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ashintheairlikesnow · 1 year

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A Lot Like Christmas

CW: Pet whump, dehumanized whumpee, references to beatings and torture, burns, sadistic whumper

Antoni’s tag | Masterlist (scroll down)

For @amonthofwhump, day 3: Forced Celebration

On Christmas morning, the ashtray wakes up on his little cot in his tiny room to cold sunlight through the bars of his high, small window. His nose is so cold that it feels like it all but burns his hand when he presses a palm against it to warm it, burying himself even further under the scratchy but warm wool blankets he is given in winter.

The light makes a broken square on the floor, and he lays there watching it slowly move, bit by bit, as the quality of the light changes.

All down his back the newest burns ache and itch. They’re slathered with the heavy, healing cream that would keep him from scarring if Mr. Davies did not burn him again and again in the same places. As it is, his master is pressing new burns over old scars, and the ashtray shifts only a little as the itching grows with every second he thinks about it, gripping hands onto his collar to keep himself grounded, to feel safe.

Last night had been a night of bourbon, warm and brown in a glass, clove cigarette smoke down his throat filling up his lungs, holding perfectly still for every bright hot pain until finally he could not hold back his whimper.

Last night had ended like so many nights end now, the smoke driven out of his throat by something he will not think about, will not remember, will simply put somewhere else in his mind. Mr. Davies, afterward, had fed him sips from the glass of bourbon and whispered, “It’s after midnight. Merry Christmas,” and sent him with a jar of the salve to his bed, to rub all the wounds he could reach and ignore, as hard as he can, the greater wounds inside.

A bird calls outside the window.

Eventually, he hears the sound of Mr. Davies on the stairs, and he pushes himself up to seated and then to standing. His feet freeze on the chilly concrete floor, and he shivers in the loose sweats he is allowed to wear.

It takes four steps to cross from bed to door, three if he lengthens his strides.

He opens the door, peering out into the hallway. The warmer air in the heated part of the house hits him like walking into a wall, and he comes to a sudden stop and lets his skin prickle and goosebump as it acclimates. The burns itch worse in warmth, but he ignores that and pads barefoot down the hall, walking on the heavy soft rug.

He can hear the clinking of silverware against dishes as he nears the kitchen. His own stomach twists, empty and light, at the scent of freshly-baked cinnamon rolls. He enters with his eyes down, letting his gaze move to Mr. Davies’s feet in his fuzzy fur-lined slippers.

“Ah, the lazy little pet wakes,” Mr. Davies says, with amusement. “Say Merry Christmas, darling.”

The ashtray looks up to follow his command, only to realize it isn’t meant for him.

Next to Mr. Davies is the woman, who looks at him with blank eyes that see but don’t comprehend. She just stares at him, blinking once or twice, and then says in a soft voice, “Merry Christmas.”

The ashtray thinks she probably had a lovely way of speaking, a long time ago. She forms each word like a singer, all enunciation and melody, but it’s a harsh rasp now, a broken violin voice.

Her hair is perfectly curled and pulled back at her nape, with tendrils framing her face. Her lower lip is busted, a burst of bright red where she was bleeding, but she doesn’t even seem aware of it. She just puts a forkful of cinnamon roll into her mouth and chews. Any awareness she had of him seems gone in an instant.

“Very good, love.” Mr. Davies is rubbing her back with one hand. If she tenses a little at the touch, it isn’t obvious beneath the warm, fluffy robe she wears in a deep royal purple lined with gold thread embroidery. “Say Merry Christmas, ashtray.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Davies. Merry Christmas, ma'am." The ashtray’s voice is low, carefully shaping each word to make his accent as slight as possible. He almost succeeds, and it’s enough to win a rare smile from his master. He doesn’t feel warm at the sight of it - only the absence of any new fear of punishment.

“Come and eat,” Mr. Davies says, gesturing broadly.

The ashtray’s eyes drop to discover an empty plate and set of silverware, a mug of steaming coffee with a little carafe of cream beside it. He dares to look back at Mr. Davies, and finds him smiling.

"... at the table?”

“Yes, at the table, you brainless thing. Sit.”

The ashtray moves forward, jerking like a puppet moved by strings, and finds himself sitting at the table staring across at the woman, who doesn’t look at him anymore, only off to the side, as if dazed or dreaming. There are bruises layered dark over her wrists, in the shape of the ropes Mr. Davies ties her with at night. She sleepwalks, he explained once to the ashtray, who had not asked. He’d said it like testing out the story, the way you practice a speech to a wall. She’ll wander out into the street and get hit by a car, you know. I have to keep her in one place. Anything could happen if she leaves.

There’s a threat, in those words, and the ashtray heard it. He only nodded, and wondered what in his face had made Mr. Davies feel the need to explain.

Her black eye from last week has nearly healed, which he knows only means another one is coming soon.

The cook puts a cinnamon roll on his plate, and the ashtray thanks him. He receives no reply, but he didn’t expect one either.

Warm, fluffy cinnamon-sugar sweetness bursts in his mouth when he eats, and he shivers at how unfamiliar it is to eat warm food, or to eat anything that tastes this good at all. He exhales, and takes another bite, and another. Somehow, the whole thing disappears into his mouth before he even understands that he’s eating it.

He stops when Mr. Davies starts to laugh, with cruel good humor, and looks up, briefly meeting those cold eyes.

“... Mr. Davies, I’m sorry, I did not mean to eat so quickly-”

“Hush. Call it a gift. I’ve nothing for you under the tree, after all.” He turns to the woman, who doesn’t look at him, only stares through the window at the trees outside, as if she could will herself out there if only she could remember how to walk out. Mr. Davies leans over to give her a kiss to the side of her head, and the ashtray watches her eyes briefly close, then open again to focus back on the world just beyond the walls.

“Darling,” Mr. Davies says in a low voice, “My ashtray and I need a smoke, I think. Will you go and wait by the tree for me? I’ll open your gifts for you afterward.”

The woman looks at the ashtray.

Just for a moment, something surfaces from beneath the still pool of her mind. She knows what happens when he and Mr. Davies are alone in the office, he thinks. And for just a second, he can see that she feels all the grief for him that he tries to feel for her.

Then her expression goes blank again and she nods, standing and drifting into the grand living room where the 12-foot-tall Christmas tree glistens with perfectly coordinated ornaments, tinsel, and a star on top.

The last the ashtray sees of her is how she sits on the couch with her hands in her lap, and turns her eyes back to the window.

Then Mr. Davies’s hand is on the back of his neck, and the ashtray’s stomach flips. Suddenly that perfect warm soft sweet bread sits like a brick in his stomach, and he wonders if he’ll keep anything down after they’re done. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes after-

But it’s not happening.

It doesn’t happen to him.

Not if he doesn’t let himself think about it.

Nothing happens in the office.

Mr. Davies is already lighting a cigarette, the scent of cloves is settling against his skin and soaking into his hair, his sweatshirt and sweatpants, burying itself so far down in his lungs that he will never escape the way it steals his breath.

The burns from last night itch.

The older ones do, too, as the ashtray follows Mr. Davies to the office and wonders where the new ones will go now.

His master’s hand rests at the base of the ashtray’s spine, stealing up under his sweatshirt to press like a brand against his skin.

The ashtray burns long before the embers ever touch him.

Mr. Davies hums as he walks.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlinthesnep @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @emdeighamae @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things

#amow winter whumperland 2022 #whump #forced celebration #holiday whump #christmas whump #antoni sings lullabies #dehumanization #pet whump #domestic violence tw #drugged whumpee #(not antoni but still)#burns tw #cigarette burns #sadistic whumper #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #amow #amow winter whumperland #winter whumperland

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rainydaywhump · 3 months

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Vinca, Ch. 2 (aka: amnesiac whumpee wakes up on a train)

A shorter, lighter piece for the second chapter...but rest assured, it's a transitional drabble that will lead the way to angst and pain >:)

Ch. 1 - Ch. 3

CWs/themes: amnesiac female whumpee, instinctive fear, minor injuries

Vinca ran. She knew, logically, that that person was already whisked away by the train, but it didn’t matter.

Run away have to get away run faster run FASTER so

The air was brisk and smelled of the sea, but the sunlight shone so brightly and she ran so quickly that she barely felt it.

Off the station platform, around the small building that barely counted for a station, down the narrow streets and into a small town that might’ve been beautiful if she wasn’t so scared. She felt jabs of pain as her bare feet sped across gravel and stone, but she didn’t stop. She flew past storefronts and burst through crosswalks and dodged in and out of little alleyways, trying to knock the person’s mere presence off her tail.

It was just as she reached a row of greenhouses on the outskirts of the small town that Vinca slowed, exhaustion finally overriding adrenaline. Her feet and legs were torn up, some of her bandages were dirty, and she was thirsty as hell.

Doesn’t matter. Have to get away have to run have to hide and run before they

She shuddered. Forced herself to breathe. She didn’t know where she was – not that that was anything knew – and she needed to think.

Some of the greenhouses were completely covered; others had clear panes that let her see row upon row of potted flowers and seedlings for sale. A cozy-looking cottage sat at the end of the greenhouses. There were a few people milling about. Middle-aged ladies in flannel jackets and cargo pants, examining the plants with keen, fond eyes; a couple, their boots splattered in mud, walking toward a shed full of straw bales; two kids running around while two older siblings milled around by a display of exquisitely-painted pottery out in the open. Somewhere in the distance, two dogs barked at each other. A bird flew by with a bit of straw in its beak. A grove of peach trees stood stout and proud to her left.

