valley behind it that has been his home for all those years, to somewhere else, much higher in the Great Mountains.

He finds himself standing in front of a different mountain fortress, one that might be impressive to a human farm worker who’d never before traveled outside their family’s grounds, but to Itarata seems at best pedestrian. Ramshackle, even, with barely the occasional gesture to decoration. A stonemason and architect of the Orontdrim whose ages haven’t even reached triple digits could single-handedly build circles around this construction. It’s serviceable, but utterly boring.

Somewhere the others will find him. His people will not abandon him. He has no doubts about this. It’s only a question of how long it will take and how merciful Itarata will be feeling when they do.

One of the soldiers on this side of the portal, one who must not have been at the attack, whistles at the sight of Itarata. Itarata snaps his head to face him, letting every iota of rage show in his gaze without caring about the strain it causes with the chains. The soldier almost takes a step back under the intensity of it. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Itarata, though, just breaks the eye contact. He sizes up Itarata’s body instead.

“Pretty thing, isn’t it?” one of the men who most definitely had been there says with a laugh as he steps out from the portal. Itarata had been unable to miss his name— Ivanov. He’d likely been the one to push Itarata, if Itarata has to guess. That Itarata is the “it” in question does not go over his head. “Move it, whore, you’re getting in the way.”

Whore is one of those words that doesn’t translate to Quenya particularly well. There is a word for someone who makes their skill at sex a trade, in the same way someone might be a smith or a weaver or a musician, but it lacks the derogatory connotations that humans apply to it. It’s not a word one would throw at a captured enemy. There is, he supposes, a word for one who cheats on their spouse.

He thinks nothing of the implication, his mind full with thoughts of vengeance.

Itarata refuses the order. They have dragged him this far, and they will have to drag him the rest of the way, regardless of how outnumbered he may be. Regardless of how many days, weeks, away his rescue may be.

“Are you stupid?” Ivanov says. “I said, move it.”

Despite his harsh words, he too withers under Itarata’s gaze, only able to bear the intensity of it for a moment. He can’t be older than twenty five.

Ivanov kicks him this time, square in the back. Itarata keeps quiet even as he stumbles forward, managing to stay standing even fettered as he is. Even as the pain in his chest from the bruised ribs burns.

“You’ll die for this,” Itarata tells him simply, letting his head go back to center and setting his focus to a point in the distance. He tells all of them. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. His rage is as cold as ice. Earlier in the day, before the chains, he’d attempted to offer mercy. He’d told them that if they’d release him, he would spare them. That offer had expired the moment they collared him, held him down against the dirt and chained him like a dog. “If you release me now, I will make it quick.”

Admittedly. That had been only in Quenya. Just as this is. That doesn’t mean that most of the soldiers don’t feel the weight of the thing that isn’t a threat but a promise.

Most of them. Not all of them.

Itarata hears the portal behind him shut as the scout-mage and the last of the soldiers step through into the clearing outside the borders of the fort. Though, he supposes, it’s less of a noise and more of a sudden absence of the noise from the other side. The birds are cut off mid song, leaving only the ones on this side.

His rage doesn’t leave him as he realizes his escape’s been cut off, and it’s not hopelessness that threatens to rise up in his chest. He already knew he was surrounded, that these chains would keep his escape from being that simple. But there’s something to the gap between the two places being opened and closed so casually that reminds him, although he is old, these people are heirs to

“Not quite as much of a coward as the old captain’s bitchboy, huh?” one of the men says, turning to look at a friend. Looking away only slightly lessens Itarata’s presence.

“Kind of freaky,” his friend says. “Seeing a dog like that acting like a person.”

The humiliation, Itarata tells himself, is on them. Any debasement he may suffer reflects only on the heads of those that would lessen themselves to commit it.

“Bet you Nikolai can fix him right up something good, though,” another one cuts in, then scowls. “Wish we coulda grabbed the bitchboy too. I would’ve loved to bend him over in front of Mikhail, finally take the wool from his eyes about how much of a slut that bastard really was. What do you think he was doing there?”

“Probably looking for its master. Poor puppy dog, lost without someone holding its leash. I bet the feral ones eat him alive.”

Itarata keeps his expression level. He’d caught glimpses of what he’d thought might’ve been a foreign elf in the fighting, tall as he’d been for a stranger. He’d almost convinced himself the nér had been a hallucination, a trick of his mind in the middle of a fight he hadn’t been ready for despite all his years. After all, the stranger nearly looked like Mírwen.

At least, he can only assume they’re talking about an elf. It’s the same language they’ve started using for him. Cruel, objectifying. Threatening all sorts of horrors that Itarata once hoped were gone from his life for good, only this time he won't be able to escape it. He clutches his fists tight enough that his knuckles turn white. Esteldur will take care of him...

That’s only one of the conversations happening around him— about him. He catches all of them, and he lets them fuel his rage instead of trying to ignore them. His trembles are of fury, not of terror. He will not let them see him hurt.

“Arrogant son of a bitch. I hope he was fucking worth it.” That soldier, Donavan, spits at him. Itarata doesn’t acknowledge it.

“I can’t wait to hear him begging.”

“Elf bitch thinks he’s too good for us.”

“Pretty mouth on that one, even nicer than Morwë’s. You think Nikolai will let us put him through the paces?”

“Please, it looks like it’ll bite your cock off.”

Morwë. That’s the name of the nér that was at the battle. A Mólado, based on the way they’re talking about him. Itarata’s more familiar than most Orontdrim with the system that the Revkians inherited and managed to make even more brutal. He itches to reach for the sword that’s been taken from him, with a hand that’s bound.