The presence on her tail was gone. Vinca sighed in relief. She must have made quite the picture, she thought, walking to the nearest greenhouse with no shoes, bandages around her ankles and wrists, and pajamas. She didn’t care. She was just glad to feel safe.

The first greenhouse table she wandered over to was full of pink and purple flowers poking out from bushy masses of bright green leaves. As she looked, a man entered from the opposite entrance. She tensed, but he was too busy wrestling with a garden hose to look like a threat – he must have worked here.

He twisted the spraying hose into a kink and let out a sound of vindictive satisfaction, then saw the newcomer. “Hello! Ah, you’re looking at the vincas? They’re pretty easy to care for up here. All the humidity does them good, and it’s pretty warm for Maine right now," he rattled off. He sounded like a cross between an encyclopedia and a socially awkward extrovert. "You just have to give them plenty of sunlight.”

She balked -- it took her a second, following his gaze to the label sign in the center of the table, to realize that he was talking about the plant. The plant was called a vinca, she thought, feeling rather stupid. She backed up a pace, unsure of what to think.

Meanwhile, the man was looking her up and down with a growing frown on his face. His eyes lingered on her bandages.

“If you don’t mind me asking, miss…are you alright?”

She stared at him, suddenly suspicious. The lady on the train had asked the same thing and then came back with more people to try and – well, she didn’t know what the lady was going to try doing, and she didn’t like that.

The man’s face was openly confused and concerned. She – Vinca? – took in his potting soil-stained hands, his sun-weathered face, and the hose kinked in his hand. He worked here, she assumed. And he seemed kind. But that meant nothing.

“I think Vinca’s my name,” she blurted out without thinking.

The man didn’t try to hide the surprise on his face. His hands fiddled with the garden hose as the gears obviously turned in his head.

“I mean – I’m a little lost. And I – I don’t have much to go on,” Vinca admitted.

“O-okay,” the man said with an exhale. He smiled wanly. “Hey, that’s okay. It’s easy to get lost around here. Where’re you coming from?”

“The train station.” She glanced anxiously back over her shoulder, suddenly seized with terror that the person would be there.

“Why don’t I get you something to drink. D’you like lemonade? My boyfriend says I make killer lemonade,” the man said, gesturing to the house beyond the greenhouses. “You look like you could use some shade, anyway.”

“What’s your name?” she asked quickly.

As if she’d recognize the name of someone who was a threat. She was looking for his body language.

But the man answered her without hesitation. “Ryan Smith. Which is a lot less unique than Vinca, but it works,” he said, grinning.

He slapped his knees in a way that reminded Vinca of someone somewhere in the foggy blank of her brain. In doing so, however, he accidentally let go of the hose. Now freed, a jet of water spurted out, soaking his shirt and pants.

“Agh! I do that every time,” Ryan grumbled, and Vinca actually smiled.

#whump #whump writing #whumpee #whump rescue #amnesiac character #amnesiac whumpee #whump concept #whumpblr #whumblr #hurt comfort

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ziploc849 · 6 months

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Whump recovery idea

A group of whumpees have been in captivity for years, somewhere underground. No sunlight, no sky, no trees, no nothing. It’s so far underground/so well insulated you can’t even hear it when there’s thunder.

After long enough they’ve started to forget it all. They know, objectively, that the sky is blue, the grass is green, clouds are fluffy when it’s sunny and grey and heavy when it rains, but they haven’t seen it in so damn long.

They’re finally rescued, but for various reasons (injury, exhaustion, dehydration, etc.) they’re unconscious/out of it when they’re rescued, and all wake up in a hospital, still no windows. They embark on a journey to find the outside, bonus points if they have to dodge whoever rescued them because they’ll try and take the whumpees back to bed, but they couldn’t care less about anything other than seeing the sky.

And they get out, after hijinks and confusion, and they sprint out the doors into a full on storm. Wind, rain, thunder, conditions that to anyone else would be completely unappealing

But they’re running out, hospital gowns and bandages soaked instantly, hair sticking to foreheads, but they’re laughing and jumping and dancing around because they made it. They’re outside, the sky is above them and the weather is around them and they’re safe.

And doctors/caretakers run out after them, trying to get them back to their beds, but they stop eachother at the door when they realize the whumpees aren’t scared and trying to run away.

They’re dancing and hugging and screaming up at the thunder and letting the rain wash away the hell of the last few years. So even though they’ll definitely catch colds, the caretakers let them stay for just another minute.

#whump trope #captivity whump #team whump #whump community #whumpblr #whump #whump writing

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whumpingisfun · 1 year

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Love is Blind - Part One

Summary:

Lily has the most loving boyfriend, who takes care of them even in their sickest of days….

But they weren’t always blind. And they dream in color.

…and someone is screaming from the basement below…

TWs: gaslighting, yandere male whumper, blind whumpee, drugged/poisoned whumpee, amnesia

They wake to darkness. The only reason they know they are awake is that they feel their eyelashes fluttering against their cheeks.

This is… normal. They feel the warmth of someone beside them, holding them close. Safe.

Their hands gently explore the body of the one keeping them in place, tracing up their chest and towards their face, feeling stubble prickle against their fingertips.

They squeak as their hand is captured by a bigger, warmer hand, a kiss pressed to their fingers.

“Good morning, Lily.” A rich voice murmurs and it sends a thrill down their spine through the darkness.

Right. Their name… it was Lily.

They blink sightless eyes, not quite sure if they are even looking in the right direction. “Mmmmorning.” They shyly whisper, heat sparking up across their cheeks.

The large hand squeezes theirs gently, before letting go completely, arms curling around their waist. They feel a nose brush up against their cheek, nuzzling and they squeak again, giggling. “N-no, scratchy!!”

“Mmm, but you love my scratchy beard.” The voice teases, rubbing their stubbly cheek against theirs so hard it gives them friction burn.

They squirm, trying to escape, squeal turning mildly pained but the arms hold firm, keeping them in place.

Finally the assault on their face stops, soft lips brushing against their cheek in apology.

“Shhh, darling don’t cry… Darian is sorry, sweetheart. Here… let me get you your medicine.”

They haven’t even realized they had started to cry, their breathing coming short and sharp and they are suddenly exhausted, curling up against warm heat as they are cradled, the sound of a bottle being unstoppered ringing in their ears.

Warm fingers tilt their chin up, thumb dipping into their mouth as Darian - his name is Darian - presses the open bottle up against their lips and then tips it fully into their mouth.

Something floral hits them, with a bitter acrid aftertaste that the flowers cannot quite cover, the medicinal scent hitting their nose and making them gag. Darian’s hand firmly keeps their mouth shut, his other hand stroking their throat and kissing their neck, suckling.

“Just swallow…” he breathes against their skin, chuckling as they whine muffledly.

And then they swallow, a moan turning into a helpless mewl as Darian begins to suckle on their neck again, leaving a deep bruise that he laps his tongue against that sends a pleasured ache through them, even as their mind grows fuzzy.

“I love you, Lily…” Darian murmurs against their skin, kisses drifting lower.

They mumble something in response, tongue heavy and unweildly. Their eyes feel like someone has tied them shut, their head lolling against his thigh as they’re lowered down into the blankets once more.

They feel too heavy to move, the entire weight of the world pressing down on their body.

They are sinking.

Down, down, down.

They are drifting…

They are completely hidden in the bushes, watching the green grass sway in the warm summer breeze from their cool shaded hiding place.

Dirt is cool against their palms, slightly damp from the gardener’s watering earlier in the morning.

They blink, watching as the sunlight shifts with the tree’s growing shadow, content to stay in the cool hidden world underneath the leaves, even as they hear their mother calling them to come inside—

They wake to darkness, warm under a heavy duvet.

They can hear noise in the kitchen, cluttering of knives and other cutlery against plates and pans rattling as they are moved to the stove.

They are weighed down by the blanket, too weak to roll out of bed.

Their fingers curl around the edge of their covers, staring up at a ceiling they cannot see.

…they knew what green was, the dim thought penetrates their hazy mind.

Did that mean they hadn’t been like this before? Sick and helpless? …what happened?

Their mind spirals, trying to figure out what it meant. But it hurts their head and they close their eyes, whimpering softly.

The nosie in the kitchen stops. The abruptness causes Lily to freeze, their breath frozen in their chest. It’s only as their lungs burn that they dare sick in another breath and they jolt as they suddenly feel a hand on their head, brushing up their bangs.

“…your fever has gone down.” Darian murmurs. “Do you think you can handle some broth?”

They nod, just a slight incline of their head, because moving anything more than that makes their entire dark world spin.

“…w-water?” They croak and there is a cool glass immediately pressed against their lips.

They drink greedily, gasping for air when the glass is pulled away. They can hear it being refilled, bubbling up against the glass once more.

Darian’s lips press against their forehead. “You make the cutest sounds.” He sounds fond.

The blush is back, heating their skin. “Mmm.” They mumble.

And then a warm spoon is being pressed against their lips, and a hearty broth slides down their throat. This too, they drink greedily.

Darian’s lips press against their skin again, the sound of the spoon scraping against the empty bowl jarring in their fuzzy haze.

They are guided back down, and Darian stroked their hair gently. “You rest, my love.” He murmurs, and they can’t help but hum as their sightless eyes slide close once more.

Darian watches as Lily slides back into unconsciousness, a warm smile on his lips. With how they are now… they would never leave him. Never again.

He gets up, assured they would not wake at least till evening, and saunters down to his basement.

He leans against the wall, gazing down at a pair of shackles still rusting with blood that hang from the opposite side of the room. He wouldn’t be needing those chains any longer. Not until work required him to do so.

He looked forward to his domestic bliss.

#gaslighting #Yandere male whumper #blind whumpee #drugged/poisoned whumpee #amnesia #Love Is Blind

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the-three-whumpeteers · 3 years

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Caretaker meets delirious whumpee who's been rescued but doesn't believe it. They try and reassure him or give him something and Whumpee goes completely still. While Whumpee doesn't remember their face completely, they remember Caretaker's scent [distinctive perfume/oil/scent that they use/etc.] (super fun for non-human whumpees too) Prompts pls? (inspired by me using peppermint oil on my pillow every night for three months, waking up at a hotel, and noticing the lack of peppermint smell first)

Oh EASY I’ve used this idea before-

Maybe it takes a while for the whumpee to properly recognize the caretaker because the room is very cold/something blocks the scent, but they’re visibly relieved when they finally realize that the caretaker is beside them.

They still have to smell the caretaker to recognize them when they’re being treated, their memories are still hazy and the lights around the sterile room don’t help. Whenever someone like a doctor comes in they’re terrified.

It’s comforting to wake up after a nightmare to a familiar scent, it helps them fully realize that they’re safe and the whumper can’t hurt them anymore. The caretaker notices this and usually sits by their side until they wake up.

#whump #whumpee #caretaker #rescue #possibly nonhuman whumpee #whump prompt #whump prompts #whump scenario #aramis stabs someone #the void screams back

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walkingchemicalfire · 3 years

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5 times Whumpee Heard “Look at me.”

+1 Time They Said It

@whumpmasinjuly Day 9 prompt: “Look at me”

A/N: So this is six snippets throughout a Whumpee’s journey. I’m combining the WIJ prompt with my secret sunflower gift for the greatest person and my dear friend, Fae @whumpywhumper

CW: torture, knives, stress position, tied up, blood loss, bleeding out, stabbed, oxygen mask, intubated whumpee, vague gaslighting, reference to being muzzled, panic attacks, reference to paralysis, learning to walk

~~~~~~

From Whumper:

Whumpee jolts awake at the sound of the keys jangling outside the door. Whumper is back and going to hurt them again. This had been the routine for the last two weeks. Whumper had abducted them and tortured them every day since. It was the only thing Whumpee could rely on.

The door opens and there stands Whumper, twirling their favorite knife with a bemused smile on their face that made Whumpee’s gut curdle in fear. They turn their face away and shut their eyes, trembling in anticipation of the pain to come.

“Ah, ah, ah, Whumpee,” Their voice dripped with false playfulness as they grip their chin and dig their nails into the skin “Look at me.” They demand. Whumpee whimpers but does so, met with the sight of Whumper’s smirk and their blade coming closer and closer until they feel it against their collarbone.

Whumper takes their time moving the steel across Whumpee’s chest, never cutting, although they could do so easily, just gliding it back and forth. Whumpee looks into their captor’s eyes as they stutter out a desperate, “P-please,”

“Aww, begging so sweetly already?” Whumper asks before they flash a wicked grin and slice across Whumpee’s pectoral. Whumpee immediately cries out and Whumper claps their palm over their mouth. Whumpee squeezes their eyes closed so tightly they feel like they might seal them shut forever.

“Hey!” Whumper shouts and Whumpee snaps their eyes open. “I said I wanted you to look at me.” They cut another matching slice on the other pectoral while keeping eye contact with Whumpee. “I want to see your eyes as you fall to pieces.”

~~~~~~

From Caretaker:

Their wrists stung sharply in the restraints over their head. They couldn’t feel their arms, but their shoulders were wrenched up so tightly that was enough agony for a lifetime. But the worst was their back, oh god, their back. Whumpee wished that their back was numb like their arms. In fact, if they're wishing for things, they wish they could go back and not ask for the whip instead of the knife. Stupid, so stupid. All they wanted was to not have the knife again. It always hurt so bad, but that was nothing to the whip. They know better now.

Their toe slips off the edge of the stool and they gasp as all their pain roars to life. Their foot scrambles in the air as their other begins to lose traction as well. Panicked, they look down their body to try to see their target, but their vision whites out and they cant see, they cant see--

“Whumpee!” Caretaker’s voice reaches through Whumpee’s fog “Hey, hey, hey, Whumpee, Whumpee, look at me, look at me!” The voice sounds urgent so Whumpee listens and obeys. They spot Caretaker tied to a chair down below them. Caretaker tries to smile when they lock eyes “There you go, just like that, Whumpee. Just keep looking at me. You can get through this, I know you can, just look at me.”

Whumpee didn’t feel so scared anymore, not while gazing into Caretaker’s determined brown eyes. They are safe with them.

~~~~~~

From Whumper (and Caretaker):

This was the end. They were sure of it this time. Whumper had shoved the blade in too deeply this time. They had nicked something vital and now Whumpee was fading away. They already felt cold, they knew it wouldn’t be much longer, then this hell would finally be over. They would be free of Whumper. That sounded nice.

“Couldn’t just be quiet, could you?” Whumper seethes, standing over them. “Couldn’t just be my good little Whumpee like I taught you huh?” They wipe the blood soaked blade across their shirt. “And now look at me,” Whumper sighs “Having to put down my best, right in their prime.” They shake their head “Such a waste, look what you made me do, Whumpee.”

Whumpee’s vision swims and their head lolls to the side. They see Caretaker pounding on the thick glass window. Their mouth is open in a soundless scream, or at least soundless to Whumpee, their ears aren't working so well right now. They can’t think of why. Thoughts are hard, maybe they should just sleep. Yeah, sleep sounds nice.

Whumpee drifts off, the last thing they see is Caretaker’s fierce brown eyes and their mouth moving to say silently, Look at me!

~~~~~~

From Rescuer:

Something is on their face. It’s covering their mouth and nose and they, oh no, it’s the muzzle again and they can’t breathe, they’re going to suffocate and there’s no air, they can’t do this again, they can’t--

“Hey there, take it easy,” a voice says nearby and their eyes shift over to find Rescuer. When did their eyes open? Were they open the whole time? Whumpee sees something in their lower peripheral, is it the muzzle? No, can’t be, this thing is plastic? It crosses the bridge of their nose and rests on their cheeks and under their chin. They don’t like it and try to shake it off.

“Ah, don’t do that,” Rescuer tells them, “It’s an oxygen mask, it’s helping you.”

“Nnnn…” Whumpee moans, letting their eyes close, wanting the darkness again.

“C’mon Whumpee, stay with me.” Rescuer taps their cheek until they drag their heavy eyelids open again, distant and unfocused. “That’s it, just look at me. You’re safe now.” They smile down at them when their eyes finally come to rest on Rescuer. “We found you.”

Whumpee opens their mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a harsh cough muffled by the mask over their face. Their eyes roll in their head and they hear Rescuer shouting and they’re being jostled and it hurts. Time to check out now.

~~~~~~

From Caretaker:

Whumpee floats on their cloud, not concerned with anything else but resting. It’s nice here, soft and so much nicer than with Whumper. Whumpee frowns and banishes the thought. They don’t want to think of Whumper now, it’s better this way.

“Whumpee? Can you hear me?” A familiar voice drifts down to them. They frown again, this time in concentration, they know this voice, but who is it? “You’re frowning,” The voice says and Whumpee looks around, not aware that they are being watched, but there is no one in the clouds with them. “I hope you can hear me, because I’ve got some things to tell you.”

“I can hear you,” Whumpee says but they don’t think the voice can hear them because they just continue on.

“I’m so sorry, Whumpee. I-I failed you. I failed you in the worst way possible and this,” They take a big gulp of air “This is all my fault.” The voice sounds sad and Whumpee doesn’t like that. It should sound strong and safe paired with beautiful brown eyes and, oh! Caretaker! That’s Caretaker’s voice!

Caretaker sighs “Please wake up and look at me,” There’s a ghostly caress to their cheek, Caretaker loves to touch them there and Whumpee can’t help but lean into it. “Please, just let me know you’re going to be okay.” Caretaker gets choked up and Whumpee listens to their stifled cries, following the sound through the clouds, up and up until they pop out the other side.

There’s no soft clouds here, but the hospital bed is nice enough. Whumpee takes their time coming back. Their body feels heavy but also loose. There are beeping and quiet whooshing sounds from somewhere. They want to find what is making the sounds so they push their eyes open and blink around hazily. Their throat feels thick and they cough to clear it, quickly realizing they can’t. They’re intubated. A tube is down their throat attached to a machine that is breathing for them.

Suddenly, Caretaker’s face is filling up their vision. “Oh my god, hi Whumpee, hi sweetheart.” Caretaker hastily wipes their eyes with one hand, still cupping Whumpee’s cheek with the other. “You did it, you came back to me.”

Whumpee blinks slowly in response and Caretaker chuckles in relief “Yeah, I know you’re still tired, it’s okay, you can rest all you want now.” Whumpee feels Caretaker brush their lips over Whumpee’s forehead as they fade back into the clouds “I'll be right here when you wake up again.” Whumpee likes the sound of that.