Patience, he reminds himself. He surrendered rather than allowing the fighting to continue for a reason. For several reasons— the faces of his fallen people burn in his mind. Recent losses. A pain he’s used to being a dull ache ignites fresh, and he buries it with fury.

He’s made compromises to keep his people safe before. He’s kept the true horrors of the Móladar from his people. It’s not a secret, exactly, as any of the Orontdrim is perfectly capable of venturing into the human world on their own or asking questions of those who have walked the Iron Path. But it’s a tactic assumption between all of them to not volunteer the information. After all, the ones who returned here are the ones who have given up on trying to free their cousins.

He knows it haunts Angiel. Not only what she saw but also that she was unable to dissuade people from following in her stead. So many of them have failed to return, and there are nights where he wonders if they’ve fallen to the blades of humans, been captured and turned into a part of the very system they’d set out to destroy, or if they’re still out there. Seeing the world, seeing its horrors and deciding they can do something about it, that they don’t have any choice.

The threats — promises — from these men wash over Itarata’s back. He forces them to drag him, or at the very least, he forces Ivanov to grab the chains and try to drag him. His strength is much more profound than that of the soldier, and his digging his heels in.

“Come on, you idiot. You’re the one that surrendered. Do you want us to open that portal and go back? Kill some more of your men?” Ivanov demands. Itarata hides his reaction to that. They can’t— a force of this size, mostly reservists who, if the talk of Mikhail is to be believed, was already split into multiple factions? There’s no way there’s any other mage-scouts here. They’ll have to at least wait until the morning. He adopts a posture of faux confusion, unwilling to reveal he’s fluent in their language. “Drag more of them here?”

“The poor thing doesn’t know what you’re saying, Ivanov,” one of his friends says, mockery clear in his tone, before looking around. “Any of you lot speak elf drivvle?”

Nobody nods.

“Mikhail might…” someone offers. “If the bitch taught him any.”

“Pft, Mikhail might be down bad for that slut, but he’s not gone that native,” another one retorts. “Besides, you really trust him to translate? Just beat the idiot into submission. Drag its unconscious body down to Nikolai, if it refuses to come with. Don’t need to worry about breaking it like we did with the skinny bitch, this one’s got some fight in it and some meat on its bones.”

He mentally retracts the second offer of mercy, the one for a quick death. He doesn’t consider himself particularly brutal, but the way they’re speaking of Morwë, of an elf he’s never even met, is enough to make him want to skin the lot of them, with the same practiced hand that he’s used on thousands, hundreds of thousands, of prey animals over the centuries. Except for these bastards, he wouldn’t give time the privilege of dying first.

He thinks nothing of himself. Of the fate that awaits him. He can’t acknowledge it. Not by the hand of humans. He is older than this empire, older than the Revkian tribes that founded it.

“You sure about that? It’s barely been reacting to what’s happened so far. Morwë must’ve been a defective model, that little shit would fold at a raised voice.”

“Fucker’s creepy. Maybe this was a shit idea,” the one who’d already suggested their attack had been a mistake chimes in.

“Should kill him and sell the body instead, save ourselves the hassle,” someone on the other side of the crowd adds. Itarata starts to parse the sheer number of them, and something resembling dread starts to build in his chest despite himself. Most of the attacking force has already returned to the castle with their loot in tow, but that still leaves dozens of them out here, surrounding him like a swarm. A few people start nodding along with that idea.

The one that’d said they couldn’t wait to hear him beg— a day that will never happen, in Itarata’s mind — steps forward, closer. “You’re letting him get in your heads. Fucker might be immortal, but he’ll still bleed.”

He steps so close, and Itarata can see he’s strong. There’s a difference in his uniform— an officer— but their internal hierarchy doesn’t mean much to Itarata. The only thing that means is that, unlike Ivanov, he’s actually well fed. He sizes up Itarata and he almost manages to hold his gaze. When he can’t, he grows angry instead of hesitating.

“You two,” he orders, pointing at two of the bigger and burlier men in the crowd. “Hold him up.” They each grab one of his shoulders. Itarata feels his heart try to jump into his chest, for the first time his shield of anger cracking. Itarata would try to muscle his way out of their grip, and in another place, he might’ve been able to. But he can’t position his feet effectively, with the cuffs. The officer slams his fist into Itarata’s gut— hard.

They’d stripped his armor from him already, leaving only his sheer silk shirt to protect him from the assault. If Itarata was standing under his own power, this blow would be enough to knock him into the dirt. Instead, the grip that contains him, traps him, keeps him standing. It hurts, especially with his injuries from earlier in the day, and he bites down on a scream. He will not give them the satisfaction. He breathes in as steadily as he can, with the wind knocked out of him.

He’s taken hits worse than this in the past month, in training with his people. If this is what they think will break him, they’ve got bad news coming their way.

“Kramar. Go tell Nikolai we’ve got a present for him soon.” The man that moves to follow the order looks at Itarata with something resembling pity, before running off. Once he’s satisfied that Kramar has in fact left, the officer leans forward. Itarata wonders if the officer had chosen this in order to allow him to look down at him. The man’s barely six feet, if that. Itarata’s got near two and a half feet on him, when unencumbered. “Hey. Elf boy. I know you’re pretending not to understand us.”