~~~~~~

From Themself:

Recovery is difficult, to say the least. Putting one foot in front of the other is a struggle, literally. Everyday, Whumpee pushes themself to take one step more, just one more. Step by step, they make their way across the room. It was always the hardest part to get moving, but once they started, they could keep going.

Today is a big day. They are going to walk across the entire room without any support from the physical therapist. They are going to walk all the way to Caretaker. Whumpee had kept Caretaker away while they learned to walk again. At the beginning, they had been embarrassed and ashamed at all the times they fell down or even simply tripped. As time went on and Whumpee got better, they changed their tune and kept Caretaker away in order to surprise them with how far they’ve come.

They watched their feet make the first few steps before looking up into Caretaker’s eyes and beaming brightly “Look at me, Caretaker! I’m doing it!”

Caretaker’s eyes grow misty as they watch Whumpee take confident steps all the way over to them. They scoop them up into a big hug when they take the final step, their heart overflowing with pride.

“You did it, Whumpee! I’m so proud of you!” Caretaker exclaims, peppering kisses across Whumpee’s brow and face.

Whumpee giggles and pats Caretaker’s cheek, gazing into their soft brown eyes. “Thank you, Caretaker, I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

“We made it together, Whumpee.” Caretaker replies, hugging them tightly to their chest “Always together.”

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castlehillwhump · 3 years

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Whumpee’s eyes

What are your whumpee’s eyes doing? Are they...

- widening as they watch the whumper’s hands prepare some sort of horrible equiptment

- pleading as they stare into the whumper’s face for mercy as the whumper does something to them

- confused when they feel the beginning of a new sensation- the eyebrows drawn together and their eyes far away as they focus in on the feeling

- shut tightly before shooting open at a sudden onslaught

- squeezed tightly shut as their whole body clenches up

-droopy and heavily lidded- barley able to stay open

- teary when they’re finally left alone to consider their situation and they realize that they’re alone

- furiously blinking away said tears, unable to rub their eyes due to their restraints

- so unfocused from drugs that they’re rolling about

- darting around frantically as they try to figure out where they are and what’s happening

- narrowing in confusion and pain at a betrayal

- narrowed in defiance as they once again refuse the whumper’s demand for information

- blinking rapidly as they wake up in an unfamiliar bright room

- rolling back in their head as they collapse

- distant when they get back and caretaker tries to speak with them

- slowly closing as their body relaxes when they’re finally safe, caretaker’s hand on their forehead.

This was just something in my mind at the moment.

Feel free to add more in the comments!

#whump #whumpee #whump writing #whump community #whump prompt #whump scenario #eyes #whump eyes #random #random thoughts #mypost

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i-write-whump · 3 years

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When the whumpee is hurt badly and really shouldn't move, but they’re alone and they have no way to contact anyone for help. The whumpee forcing themself upright and staggering until they find other people, then collapsing, in too much pain to continue moving. The whumpee passing out, hoping someone will get them help, and waking up an unknown amount of time later, not quite sure where they are at first. Them looking around, and realizing that they’re in the hospital, and one of their friends is sitting at their bedside. The whumpee feeling incredibly relieved as their friend starts fussing over them, because the strangers helped them, and they’re finally safe.

#whump #whump prompt #stranded whumpee #kind of #collapse #fainting #passing out #unconscious whumpee #prompt #writing prompt #hospitals #bedside vigil

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lifblogs · 3 years

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Prompt by @i-write-whump: When the whumpee wakes up lying on their stomach and has no idea where they are or what’s going on, and they start to try to get up and look around, but then they feel a gentle hand on their shoulder holding them down. The whumpee thinking that the whumper is the one holding them down, and beginning to react violently, until they hear the caretaker’s voice coming from behind them, and they realize that they must be the one holding them down. The caretaker explaining to the whumpee that they’ve hurt their back, and they need to stay still so the caretaker can patch them up. The whumpee calming down and letting the caretaker help them once they’re sure the whumper isn’t there, and the caretaker patching them up gently, explaining everything as they work.

906 words, Destiel, Castiel whump, gore

A deep ache awoke Castiel, and were he not so groggy, pure, cold panic would have shot through him at the knowledge that he’d been asleep. Angels didn’t sleep. Something powerful must have attacked him. But what?

Where am I? Castiel asked himself.

He tried opening his eyes, but found his vision blurry, and the world spun.

The ache grew worse.

His face was pressed against rough, cold stone, neck twinging from the strain of the position. He was lying on his stomach, blood trickling from his mouth

Castiel tried to get up, tried to look around, but then there was a hand on his shoulder, holding him down.

Memories came flooding back. Chuck, Lucifer… they’d attacked, and now--

Castiel screamed, and tried to get up to fight, breathing hard. Adrenaline flared through him so sharply it left him with hot, tingling stabs that went down to his toes and fingertips. The ache grew worse, but Castiel fought it, and he fought the hand. That hand was going to hurt him, it was going to--

He’d just rammed his elbow back, and a familiar grunt met him.

“Shit, Cas.”

Dean?

Hands were on him again, holding him down. He’d barely been able to get up in the first place.

“Cas, it’s okay. It’s just me. You got hurt pretty bad. I think there’s something wrong with your back. Can you heal?”

True to Dean’s word, blood was steadily pumping out of Castiel’s back. It had already soaked his clothes, and was pooling around him. The slick heat was disgusting, and was surely one of the many reasons he was shuddering.

Castiel tried to focus on the pain, to center on it, even as he still assured himself that Chuck and Lucifer weren’t there. But then where were they? He groaned, tears flooding his eyes as he was drawn into his pain, nearly against his will. The dark waves of it encompassed him, and they thundered so fiercely it beat into his blood, and his nerves were screaming, firing off pain signals like they would never stop. Castiel reached out through all that pain, searching his Grace, trying to move it outwards. He started gentle, just caressing the hurt with his Grace, telling his body that it was okay, that it was safe now. The darkness stabbed back.

Castiel screamed, writhing on the ground.

“I can’t, I can’t!” he panted. “Dean, I can’t!”

Dean held him down, getting behind him, and straddling him. His hands were on Cas’ shoulders.

“Okay, okay. It’s okay. We’re gonna fix this. We’re gonna take care of this, alright? I already got the first aid kit.”

Dean began to work, cutting Castiel’s bloody clothes off of him, and then assessing the wound. He talked him through everything he was doing, and coaxed Castiel into taking deep breaths.

Dean started pressing around the wound, leaving Castiel gasping and grunting and breathless. There was something in him. Dean seemed to feel it too.

“This looks like a stab wound. Think maybe something got left in there.”

In the eloquent and immortal words of Dean Winchester: Fuck.

“Alright, I’m gonna get it out. You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Dean’s voice was shaky, but just hearing him somehow worked to soothe Castiel. Dean got off him, and then he was gently easing his belt into his mouth. Castiel’s vision cleared enough for him to see Dean give him an assuring nod, green eyes big with worry, but determined. His hand caressed his face, and ran through his hair. He placed a kiss on his head, and then got out his swiss army knife.

Panic bloomed in Castiel, like a drop of blood mixing into a cup of water. It swirled, it spread, until it encompassed everything, became part of it. More blood trickled in.

“Cas, just hold on. You’re gonna be okay.”

Dean began his work.

Castiel’s world tumbled through flashes of black and red, and great bursts of agony.

Black won out, and the pain followed him as he drifted into unconsciousness.

Dean was pouring alcohol on his back when Castiel came to again, making him bite the belt so hard he was sure he’d torn it ever so slightly. Then his strong hands were pressing down on it, holding his blood in. The gesture of Dean holding his life in him swept Castiel up into its strong, powerful arms, and he couldn’t escape. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to do everything with him. He knew they would afterwards. They always did after one of them was hurt.

“Alright, how ‘bout now? Can you heal? I got that thing out.”

Castiel reached out for his Grace, and he didn’t find that darkness, only the flares of pain. He melded his Grace with the pain, soothing it away, light filling in the gaps of his agony.

His cells multiplied, his muscles and tendons and nerves and blood vessels knit back together, and then finally, his skin.

He sighed, body relaxing.

Dean sighed as well. Castiel took the belt out of his mouth, and let Dean help him to his feet (he hadn’t been able to heal the blood loss). His ripped clothes fell from him, leaving Castiel shirtless, and in bloody pants. Dean was feeling him over, as if he had to assure himself that he was okay.

“Dean, thank you.”

Castiel kissed him, and for now, he was alright.

#Destiel #spn #Supernatural #Destiel fanfiction #spn fanfiction #Supernatural fanfiction #Castiel #Castiel whump #fanfiction #writing #my writing #tw: gore #gore

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howtowhumpyourhiccup · 3 years

Text

Winter Whumperland Day 9: Planned

Summary: Written for Winter Whumperland Day 9. Set in a Modern AU, follows up on Day 8 'Lucky'. The police aren't coming for him and he doesn't know if his friends or family even know where to look. With not just his own health and safety on the line, Hiccup knows that if he wants to escape, he wants to do it in a way that ensures Viggo can never lay a hand on him again.

Rating: Mature

Characters: Hiccup, Viggo

Pairing: Vigcup, past-Hiccstrid

Words: 5 218

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Prompt: “countdowns”, “running out of time”

Whumpee: Hiccup

Author’s Notes: Ah, another prompt that started out as a 2,5k something and has now become a 5k monster. And Day 12, at 6k, IS STILL NOT FINISHED YET! :'D

At the very least, it makes me curious to see what the final word count will end up being.

Anyway, here it is! The chapter that reveals both Hiccup's previous plan to escape as well as what he saw on the computer in Day 3.

Constructive criticism is appreciated! Including on the tags, because holy hell, they get more difficult with each one-shot!

Enjoy!

Ao3

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The police aren't coming for him. As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, the hope of being found by the people meant to find him seemed to slim with every morning he has to wake up next to Viggo Grimborn.

It's through Eret that Hiccup will find out that they aren't looking for him at all, that they've simply arrested the first guy they could conveniently get their hands on and called it a day. It apparently didn't matter whether they got the true culprit, or culprits in this case, or if they even find a body or not. Hiccup's disappearance is a closed case.

But before that life-ending trip in the mountains, well, life-ending for at least two someones, Hiccup has no idea what could be keeping the cops from finding him for so long. It's a disheartening thing. For all those tv-shows and movies about the police going through hell and back for the civilians they're supposed to serve and protect, Hiccup is feeling strangely abandoned.

And he can't see his friends ever coming for him, though he knows they must have surely looked. And his father, he's more the "let the right authorities handle it" kind of man, but he must've searched for him, too.

But if they have any idea where to look or how to go about helping him, he wouldn't have been here for as long as he has. His best hope of getting out of Viggo's clutches is to find a way out himself. Ironically enough, he means to break free through those authorities his father so relies on.

Hiccup could remove the watch, could somehow safely remove the shock band from his ankle he hasn't tried yet, take his prosthetic from the safe, take his clothes, take his cat, and then finally take his leave. He could go home, be surrounded by friends, tell everything to the police, ... and then what?

Give Viggo and Ryker the chance to destroy everything related to him and disappear? Allow him the time to make up an iron-clad tale about how Hiccup had run away with him? Having no idea his friends and father didn't know of his plan to run away until they were in too deep? And really, young people can be so crazy when it comes to love, he wouldn't be the first to run away for the sake of the person they think is The One.

And Stoick, such a big man, they've all seen how angry he can be on his first and last press conference. Viggo believed him when Hiccup told him his father was physically violent with him and just wanted to keep him safe! And he is especially bad when drunk. You can't blame a foolish man with too good of a heart for getting himself into trouble trying to help this young man out.

Besides having the money to get him the best lawyers money can buy, Viggo is also a master manipulator. Playing on Hiccup's need to help others to get close to him, earn his trust, and get to know him well enough to know which buttons to push to break him makes that clear to him now. Viggo can spin any tale he wants and Hiccup fears the number of people that will believe him.

He's seen it before, innocent people painted in such a bad light that they are bullied and ostracized to the point of disappearing, too afraid to come out and speak the truth any more. He doesn't want people to see his father that way.

It's true that Stoick has a temper, but against his son, he's never so much as raised his voice. He doesn't want Viggo to hurt his family, too.

Viggo is nothing like Dagur. Dagur was more like your run-of-the-mill obsessed stalker who believed that he deserved and needed a boy three years younger then him to fill the missing void his deceased parents left him with. He was a tragic product of his life, of loss he couldn't process. And if he can take Heather's word, Dagur has been putting effort into getting better.

Hiccup thought he knew what obsession looked like through him and so he didn't recognize the warning signs in Viggo.

Viggo, who doesn't have a tragedy that shaped him to be the way he is. Viggo, who is unrepentant in his ways, who doesn't care who he hurts or how bad. Viggo, who is so selfish and arrogant that he would rather bury a failed project six feet under and start over than ever admit defeat.

Hiccup never saw the warning signs.

"He swallowed up two hours of your time, Hiccup!"

His last conversation with Astrid suddenly comes to mind. Dagur demanded his time as well, but that's just it, he demanded it. Viggo was 'nice' about it in that he asked and then played on Hiccup's emotions without him realizing it to get him to say "yes".

A master manipulator. This is why Hiccup needs evidence if he wants him convicted. If it becomes a "he said, he said" kind of trail, he's already lost. And really, who'll believe him when he tells them Viggo... did things to him, a man.

And then there is another possibility that he's afraid of. The police not arresting Viggo quickly enough to keep him from coming back for Hiccup and doing gods know what to him in retribution.

At least that's something Dagur tried to do, too, when he heard of the restraining order placed on him. He was to be arrested for breaking it, for breaking it multiple times as a matter of fact, and he couldn't bear with that. Though in that case, Dagur had blamed Hiccup's father and his friends for keeping them apart and tried to convince Hiccup to disappear with him. It was the only way they could be together in his eyes, if they started over together somewhere far, far away. He completely blindsided that it was Hiccup who wanted that restraining order in place.

If Hiccup leaves the Grimborn mansion, he wants to be sure he'll never have to see it again. And he'll want to make sure he doesn't mysteriously vanish the second someone blinks. He doesn't want White Spot to inexplicably die from poison or from being run over either.

And, oh Gods, what if he's out there and he comes after Astrid? Snotlout? Fishlegs? The twins? The sanctuary isn't chock-full of cameras either, what if they manage to hurt Toothless in some way? Or pay someone to hurt Toothless? His father seems untouchable, but what about his mother? There are too many ways in which the Grimborns can get back at him and Hiccup would rather spend the rest of his life rotting away in that basement than let anything happen to them.

And that is why he needs to get onto that computer, why he snuck into the study while Viggo's at work and Ryker is sleeping off another hangover.

He's stolen the key to his bedroom and locked it from the outside. If he wakes up before Hiccup finishes what he intends to do, there'll be hell to pay. Wooden doors don't really stop a man like Ryker.

But who better to break into Viggo's computer than someone who knows his way around one?

Hiccup hobbled into the study using the crutch they'd provided him with, begrudgingly so on Ryker's part as Viggo sees it more as something they can take away if their guest is being ungrateful, and he sits down at the desk. It takes only a minute or two, but he manages to get past the password.

A breath of relief quietly leaves him, he's become a bit of a quiet person, and he sags.

Viggo better not see him, he disdains a bad posture. Hiccup can't even begin to count the amount of comments or "corrective slaps on the wrist" he's gotten for not sitting or standing up straight. At some point, when Viggo was particularly sick of Hiccup sitting slouched, he tried to buy him a corset so that maybe he could finally sit with a straight back for once.

But Viggo isn't here and Hiccup gets to sag. He can threaten him if he's not here.

At first, Hiccup isn't sure what he's looking for. Something illegal, for sure, but what? The party guests from the other day have given him the idea to try and look for something. Viggo's company specializes in import and export, surely, he has to have something shady saved on his computer. He has the ships and containers, he can take things in and out of the country without a problem.

Someone as smart as Viggo isn't going to look up "how to treat broken ribs" online, so it's not like it's as simple as looking up his browser history. Would he search and buy the medication needed to stave off pneumonia online? Drugs can be found on legal sites, he wouldn't even need to worry about turning any heads.

What Hiccup needs from this computer is virtual evidence, but searching for it isn't going to be a walk in the park.

Hiccup rolls his shoulders and adjusts his position in the chair, it rolling in place.

Sitting in this chair is difficult. He'd lean back, but he can't. And just sitting there isn't doing him any favors either. There are painful welts all over his back from last night's games in bed and that makes just about everything a little difficult for him.

He'd let Viggo do it. Because if he didn't it would happen either way and then it would be made so much more unpleasant.

So while uncomfortable as he possibly can be does he look deeper into this computer, doing everything mostly on a glimpse alone to get through it all quick. He can't afford to dilly dally in every file. And if he doesn't get this done, there will be many more nights of these "games".

Viggo isn't like most people, he doesn't have games or other files or apps he would deem unnecessary on his computer. Most of what takes up space on his internal hard drive is what he considers important. For him, that seems to be stuff that he's taken home from work and nothing more. And they're all fairly recent as the oldest file Hiccup has come across is a little less than two years old.

And then he clicks on something inconspicuous and a little window pops up and asks for a password. Hiccup raises an eyebrow, suppresses the need to comment on it, and quietly gets by this one as well.

Finally, after what Hiccup realizes has been a quick two-hour search, he's found something promising.

There are folders named with serial numbers that translate as dates to him and the many files within are also coded with numbers following that same date. The oldest one appears to be from a little over half a year ago, the hard drive has last been cleaned out then. Just as he thought, Viggo isn't a fan of leaving a trace.

He clicks on one of those documents and then another and another and another. Hiccup's expertise may not be with economics or Viggo's branch of work, but he is often smarter than people give him credit for. He can still figure out that what he's looking at is some seriously shady stuff. Everything from exporting fake goods to exotic animals and even drugs, no wonder Viggo is a rich, rich man.

So Viggo isn't just a criminal that kidnaps and abuses people, he's very into the black market, too. A terrifying thing, honestly. He's seen movies, he knows how these things go. So he turns his attention to a different crime he might be able to exploit.