“What?” Itarata gets out, in a Revkian that’s only half a century or so dated, as he regains control over his breathing. It’s usually easier, but the hands on his back and on the chains binding them, let alone the officer’s breath on his face, are doing a number to his internal equilibrium. “How did you know?“

The officer smiles and several of the gathered soldiers break into laughter.

“It was a guess, before you’d just confirmed it for me,” the officer says. His voice seems almost sing songy, soft but cruel. He reaches a hand out to trace Itarata’s chin, and Itarata pulls back as far as he can, avoiding the touch, but one of the men holding him pushes his head forward, into the officer’s hand. Itarata feels like a fool. A beginner’s trick, one any child not even triple digits of age, could see through. And he’d fallen for it.

“Now. You’re already at our mercy. You will be going to see Nikolai. But whether that’ll be right now, willingly, or after everyone here, everyone that risked their lives and some who’d lost friends in the process, to get you have had their way with you right here and now, not even inside our walls… well, that’s up to you.”

He reaches forward with the hand that’s not holding his jaw tight, groping at the space between Itarata’s legs before finding his flaccid cock and giving it a tight squeeze before letting go, like the meaning of his words wasn’t already down there.

Itarata doesn’t try to pull back this time, uncertain if that would count as an answer. It’s not out of surrender— he looks at the officer with the same resentment as ever. He has no intention of making this easier for the bastard. However, he’s an adult. He can face the fact that getting so thoroughly injured before they’ve even dragged him through the door won’t exactly be conducive to his escape plans.

The crowd titters, some of them drawing closer. He can see their faces, hungry, and for whatever reason, he remembers the pile of bodies he found Esteldur in, after the first pogrom, all those centuries ago. Buried underneath his father’s body, unable to even scream for fear of drawing attention to the humans that had cut so many of them down that it had necessitated a mass grave. They’d just been kids then. So young, only starting to conceive of the brutality of the world they loved so much.

“It depends,” Itarata says, his voice smooth as though he’s talking which type of tea he’d prefer. The response from the crowd is mixed. Some laugh, amused by his insistence on acting as he had any control here. Some seem to grow angry, scowling. He hears more than a few of them mutter about arrogance, which he thinks is rather rich coming from a bunch of upstarts that would barely qualify as prepubescent to him. It’s only arrogance if the pride is unearned.

“On?” someone from the crowd calls out, and Itarata doesn’t answer, looking pointedly at the officer instead.

“You heard the question, boy,” the officer says, and the absurdity of a human man calling him that makes rage rise in Itarata’s throat, sharp and acidic.

“On who this Nikolai is,” Itarata says, stating the obvious. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m not exactly from around here.”

The snickers are subdued, but still present.

“Oh, that’s easy,” the officer says. “He’s the one that’ll be branding you.”

It’s like the world goes cold. Or maybe that’s just his blood turning to ice. Itarata replays the sentence in his mind, over and over again, searching for another interpretation. Replaying everything the soldiers had said. He’d expected the harassment— hell, his diplomatic meetings with the Revkians prior to this had been laced with similar threats barely masked as jokes, not that he'd let anyone know. He hadn’t ruled out the possibility that one or two of them might actually try it.

“No,” he says, the first hint of any emotion entering other than a sense of superiority and rage entering his voice.

Not despair. Not yet. But horror, definitely.

He thinks of all the words they’d used to describe the broken Moládrin nér. What they’d said they’d wanted to do to him.

“He’s going to need you still for the procedure,” the officer continues, a sharp smile covering his face. “So one way or another, we’ll be breaking you in. Could just carry you up to his quarters, hold you down when we get there and take advantage of you after, but I think we all want to see what you can do when there’s still some fight in you.”

Itarata could’ve tolerated this if it was just the threatened gang rape. Beyond that, even if they’d tried to sell him into slavery, he would endure. He would outlive them, and one day, he would think no more of them. Just like he endured the Dark Days, like he’s moved past them.

But a brand— that’s forever. Decades in the futures. Centuries. Millennia. For as old as he feels now, Itarata knows that the future is incalculably vast. Even past the end of this lifespan, if he’s slain in combat or brought down by some natural disaster, he will return with his memories of his current life locked behind a shroud of pain and his loyalties bound to whomever the brander wills it. If he’s lucky, that owner will be a mortal man and in a century, he’ll be able to walk mostly free. But what’s the point of binding an immortal slave to only one generation?

“No,” he says again, his composure cracking. He thinks of this Morwë, his appearance in the battle like a ghost.

“No isn’t exactly an option here, elf boy,” the officer says, tapping his finger against Itarata’s jaw impatiently.

“My name,” he says through a rage and building dread that he can no longer conceal. “Is Itarata.”

The officer pulls back his invasive touch, only to hit him. Backhanded. There’s nothing Itarata can do to defend himself, so he just takes it, face burning.

“Your name is whatever we decide it is, brat. Do you understand?”

Itarata laughs. Just a single “hah.” These men, insignificant, are used to dealing with the fallen Rethyar, beaten down by centuries of abuse. Depending on how old Morwë is, it’s entirely possible he’d never known Mithyas as it was in its glory days. But Itarata has known freedom, has known glory, in a way these men never will.

They will not make a thrall out of Itarata like they did him.

“You will die by my hand,” Itarata says, and this time, he knows they can understand him.

“C’mon, Cap,” one of the soldiers chipped in, clearly uncomfortable. Itarata would face him, if he wasn’t sure that the officer would drag his face back, and he doesn’t want to give up the staring contest. “How long are you gonna let him run that mouth before we’re allowed to shove something in it? The unlucky son of a bitch has made his choice.”

The officer doesn’t look away from Itarata, just grabbing the loose chain that dangles from the collar at his neck.

“Let’s bring him inside first. There’s better places to attach this to, and besides, I’m sure plenty of the others will want a turn. The whole base has been missing having Morwë around.” The officer pauses. “Make sure people know to expect a fight, though. We all learned a lesson today, that not all elves are as much of a pushover as he was.”

Elves? Pushovers? They really must only be familiar with the Móladar.

“Lotta good men died for that,” someone in the crowd scowls. “This bastard better make us some good money.”

“He’ll pay for himself several times over,” the officer replies, still intently focused on Itarata, the words clearly more meant for him than the critic. “I assure you.”

Itarata doesn’t listen to his words, instead returning to his promise to himself. It doesn’t matter if they’re planning on branding him or not— he will not break for them. They will not get a single scream from his lips. He’ll assure it.

[citrine-elephant]

(heavily implied noncon)

thieving little whore

after being stuck in my head all week (and... longer?) finally sketched out one of the ideas :3c

can't make any promises, but... the urge to write, man.

[the-broken-pen]

“You’re going to blow out your arms,” the villain observed. They watched as the hero merely grit their teeth, shoving themself through another pull-up. It looked painful, and if the sweat slicking the hero’s brow was any indication, it was.

They waited for the hero to let themself drop from the bar and accept the villain was stronger. But they didn’t.

Three more pull-ups, and the villain stepped in.

“Hero,” they said slowly. “You’re about to tear the ligaments in your arms. You need to stop.”

The hero blew out a shuddering breath. Struggled for purchase, fighting gravity—and let themself drop.

The hero’s hands were bleeding, calluses torn open by the bar. The hero didn’t seem bothered when their own hands shook so much that their blood began to splatter on the gym floor.

For a moment, the villain could only stare at them.

Shit.

They didn’t know how to handle this. They knew the hero was dedicated. They knew the hero was strong, and perpetually trying to be stronger, but they hadn’t thought…

They hadn’t thought the hero would be so willing to tear apart their own body for success.

It was supposed to be fun, the villain thought. They felt a little sick as the hero pressed their palms together to soothe the bleeding, an action that was practiced and familiar. As if they had done this before.

The hero reached for something in their bag, smearing blood on the side, and pulled out a roll of blue electrical tape. The villain didn’t understand why, until the hero tore a strip off and made to wrap their hands with it.

The hero would be the death of them.

They crouched in front of the hero, plucking the electrical tape out of their hands.

“What are you doing with this?”

The hero blinked at the villain like they were the strange one in this situation.

“Wrapping my hands?”

The villain hissed in a breath.

“With electrical tape?”

The hero flushed slightly, looking down at their bloody hands. They looked close to tears.

“It…sticks to skin, really well. And it doesn’t move, either, when you move your hands or wherever else, even if you’re fighting. Plus, blood doesn’t make it come off, at least, not for a while.”

The villain blinked at them.”

“Blood doesn’t make it come off,” the villain repeated, processing. The hero nodded, reaching for the electrical tape. The villain settled it out of reach.

“Not if you wrap it right.”

Dimly, the villain realized that meant the hero had done this enough times to have it down to a science.

“And you couldn’t use a bandaid?” The villain asked incredulously. The hero shrugged a shoulder, then winced at the motion.

Yeah, the hero had absolutely blown out their arms.

“Bandaids move—“

The villain hushed them.

“Be quiet for a second.”

The hero, wisely, went quiet.

The villain rubbed a hand over their face, then studied the hero for a moment. They took one of the hero’s hands into their own, studying the damage.

“Why did you do this to yourself,” the villain murmured.

“What do you mean, why,” the hero snapped. “It’s my job.”

“Your job is to save people,” the villain corrected. “Not destroy yourself.”

“I’m not destroying myself—“

“You are.”

“Shut up—“

“Hero.”

“I need to be better,” the hero snapped. Their voice rang out across the gym, echoing into the rafters, and they both froze. After a moment, the hero spoke again, voice soft. “I need to be better.”

They said it like they needed the villain to understand. The villain wondered who they were really saying it to—the villain, or themself.

“Better than who?”

“Everyone.” It was hushed, like a secret.

The villain watched them, waiting.

The hero took a shaky breath

“My whole thing is being the best. I have always been the best. That’s the only reason I matter. If I’m not strong enough, then I am nothing, so I need. to be. better.”

The hero had started crying, very quietly, like they were afraid to take up too much space.

The villain was not equipped to handle gifted kid burnout.

“There’s more to you than just being a good athlete,” the villain said hesitantly, and the hero shook their head.

“No. There isn’t.”

“Hero.”

“Can you give me back my electrical tape?” They hiccuped to contain a sob.

“No,” the villain said firmly, and then the hero really was sobbing.

“You don’t understand—“

The villain didn’t. Not really. They had never been the kind of talented that the hero was.

They wondered now if maybe that was a blessing.

“I don’t,” the villain agreed. “But I do understand that you’ve saved half the city, and you give everything you have to give, and you always do your best.”

“But I-“

“No.” The villain stopped them. “You are doing your best.” They tipped the hero’s chin up until they met the villain’s eyes. “And it is enough.”

The hero froze, eyes darting over the villain’s face. They wondered if anyone had ever said that to the hero, if whatever mentor they had was giving them anything other than orders to be stronger. Be better. Be more.