Embezzlement, bank fraud, insurance fraud, forgery, just all kinds of fraud and all that gained him, and only him, money. And that, that can work in his favor. Because if there is something people don't like, it's when someone else is hoarding money. Especially if it's all garnered illegally.

taking his eyes off-screen for a moment, Hiccup strains his hearing to see if he can pick up any sounds inside the house. It's still quiet and that means Ryker must still be asleep.

So focusing back on the screen, he gathers as many of these suspicious documents as he can find and then searches for the e-mail app Viggo uses, which is the only one present on this entire device.

He pauses for one nervous moment as he clicks on it, grimacing and holding his breath, and sees that Viggo is apparently the kind of person who legs himself off after every use.

He's lucky. He can log on with his own address and log back off without drawing suspicion.

But then he realizes he doesn't actually know where to send all of these to and briefly does he almost panic.

He doesn't have a lot of time here and Viggo does sometimes have the tendency to come home unexpectedly to "surprise him".

Does he send all of these to the police of his city? Do police even handle cases like fraud? Surely, they do? And do police stations even have e-mail addresses to mail to?

Hiccup feels a sense of anxiety creeping up on him. He doesn't have a lot to work with and he realizes the chances of this plan working aren't big, it all boils down to a gamble. His freedom, it will depend entirely on whether or not they will check an e-mail from the outside or not.

But his chances are good enough, aren't they? His full name is right there in his e-mail, they're not going to ignore a message coming from "Hiccup Haddock", right? Even if they've given up on him?

He doesn't feel like he has much of a choice. It's not like he can put all of this on a USB, run away, and personally get it to the police. He can't even leave the house, not even to get into the yard! And even if he did, he'll run into the same problem of risking giving the Grimborns enough time to either disappear, hurt him more, or both.

So Hiccup swallows his worries, feeling like he can't do this if he lets his fears get to him like this. E-mailing the police will have to do.

To distract himself, Hiccup continues his search for more incriminating information. He's not going to fit all of it in just one measly e-mail, but the more the merrier.

On his search for more, Hiccup comes across another one of those inconspicuous folders like the others he's looked through. Though this one, for some reason, is titled differently. Instead of the numbers used with the other folders, this one is named "personal project".

Despite the name change, Hiccup is confident he can find more evidence in this.

The second he clicks on that folder, he regrets it.

There are photos instead of files in this one, a lot of them. Some are very compromising, sensitive, the kinds you'd only find on one particular site on the internet.

And they're all of him.

Some were taken before his abduction and clearly without his knowledge. Like someone had been hiding behind corners with a camera and followed him in his daily life. There are photos that come from online, he recognizes the ones his girlfriend took and posted with his permission, which Viggo has stolen without.

And then some were taken after his kidnapping and those are the worst.

Because these are so humiliating. So, so humiliating! Compromising positions, in several states of undress, from almost every part of his body, ... And to make matters worse, he can't remember any of these ever having been taken.

What he does remember? The many, many times when he would randomly pass out during his time in the basement.

Staring at the countless pictures, Hiccup feels like he's burning. The fire that eats him alive isn't made out of a physical flame, it's the shame burning him to a crisp. Like he's been soaked in gasoline and lit up with a match, like he might actually writhe and scream.

Before he can stop himself, he's crying.

He's not thinking of Ryker when he does. Hunching forward, his face in his hands, he sobs and hiccups and sniffs. He's not quiet about it either.

He had no idea these pictures were being taken, no idea at all. But here they are, staring at him in the face, mocking him. He feels so humiliated.

It takes him a while to pull himself back together again. He doesn't know for how long he sits there, bawling his eyes out, struggling to breathe. The weight of what's been done to him has come crashing down on him once more and now it feels like he's drowning.

He wants to delete these pictures and hope that Viggo doesn't have them saved anywhere else. He wants to throw the whole damn computer away just to be sure, take his crutch or something heavier and then smash it to bits.

But he can't. Because if Hiccup does get rid of them, Viggo might notice that they're gone when he revisits them. And he's going to notice a missing or broken computer and that'll mean the end of him.

So as horrible as it is, he has to let every single one of them be.

Or maybe he doesn't quite need to leave them alone.

Pure anger on his face and tears still in his eyes, a white-hot rage that he's unfamiliar with coursing through his veins, he faces those pictures again.

Viggo thinks he can just make these pictures without his knowledge, without his permission, without expecting them to be used against him?

Fine. He, too, can play that game.

Viggo and Ryker will rot, even if it's the last thing he'll do.

Even if it means he'll be drawing his last breath at the end of all of this, they will pay.

Hiccup adds them to the list of things he'll be sending to the police. He'll worry about how these will make him look later, right now he's not in the right mindset to worry. He just wants Viggo to face the consequences of his actions.

This is proof of some of the abuse he's had to suffer through thus far, it's proof that he's been stalked prior to his abduction, and it will only make their list of crimes bigger and therefore the time they'll be serving longer.

Or that's what he hopes.

The police station of his choosing has a neat little "send e-mail" in their contact info and that's what he clicks on. He clicks on it several times, each e-mail filled to the brim with incriminating photos and files and all send from his address. The black market stuff they'll hopefully find on their own. That is, if Viggo is apprehended too quickly to wipe his device clean.

Hiccup hits send on the last one and has to take a breath.

He's an exhausted mess, his sleeves are wet with tears and filthy with snot. He should get cleaned up before his "beloved partner" comes home.

But he allows himself a moment of sweet, sweet vengeance.

"Well now, Viggo, I hope you like living with a timer." Hiccup tells the man, though he isn't here. From the second he met the man to the night of his kidnapping he's lived with one, whether he realized it or not. Now Viggo gets to live with one for a change.

And hopefully, this one will run out a lot quicker than his did.

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When Hiccup ran away in the snow, Viggo wasn't expecting to be caught as quickly as he was, maybe there was a chance he wouldn't even be caught at all.

Wandering aimlessly in a forest with one foot broken, the other missing, and unprepared for the cold, the chances of Hiccup surviving at all were slim, to say the least. And that fishing town, they weren't close enough for someone familiar with the area to reach it in time, let alone someone who has never been there before.

But here he is, sitting at a table in an interrogation room in a police station. Not Port's as he's already been handed over to a different station. More specifically, he's been brought to New New Berk's.

But the agent standing opposite to him with a carton cup of lukewarm coffee in their hands, they're not from around here and that makes Viggo wonder what exactly he's been caught for.

Is it for fraud? Blackmarket dealings? But all of that information should be locked behind a password and he's been meticulous in what he keeps and deletes. he's even gotten rid of an entire hard drive just to be sure.

And yet, he knows Hiccup messed with his computer, he's caught him crying in front of the screen through a hidden camera. Though, he has figured by now that it meant he'd found Viggo's personal photographic collection of him.

It was amusing at the time. It served Hiccup right for sticking his nose in places where it didn't belong.

But that collection was protected, too, and so maybe Hiccup found more than just those photos. As a matter of fact, it might even be the most likely scenario. he regrets admitting to not thinking of Hiccup figuring out what he was looking at when he saw those hidden files.

But if it is only that, then maybe he can still get off with a relatively light punishment.

As Viggo is having his inner monologue with himself, Agent Mackle stares at him with a look the man can only call contempt. He finds the way the younger Grimborn brother is sitting there horribly arrogant. With his posh suit, polished look, expensive jewelry and accessories, straight back. The only signs of what might be distress are the heavier than usual bags under his eyes and the slightly frazzled hair, that latter is a feat with how short it is, and he only knows because he's seen pictures of Viggo before.

But it's not enough, not with a monster such as this one, and Viggo Grimborn has been a monster to many people.

They should be doing an interrogation, however, so they speak up.

"He was found, just so you know." Viggo looks up to the agent.

"Your brother. Dead, head split open with a shovel, you didn't even try to hide his body, did you? Bad enough that you don't care about laws and morals, but then not only did you decide to disregard human life, you also decided that your brother's wasn't worth it." Mackle starts, completely astounded by the lack of any feeling or remorse in one man. How much the victim must've suffered with him.

Or rather, victims.

On his own brother's death, the suspect doesn't have a comment and Viggo even looks away again, seemingly uninterested. Whether this is a ploy or because he truly doesn't care, Mackle finds both options agitating.

Viggo had been caught trying to leave Port to go back home, taking his luggage, and planning on taking his personal boat to get away. A messy escape for someone who looks like he prizes himself on his tactics and thinking things through.

But then, Port police also found his brother face down in a thin layer of snow in what was clearly meant to be a shallow grave, so something must've gone down that made the suspect want to pack up and leave in a hurry.

He hadn't even bothered to cover Ryker grimborn with a blanket or a tarp or anything, he just left him to be feasted on by foraging scavengers. What brotherly love there must've been between these two.

But oh, they do have something to say that might be interesting to Viggo.

"And oh, he was found, just so you know." Viggo, again, looks up to the agent, who sips from his cup. Except, this time he doesn't look as bored as he probably figures who they must be talking about.

"Hiccup Haddock, your little "pet project"? That's what you called him, right? He was found alive, despite you and your brother's best attempts at silencing him." There is a certain flavor to telling a criminal that they haven't succeeded in destroying a life. Well, haven't succeeded in destroying this one.