The villain had some new targets to take care of, it would seem.

For now, though, they had to take care of hero.

“We’re going to go wrap your hands,” they said softly. “And then we’re going to take care of your arms, and you’re going to take a nap.”

The hero nodded, watching them like they were some kind of good, selfless person.

“And if I ever catch you using electrical tape again, so help me, I will put you six feet under.”

That startled a laugh out of the hero, and they let the villain guide them to their feet.

“Fine.”

The villain turned to them. “Okay?”

Are you going to be alright?

The hero seemed to understand.

“Okay,” the hero agreed.

Yes.

And so, it was.

[featherlovesrobots]

CONTENT: Fantasy whump, warlock caretaker / patron whumpee, magic exhaustion, magic sickness, team whump, lady whumpee + masc caretaker

The team made Warlock sit down when he mentioned the sudden lack of magic made him dizzy. But he’s fine, really he is — it’s just that he can’t hear her. She’s always there, in the back of his mind, and she still is, but she’s quiet and faint like a shadow of what she usually is.

He remembers shooting off spell after spell — a zap of lightning, a crack of fire, building in his chest and flooding from his fingertips. Hot and vibrating and alive, like magic should be. And then gone. He flung out his hand and only sparks fizzled from his palm. Instantly he felt cold. So cold.

He tried asking after Whumpee. “Why didn’t that spell work?” turned into “Why is our magic gone?” turned into “Why aren’t you answering? What’s wrong?”

Eventually he started pacing — around and around and around, practically interrogating her but getting no responses. His lungs constricted, his eyes prickled with the threat of tears and his voice tore out of his throat in what turned into a frantic plea for her to answer him. Leader had to take him by the shoulders and tell him to breathe. It helped.

But she still gives him nothing. And he has no idea what to do.

He should’ve paid more attention. What if she’s sick? What if she has been for days or even weeks? She has no body other than his, and he has no power save for what she allows him, which means the two of them are responsible for each other. They have been since… well, since he first got possessed after touching that cursed mirror. Best mistake of his life; she’s saved his neck more times than he can count.

The sun climbs down under the canopy, bathing the horizon in orange-red brilliance. A few stars come out, too. Warlock leans back into the tree Archer propped him up against.

He won’t be able to sleep. But if he closes his eyes, maybe she will. She’s always said it’s easiest for her to rest when she isn’t getting too much secondhand sensory input.

◊◊◊

The next day isn’t any different. He tries again, though. “Whumpee? You there?”

Nothing. His eyes are really watering now. She needs to be okay — or at least, she needs to tell him she isn’t so he can fix it. He looks up to see the sunrise, then around at the others. Leader looks cold, lying down on her back with her cloak draped over her protege, Cleric — who tosses and turns, probably thanks to some new omen she’s getting from her god.

Archer is awake already, sitting cross-legged on top of a sturdy tree branch with his bow drawn. Swordster doesn’t look so good; bandages shroud her arm and chest, and she winces every so often, despite her heavy breathing indicating she’s managed to fall asleep. Healer rests against her, their head buried in her shoulder and their supplies strewn out in front of them. They tried to stay awake watching over her and Warlock, but they were exhausted after the fight.

Warlock tries to push himself up, but he falls back down when a sharp pain strikes his chest. He gasps, grimacing and wrapping his arms around himself. Archer flinches. “Hey, are you okay? Warlock?”

“Fine,” Warlock insists through gritted teeth. “Just haven’t had a beating heart in a while.”

Wait. Beating?

He presses two fingers to his neck, and— yeah, that’s a pulse. That’s… not good.

Something is seriously wrong with Whumpee. She’s been running their body with magic for so long, the blood rushing on its own feels unnatural. This shouldn’t be happening. But there’s nothing he can do about it.

So the day passes fruitlessly. The others wake up, and Leader passes around some water and rations — making sure she eats last, of course, just in case there isn’t enough for everyone. Then they pack up and head back to the road. Swordster leans on Leader as Cleric describes a vision she had last night, while Archer supports Warlock until he’s ready to walk on his own.

◊◊◊

The team has a hard time adjusting to Warlock’s condition. Leader keeps stopping herself from giving him orders to solve problems with magic — “Warlock, you can— ah… never mind. Cleric, we’ll have to…” — and the others walk on eggshells around him.

He still feels Whumpee in his mind, but she’s weak. And in pain. He can feel it — burrowing in his chest, pricking at his wrists. Aches and stings that don’t belong to him. She must’ve gotten hurt somehow, or drained.

He doesn’t tell the others. They’d worry about him, and that’s the last thing he and Whumpee need right now.

◊◊◊

After three days, Whumpee finally responds.

Warlock’s practically given up on getting answers from her at this point, but one night, when he disappears under the guise of collecting water for the group, he calls out for her — and her familiar voice echoes in his mind.

“Hey, Warlock.”

Oh gods. It’s her. It’s really her. Warlock can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, the joy that springs tears to his eyes. “Whumpee! Oh, thank the gods— you’re okay! I— what happened? Where were you? Well, I know where you were, but… what happened? I was worried about you.”

“Sorry,” she says. Her voice sounds strange — rough, strained, a little gravelly, and much quieter than usual. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“Of course not,” Warlock assures, shaking his head. Of course she’d worry about him — he needs to make sure she knows he’s okay before anything else. “Nothing more than a few scrapes. The others kept me safe after my spells stopped coming. I’m just right, I promise.”

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

“Have you?” Warlock presses, furrowing his eyebrows.

“… Yes.”

“That’s good, at least.” Warlock sighs. “Whumpee, I’m so glad you’re talking to me again. But you… you didn’t answer me. What happened? Are you okay? Are you… sick?”

“Something like that.”

“Oh. Well, that’s new,” Warlock admits, “but we’ll figure it out together, like we always do. You’ll be fine. And it’ll be normal again. Maybe Healer can do something. Or Cleric. Or… or I know you don’t like interacting with humans other than me most of the time, so it could just be us. I—I’ll research, and now that we’re talking again, you can tell me what the problems are. Okay?”

No answer.

Warlock’s heart climbs into his throat. “Whumpee?”

She’s shrank back again. Become a shadow. The exhaustion from the last three nights’ sleeplessness hits Warlock like a wave, and he sighs heavily. She’ll come back, hopefully — and at least now he knows she can still show up every so often. Maybe she just needs to collect her strength.

He shuts his eyes and opens them, reorienting himself to the deep woods around him. He listens for the splashing of the river, and grabs the almost-empty flask at his belt. Gather water. Bring it to Leader.

He can still be helpful without his powers — and if he manages to heal Whumpee, he’ll have them back soon enough.

More importantly, she’ll be okay.

Supernatural whump where the whumpee is possessed but the spirit is the caretaker not the whumper

Dizzy whumpee leaning on the bathroom sink, out of breath, looking up and seeing Caretaker's concerned expression in the mirror.

Traumatized whumpee flinching when someone says something that brings her back. Caretaker noticing immediately how her mindscape changes, how everything spikes and blurs. It's hard not to feel the emotions of the person you're in, especially when they're so vivid. "Are you okay?" "Yeah" "I can tell you're lying."

Injured whumpee bleeding out and getting too tired to move. His limbs are too heavy, and just breathing is a challenge. So he asks Caretaker to control his body, just long enough to get him to the base (or his house if we're not talking hero whump). As a rule, they try not to do things like that --- but they know he can't move on his own, so they'll have to lend a hand. They'll be gentle.

Or, alternatively, the caretaker is possessed and the whumpee is the spirit.

Caretaker feeling inexplicably anxious one day, especially around certain things, and confronting whumpee about it. Whumpee feels horrible about it. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to have to feel it too."

Whumpee is usually very chatty, thanks to the idle nature of their existence and their tendency to get bored easily. They act like a sort of audience to caretaker's life, making comments when something interesting happens. They're never quiet, and when they are, it's not for long. Which is why when Caretaker's head is suddenly devoid of any noise but their own thoughts, she immediately gets concerned and starts asking after whumpee.

Warlock caretaker's powers suddenly short-circuiting in the middle of a battle. He doesn't get hurt too bad, but the whole team is worried about him --- he, however, is concerned only for whumpee. She's the source of his power, so if something's wrong with his magic, there's something wrong with her. Him being too anxious to even care that he's talking to her out loud. "Whumpee? Whumpee, what happened back there? Why didn't my spell work? Why aren't you answering? Whumpee? Whumpee, please!"

yesss to all of these!! i love it!! i especially love the last one! someone should write that!!

[simply-whump]

Study Group (스터디그룹) - Whump List

Whumpees : Yun Ga Min played by Hwang Min Hyun, Kim Se Hyeon played by Lee Jong Hyun and Pi Han Ul played by Cha Woo Min

Synopsis : Yun Ga Min looks is a student at Yusung Technical High School, which is one of the worst schools to study at. Although he studies extremely hard, his grades don’t rise in the slightest. Despite all that, he sits diligently at his desk with the goal of going to college. However, when his study group friends get bullied, Yun Ga Min takes off his glasses and school uniform jacket to put his fighting skills to use. (MDL)

Genres :  Action, Thriller, Comedy, Youth

Warning! Possible spoilers below!

Yun Ga Min

Ep 1 : (34:45) Chair thrown at his head, slightly bleeding — (38:15) Putting out fire from a burning book with his bare hands — (41:50) Burns on his hands

Ep 2 : None

Ep 3 : (21:00) Fighting, thrown to the ground, restrained

Ep 4 : (17:50) Hit hard twice, fighting, hit in the face

Ep 5 : None

Ep 6 : (33:50) Hit, choked — (35:55) Tough fight, groaning in pain

Ep 7 : (05:20) Kicked in the face

Ep 8 : (17:20) In a tough fight, hit multiple times — (27:35) Spacing out after the exam, seems slightly depressed

Ep 9 : None

Ep 10 : (19:20) Tough fight — (29:15) Tough fight continues, kicked through a wall — (31:25) Punched multiple times, leg badly kicked (might be broken), bloody, leg stepped on, groaning in pain

Kim Se Hyeon

Ep 1 : (06:00) Fighting, punched, beaten — (20:40) Slapped multiple times, bleeding from the mouth, beaten with a bat, on the ground bloody, saved, concern for him

Ep 2-4 : None

Ep 5 : (30:55) Punched — (40:05) Beaten

Ep 6-9 : None

Ep 10 : (18:45) Shot at, grazed by a bullet — (27:50) Tough fight, kicked, punched, bruised face

Pi Han Ul

Ep 1-6 : None

Ep 7 : (05:20) Punched in the face

Ep 8-9 : None

Ep 10 : (30:45) Tough fight, punched hard, spitting blood — (32:20) Punched repeatedly, spitting blood, slammed against the ground, passes out

>> More Whump Lists

>> Another Whump List with Hwang Min Hyun

[doumidas-whumps]

no longer in solitude

Porter's first impression of Sonny, the new pet.

a little something from Port's POV this time (and by "a little something" I mean 2000 words). this is the night Sonny is brought to his new home.

consider this a sort-of prequel to this.

cw: BBU/pet whump, abusive master, whumpee emotionally attached to whumper

All day, the house was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer. It made Port a little twitchy. It seemed quieter than usual today, quiet enough that the florescent lights buzzing in his ears were making him sick. He had to step out of the bathroom halfway through cleaning the shower, scrubbing brush abandoned by the drain. He rinsed his hands and pressed his cool, clean palms to his eyes. Memories of lying alone in that cold, featureless room in the facility flashed behind his eyelids. 