"And it's thanks to him that you won't just be charged with fraud and all that good stuff, but also multiple counts of kidnapping, murder, abuse, and, the most fun of all, all kinds of sexual assault. That's a long, long list Mr. Grimborn." Agent Mackle tells him, their disgust barely hidden. They're in their late twenties, maybe earlier thirties. Viggo can't pin an exact number on them.

He raises an eyebrow at the usage of "multiple counts", but he's not responding otherwise.

"I can already hear you think. How do they know? How can they arrest me for any of that with no bodies?" Mackle walks around, imitating how they think the suspect before them might sound as they pace, and then they face him again.

"Well, your last victim has a pretty good idea of where your brother buried your victims since you two were kind enough to take him to your murder cabin to kill him there, too, if, and I quote from Hiccup Haddock himself, he "didn't fall in line". He was kind enough to tell us in return." Mackle informs Viggo, making it clear they've been talking to him.

It worked for as long as it did because of the cabin's isolated location. It was on private property, which means people would keep away from that part of the forest. And kids, if they snuck on and saw something they were never meant to see, they would keep to themselves for fear of getting into trouble. Keep to themselves and very possibly repress everything they might've seen until it one day comes back to haunt and ruin them.

For effect, they lean on the table, cup still in hand.

"We've searched the property, Mr. Grimborn, and we're digging every single one of those poor souls up as we speak. We'll be making a lot of families happy this holiday." They continue.

"Well, probably not happy since their missing loved ones were found dead, after all, but they'll have close at long last." There is only a little sense of justice here. Viggo's arrest and sure to be punishment will not bring all those people back, but at least he'll finally be stopped. And it'll all be because of Hiccup.

There is still not a word from Viggo, but what did they expect? They have to suppress a sigh as they straighten.

"You were hard to catch, I'll admit that. We've recovered three of the bodies, so far. Their clothing, personal effects, and even physical traits helped us identify them. Let me tell you, we never would've linked them together." Mackle takes three of the case files he has on a neat stack on his side of the table and flips them open.

"There is no connection between gender, appearance, ethnicity, religion, and with your latest victim, no connection between sex either." He skims through some of the pages. There is even a "John" amongst those three.

The one thing they do have in common, though? Smarts.

"A med, student, a biochemist, an ambitious lawyer, and now an aspiring expert in draconic behaviors. A dragon whisperer if you will." Well, that is what the victim's closest loved ones have told them.

Closing the case files, they grab them and drop them back on the large pile of suspected victims, making quite the bang on the table. Viggo doesn't jump as badly as they would like.

"So tell me, how does it feel to know you were taken down by one of your pet projects? One of your many, many victims? I'm sure you thought you were smarter than all of them." Agent Mackle asks, hoping to finally break Viggo with at least one of these. All they want is a little crack in that stoic façade.

And finally, there is a response on Viggo's face, but not one they'd like to see. A smirk appears on his face.

"You ask me how I feel?" He asks and his gaze meets Mackle's.

"Hiccup and I know each other. The reason I could keep him under my thumb for so long is because I know him and therefore know where to push. I know how to get him to make certain sounds, I know how to make his body react that way I want it to react, I know how to make him obedient to me, the point is, agent, I know Hiccup through and through." Viggo takes a pause, enjoying this little confession of his.

"To the world, I'll be known as a monster, but I will also have my business empire-"

"Had. I don't think many of your partners or clients will want to have anything to do with your business anymore. Especially not now that they'll know you've been frauding your way into all of that money for your own gain." Agent Mackle quickly retorts, not liking Viggo's energy and enjoyment in all of this.

"However," Viggo completely ignores them, simply continuing to talk and sounding as arrogant as he possibly can. "Hiccup will only ever be known as the one who got away and he'll be lucky if that is all that he's known for. Even you only refer to him as my victim."

Mackle doesn't know what to say, furrowing their brows while Viggo's smirk remains true.

"So no matter how much he fought to get away from me, Hiccup Haddock will never escape the fact that he still belongs to me in the end." Viggo looks away at that, taking this as another checkmate. And the brand will prove that, too. Even if he has it removed, there were still be the scar of where it once used to be.

Mackle has seen a picture of it, seen the "V.G" burned into his flesh. They've seen many pictures depicting Hiccup. That a 19-year-old boy had to go through something like this... Age is another thing that didn't factor into what Viggo sought for in a future victim, but two of the identified bodies and a good amount of the suspected victims are young. Though Hiccup definitely stands out as the youngest of the bunch.

The worst part out of all of this is that Viggo isn't showing the slightest bit of remorse. He got caught and all he shows is a sick sense of pleasure in the knowledge that he and Hiccup will forever be connected through this.

He couldn't even care less about the death of his older brother. All that matters to him, is Hiccup.

Feeling sick to their stomach, Mackle takes their cup and the stack of yellowish folders, each thicker than the last, and leaves the interrogation room. They leave Viggo to wallow in his bad, bad thoughts.

#amow winter whumperland #12wwday.9 #rtte #httyd movies #modern au #hiccup haddock #hiccup whump #viggo grimborn #vigcup #one-sided vigcup #tw: rape/non-con elements #tw: implied rape #tw: implied non-con elements #tw: implied non-con #tw: rape/non-con #my fanfics #planned

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Note

Vampire Chris and jake get stranded in the middle of nowhere one night. Maybe a car crash or something. As they walk back the sun starts to rise.

CW: Car crash, bruising, seatbelt burn, vampire whumpee, caretaker turned whumpee

The moment of the crash is gone.

He opens his eyes to the aftermath.

Jake blinks, the world spinning, and his head drops back against the headrest of the driver's seat. The world is still lurching, sickeningly, in circles around him. Something is ticking, the engine maybe, slowly cooling down and shit, at least it's not on fire.

The air bag has a smear of terrible vibrant red against its pillowy white as it slowly deflates, and all he can do is stare at it until he realizes the blood must be his own.

One hand comes up to touch at his forehead, and his fingers come away wet and red, too. What he'd thought was sweat is a head wound, bleeding down one side, tickling his cheekbone and jaw. It stings, a little.

The pain seems distant, somehow, like it's being held at arm's length. As if he's looking at his pain from a distance further than he can close.

"Ch-... Chris, you okay, buddy?" He turns, and the passenger seat is empty. The air bag deployed on that side, but there's no blood.

The door is standing open, dome light still on. It takes a long few moments of staring before he can understand that the door is open because Chris forced it open, closed his hands on the metal and squeezed until it bent beneath his strength and let him out.

Jake's body aches as he shifts forwards, fumbling to unbuckle his seatbelt. All the pain is filtering into his senses, piece by piece as if he can only understand a wound once he sees it.

He can't remember the crash.

They were at a four-way stop, listening to some of the terrible pop music Chris loves about the modern world, and Jake had pulled through. They were laughing at some lyric that Jake had had to explain, that had made the little vampire boy flush a little at the definition.

Then there were headlights blinding him, overtaking everything. Chris had yelled something and Jake had yelled something and then-

The moment is gone.

So is the entire back half of his car.

He turns around with a hiss to stare right out a giant gaping hole where his backseat should be into the cool, clear night.

Parts of his car are strewn haphazardly across the road and the grassy ditch he's come to a stop in. As he looks, he can see the frame of a door, crumbled metal that must be his trunk, a tire. Another tire. The bumper on the ground. Glass and metal everywhere.

The stop signs at the fourway are all standing totally untouched, except for one bent at a hard angle, leaning like a man fighting a strong wind.

The sweater he'd been wearing when he got in the car - removed and tossed carelessly in the backseat to pick up later - is hanging off the bent stop sign.

It's fucking spotlessly clean still.

He blinks.

Blinks some more.

What the fuck?

He'd driven Chris up into the hills to go star-gazing, making the most of Chris's bubbly energy that only comes out at night and his classes being canceled tomorrow because of some issue with the campus water supply. This is countryside up here, with houses miles and miles apart. Remnants of old orchards and homesteads, still kept by the descendants of the men and women who traveled out here. Nobody drives out this way this late. It could be morning before someone finds him.

His phone. He can call for help.

Jake looks around, but his phone is nowhere to be seen. He digs around the footwell, what he can touch of it, and there's nothing. Nothing nothing nothing.

His windshield is shattered, open to the outside, and he wonders if his phone flew out of it. It was on the dash, wasn't it? On Chris's side...

Shit.

It could be anywhere in the grass, and he's a fucking moron who keeps his phone on silent or vibrate 24 hours a day. He'll never hear it out here.

First things first, then.

He settles for trying to open his door.

It's been crunched, just a little. Enough that it won't swing out, and he has to throw his shoulder against it, grunting in pain, again and again until finally it nudges just enough for him to fall onto shattered tiny squares of safety glass on the ground. A water bottle is lying there. It's Dasani.

He hates Dasani water, but it'd been free at the gas station they'd stopped at if he bought a bag of chips, so...

Oh, right. His car is full of fucking gasoline.

He groans, scrambling away from the vehicle, trying to remember what a safe distance will be if his car catches on fire or fucking explodes in the middle of the night. At least if it explodes it'll get someone's attention, right?

Shit, he's going to throw up.

Jake lays there, waiting for his stomach to settle, and then crawls again. He makes it up to the road, to the rough asphalt and the gravel that lines the side. The little pebbles sting his palms, rub dirt and dust into the cuts, but he ignores it.

He makes it to the road, twenty feet or so from his car, and then... then he just lays down.