He tried to think of something else, his master coming to mind easily. He had left for work that morning without a word to Port, just as he had the past two days. Mr. Oz hadn’t been speaking to him lately. In fact, he’d barely even looked at him.

Maybe something at work was bothering him. Did his boss yell at him? Could it be that the coworker he always complained about was getting on his nerves? Maybe it was unrelated to work; maybe he had lost more money at the casino. The last time that had happened, Mr. Oz lost two grand playing blackjack or poker or whatever it was and when he came home he threw one of his shoes at Port’s head. Port dodged it on instinct, which just made him angrier. Though come to think of it, Port hadn’t had any projectiles thrown at him, lately, so maybe it wasn’t that.

The grandfather clock started chiming, shaking Port out of his uneasy thoughts. He took a grounding breath and reentered the bathroom. 

After the bathroom was the living room. He pulled the remote out from between the couch cushions, itching to turn the TV on for some background noise. He set the remote in its proper place on the glass coffee table, next to a box of playing cards. He didn’t have permission to watch TV today. 

Lately Mr. Oz had been getting home around 7:00, so Port started dinner at 6:30. Talking to him over dinner was usually the most exciting part of Port’s day, but the two previous nights he had taken his dinner up to his room, leaving Port to clean up in silence. He hoped today would be better.

Dinner was finished by 6:55. He left it on the stove on low heat. When Mr. Oz still wasn’t home by 7:20, Port put it in the fridge. He had already cleaned the the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the living room, the kitchen, even under the fridge, under the oven, and the tops of the doorways. He supposed the bookshelf could do with some dusting. 

When Mr. Oz still wasn’t home by 9:00 and Port had truly run out of productive things to do, he grabbed the playing cards from the coffee table and kneeled on the Persian carpet, arranging them for a game of solitaire. Mr. Oz had never explicitly forbid him from playing card games, so Port figured it was okay as long as he put everything away before he got back. 

By the time the clock chimed for the second time since he’d started playing, marking 11 o’ clock, Port was starting to get concerned. It wasn’t uncommon for his master to stay out after work, but 11:00 P.M. was far later than usual, especially on a Thursday night. 

Port had been in the living room for hours, having long since adjusted to a more comfortable sitting position. His current game was not going well. Stuck, Port listened to the ticking clock while he tried to figure out how to salvage it. It was hard to think when his eyes were drifting closed. He had gotten up at 5 A.M. that morning, like usual, and he wasn’t allowed to sleep until his master turned in for the night.

Port gave up on the game and rested his elbows on the coffee table, shifting the cards underneath his arms. He stared at the blinking colon of the digital clock under the TV, willing himself to stay awake. He should probably get up and move around, but the combination of the blinking and the ticking had a hypnotizing effect.

Just as the clock blinked to 11:08, he heard the garage door screech open and jerked awake. Port hastily gathered the cards into a stack and slid them into their box. He rose to his feet and padded to the side door to greet his master, where he waited eagerly, a smile already on his face. 

The door swung open and Mr. Oz stepped through into the yellow light of the hall. His cheeks were ruddy, teeth visible in a grin. Port found it encouraging.

“Welcome home,” Port greeted. “How was your—”

Port was startled as another figure appeared out of the darkness in the doorway behind him. His first split-second thought was that it was one of his master’s friends, as it wasn’t unusual for him to invite people over. The thought was dashed as soon as he spotted the supple black collar around the figure’s neck. 

It was a boy— a young man— who stepped into the hall, eyes cast down. Port couldn’t see his features too well at this angle— only his shining black hair, which was neatly parted down the middle of his scalp. 

Port realized his mouth was still open and shut it. Once he pulled his eyes away from the pet he noticed that Mr. Oz was looking at him, eyes glimmering. “Porter, this is Sonny.” He clapped the boy on the back, who visibly jumped. (A sign of poor training.) “He’ll be helping you out around the house.”

Every question running through Port’s mind was cut short. Was he saying what Port thought he was saying? “Sir, do you mean…?”

“That’s right! You get to have a little playmate, doesn’t that sound great?”

Port blinked.

Mr. Oz was looking at the pet with some sort of fondness. “I’ve had my eye on him for a while now… you should’ve seen the look on David’s face.” His hand moved to the pet's neck, whose shoulders raised higher. “I’m gonna get him a collar like yours,” Mr. Oz said, hooking a finger under the nylon. “So you can match.”

Some buzzing feeling was spreading through Port. His chest was shivering. He felt his smile grow wider. He clasped his hands in front of him and squeezed. “This is great, sir.”

Mr. Oz smiled back at him. It felt good to be on the same page as his master, to be excited with him. Port was already imagining what it would be like to have another presence in the house. Someone to help with housework, to get to know, to talk with like an an equal. A small spike of guilt struck him at the thought. His master was supposed to fulfill all his needs. He shouldn’t be craving the company of another pet, of all things. And yet…

Mr. Oz grabbed Sonny roughly by the shoulders and pushed him closer to Port, made them stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Sonny had to be at least half a foot shorter than him. 

He watched Mr. Oz admire them both, mind working. His hand shot out to Sonny’s face so fast that Sonny jerked back and Port nearly flinched. Mr. Oz gripped him by the face, dimpling his cheek with his thumb as he tilted his head upwards. “Look at me,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll have you…” He trailed off, eyes growing dark. “What’s with that face?”

Port glanced down to gauge for himself. On Sonny’s face was an unmistakable expression: fear. 

“Are you scared?” asked their master. He was no longer smiling.

Sonny said nothing. Port’s heart beat fast for him. Mr. Oz did not like to go unanswered.

“Well?”

Sonny hesitated too long. Mr. Oz released Sonny’s face only to crack his hand across it like a whip. Sonny nearly collided into Port’s shoulder, hand raising as if to cradle his rapidly flushing cheek. Port felt a rising sense of alarm. Where was this boy trained?

Mr. Oz’s hand grasped Sonny’s wrist, halting it in place. “Please, sir—“ Sonny finally spoke.

“Who taught you to act like this?” He was yelling, now. “Were you disciplined at all?”

Port couldn’t help himself. “Sir, he’s just—” 

His master whirled on him. “I don’t wanna hear a single word outta you!” 

Port’s jaw clicked shut.

He turned back to Sonny, who was lowering towards the floor like his knees were buckling. Mr. Oz  released Sonny’s wrist and ran both hands through his short hair, something he always did when he was exasperated. “Way to ruin my damn mood.” He rubbed his eyes, and when his fists fell he locked eyes with Port. They were slightly red. “Take him to your room,” he said. “Explain the rules.” His gaze drifted to Sonny, who now had his arms wrapped around himself. Mr. Oz sighed, pinching his brow. “If he doesn’t fix his behavior… we’re gonna have some problems.” Port felt Sonny curl further into himself beside him.

“Yes, sir.” Port wasted no time in guiding Sonny upstairs with a gentle hand on his upper back. He pushed open the door to his room— their room, now. There wasn’t much. A dresser, a blanket, a pillow, the soft rug he slept on. A painting of a seagull hung on the far wall. Port would have to grab another pillow and blanket for Sonny from the linen closet— that is, if Mr. Oz didn’t decide to revoke his bedding privileges for that little display.

Now that they were out of earshot, Port felt comfortable enough to speak. He needed to give Sonny the rundown on how things worked around here. But first… “Are you alright?”

Sonny lifted his head, looking directly at Port for the first time. His eyes were so dark Port couldn’t see the pupils. They shone like black pearls, wet. His cheeks were dry, the left still colored from the slap, but his face was otherwise unblemished. He looked young. His mouth made no movement.

“You can speak, right?”

Sonny’s gaze lowered. “Sorry,” he whispered. “This is a lot.”

Port sighed, feeling a pang of sympathy. The boy didn’t seem very experienced. “It’s okay,” he said. “Let’s sit down.” 

Sonny wasted no time in dropping to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. Port went to his knees in front of him, but after a few seconds decided to readjust and sit on his bottom to be more casual. He gave Sonny a minute of silence to calm down before speaking again.

“I don’t know what that was, but—” you shouldn’t be so scared? I hope you’re okay? You can’t do that again? “—he isn’t as bad as you seem to think he is.”

Sonny looked at him again, now reproachfully. Port tried a smile. “Are you new?”

His eyes turned sharp, flicking up and down Port’s figure. “Six months outta training,” he muttered. Secondhand? Sonny seemed to be considering him. “You’re not new.”

“No.” 

“You’re W.R.U.?” Dubya-arr-yoo.

“…Yes.” Technically. 

Sonny hummed, lowering his chin. “You kinda seem like it.”

Port wasn’t sure how to feel about that, or what could have possibly given him that impression, so he just asked, “Where are you from, if not W.R.U.?” Port knew of at least two knock-offs. “I didn’t even know Mr. Oz was looking for another pet.”

Sonny just sighed and lowered his head further so his forehead touched the tops of his knees, face hidden. 

Well, alright. Considering they were equals, Port supposed Sonny wasn’t obligated to answer him.

[comfortingcatharsis]

Concerned friends/companions either intentionally checking on a character, or becoming worried when they uncharacteristically don't respond, knocking on the door to their room or office or home and getting no answer even though the friends are fairly certain the character is in there- pounding on the door with increasing urgency until, with no key and no other means of entry, they resort to breaking the door down and find the character they were looking for is there- incapacitated, in a bad way, in dire need of help...

[where-is-my-whump]

911 Lone Star 5x03

[disappearinginq]

Dragged + SG1?

Less angsty, but more in the spirit of the show with angst and humor.

Jack found it moderately hilarious how many people thought of Daniel as small. Perhaps it was the bulky uniform jackets that never seemed to fit quite right (because Daniel never paid attention to the sizing), or the fact that he stood next to Teal’c and Jack, or maybe the glasses distracted them from the fact that Daniel was six feet tall and arguably in better shape than most.

Clearly, they had never dragged a semi-conscious Daniel through a jungle planet.

“You’re lucky you’re my favorite, Daniel,” Jack grumbled, stumbling over another root. “Or I’d be coming back for you later.”