"Chris..." He can barely think. Where has the little vampire gone? Why isn't he here, creeping out of the treeline to ask if Jake's all right? Did he run? Maybe he has Jake's phone. Maybe there was no signal and he's gone to try and find some, to make a call.

Maybe...

Fuck, it hurts to think.

Even just taking a deep breath hurts - something's wrong with his ribs. Bruised or broken. When he pulls his shirt up, he can see the seatbelt burn starting to deepen in color, a diagonal stripe from shoulder to hip written in bright red darkening to burgundy bruising, soon to turn purple and black. If he hadn't been wearing a heavy shirt it'd have torn his skin open. One side of his neck is rubbed raw, he can tell when he touches it and has to pull his fingers away at the spike of pain.

There are spots of dark on his pale shirt, blood seeping through or dripping from his forehead.

But, shit. It could be worse. Looking at the back half of his car, it seems like a goddamn miracle that it isn't.

Jake pulls his legs under him and tries to stand up.

His right leg just won't fucking do it.

Rather than take his weight, it buckles with a spike of pain so bad Jake cries out and collapses back onto the road.

As if it were a dam breaking, all the adrenaline holding off the worst of the pain seems to wear away at once.

Everything hurts, suddenly, a sickening wash of pain breaking against him like he's nothing but a shell to be worn to sand. He aches when he breathes, when he doesn't. A cough makes him whimper as his ribs creak and crack. His head throbs, his hands sting, his leg is swelling even as he looks at it, a broken bone. Definitely a broken bone.

"Jesus Christ," He groans, rolling onto his side, his face pressing into gravel and safety glass.

Nat won't notice they're not home until morning.

No one's going to know he's out here until after sunrise, until he's not up to get ready for class and Chris isn't curled up in the closet to sleep in his nest of blankets and pillows. No one's going to know what happened, and where the everloving fuck did his phone go?

Time passes. He doesn't know how much.

Maybe Chris figured they can't protect him and took the fuck off. Maybe he's going to find somewhere new to crash, some new people to care for him. Maybe he's hunting.

Who the fuck knows?

He comes and goes, in and out of consciousness.

He can't stand, and sort of scooting and crawling around does nothing to help him figure out where his cell phone has gone. No one else drives by on this mostly-abandoned country road, and it was a stroke of seriously bad luck the asshole who hit them and ran was there at all.

Asshole was probably drunk, driving back from the bar, trying to use the backroads to avoid the goddamn cops.

Bad. Fucking. Luck.

Jake wonders if the asshole will even remember hitting his car in the morning, or if he'll wake up and discover the front of his vehicle all fucked up and have no idea how it happened.

He thinks he might pass clean out for a while.

That can't be good.

His head hurts worse when he wakes up.

He raises his head slowly at the sound of a distant rumble, an ancient truck engine coming closer. It takes more effort than he ever imagined just to get himself up to sitting, ready to wave down whoever it is - whatever fucking angel is on this road at what has to be 3 or 4 in the morning by now.

"Please," He whispers, dry lips scraping against each other. "Please, please don't run m'over... please..."

Headlights wash over the scene of the crash, fading everything to nearly black-and-white. Jake raises a hand to shield his eyes, blinking rapidly, as the blue-and-white Ford comes to an idling stop.

A door swings open with a creak and then slams shut again, boots crunching on the glass and debris on the road. Jake raises his eyes to see an old man in worn jeans and a grayish t-shirt staring down at him. "Well, I'll be damned," The man says, his voice low, a little rough around the edges. His hair's dark, but speckled with silver that's visible even in the night air. "You all right, son?"

Jake slowly looks back at his wrecked, ruined car, then back up at the man. "I'm pretty clearly not," He answers, then winces at his rudeness. "Sorry. I mean... no."

"That's all right. We all of us get a little more honest when we're bleeding from the skull. I'm gonna bet you aren't a natural brunette and I'm looking at a big old ton of blood there. What happened?"

"Guy ran the stop sign, hit me... drove off."

"Well, damn. What're you doin' up this way this late at night?"

"Would you... y'believe me if I said... star-gazin'?"

The man chuckles, but it's a low sound, and he moves closer. He pulls a heavy old cell phone out of his pocket - one of those goddamn flip phones that never dies or gets destroyed. It's like Captain Fucking America. Jake has to hold back a half-hysterical laugh.

"Hm, I might. It happens from time to time. Y'didn't come with a young lady, did you?" The man looks over the scene of the crash, searching for more people.

"No, no... just... jus'... I'm just here." He thinks of Chris, the open passenger door, the total lack of a vampire nearby. Is he hiding in the woods? If he's seen, or found out, he'll be hauled back off to be locked up somewhere, milked for venom for pharmaceutical drugs, treated like an animal. They can't admit he was here, he can't be seen. He must be hiding.

That's it.

Chris must just be hiding...

"Please, man, I-I can't find my phone to call for help-"

"I got you, son. I'll make the call. Likely your phone's just buried in the grass somewhere, we'll figure it out. You stay put right where you are, you don't want to move around and make any of it worse."

"Yes, sir." Jake stays where he is while the old man makes the call to 911, feeding him details when he asks, staring off into space when he doesn't.

They can pick Chris up when he and Nat come to get his stuff from the wreck tomorrow. They'll get him then. It'll be fine.

It'll be fine.

The old man hangs up and heads back to his truck, pulling out a battered old first aid kit. "You're lucky I believe in ghosts, you know."

"What? Why? Am I dead?" Jake looks down at his hands. They're scratched and bleeding, and he's pretty sure dead people don't bleed like that.

"No, son, no. But I wouldn't be out here if I didn't."

Jake blinks. "I... I don't follow."

"Well, had a little ghost show up at my bedroom window and refuse to shut up until I drove out here. Redheaded boy. Kept calling for a medic. Felt like I was back in the war for a minute before I realized it was him."

"Which... which war?"

The man fixes him with a stare as he crouches, old knees cracking as he does, in front of Jake. He opens the box and takes out some gauze and adhesive, antibiotic cream, something else Jake doesn't recognize. "You need medics in every kind of war there is, son. It doesn't matter which one. I've fought in two. But this boy called for a medic like he's seen the need for 'em before and didn't have time to save someone. Some kind of old ghost walkin' these roads saw you and made sure I knew."

Jake exhales, almost a laugh, and feels tears burn hot in his eyes. He realizes he's going to cry from sheer relief and exhaustion and pain, and he's not sure he can stop.

A ghost in the window means...

Chris left and ran for help.

"Thank you," he whispers, and he's not really talking to the old man at all.

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @pretty-face-breaker @endless-whump @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump

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set-phasers-to-whump · 3 years

Text

“who are you?”

prompt: “who are you?”

whumpee: nick burkhardt

fandom: grimm

hi im back on my grimm bullshit this time with some torture! sorry for posting this so late in the day i was out and didn’t have enough time before to post. i edited beforehand but there is a chance some stuff might be weird idk and i am too tired to bother looking it over again.

His hands are tied up behind him, so tightly that they’re starting to go numb. His legs are tied up, too, but separately, each to the one of the legs of a chair. There is a thick blindfold covering his eyes, again tied far too tightly for him to have any hope of getting it off (he’d tried. Several times. But nothing had happened).

Nobody’s here. He supposes they must be coming, though. People don’t generally get tied to chairs and blindfolded for no reason.

He wishes he knew where he was. Who had taken him. He’d been exploring an old house, off the record, for reasons barely tangential to the actual case he was working. As far as he’d known, it didn’t belong to anyone, and no one in particular was using it, so he’d thought it’d be safe.

He supposes it could still be. Just because being in that house is the last thing he remembers doesn’t exactly mean that it’s the last place he’d been. Whoever has him could have grabbed him from anywhere. Which is decidedly not a comforting thought.

Finally, he hears a door open and close. He figures whoever it is isn’t going to be anyone pleasant, but at the very least they’re a sign that something is happening. Maybe they’ll tell him what’s going on.

He hears the person approach, heavy, even footfalls and steady breathing. Someone well acquainted with people tied to chairs, presumably. They say nothing. Just stand in front of him. Nick pictures eyes scrutinizing him, calculating. He wonders whether it isn’t better that he can’t see.

“Who are you?” he asks, after he becomes sure that several minutes have passed. The person still has said nothing, hasn’t moved. It’s a little creepy and entirely too suspenseful. If they’re going to do something to him (which they have to, he figures), the least they can do is get on with it.

In answer to his question, he hears something slosh, and scarcely has time to wonder what it is before freezing-cold water is poured onto his head. He coughs, sure for a second that they’re going to waterboard him, but nothing else touches his face. He shivers.

“What the hell was that for?”

No answer.

He sits there, dripping, trying to figure out what the game is here. He has to admit, pouring water on someone doesn’t sound like the most effective torture technique out there. He’s cold, sure, but that’s it. There must be something worse coming, he thinks.

And there is.

At first, it doesn’t seem so bad. He feels metal prongs poke into his neck, and then a jolt of electricity that moves his whole body. This happens a few times. It’s fairly exhausting, but not extremely painful, though being wet definitely isn’t doing him any favors.

Eventually, the shocks stop coming, leaving him shaking, whether from the electricity or from the water, he doesn’t know. Presumably both.

“Wh-who are you?” he asks again, through chattering teeth. If he just knows who they are, maybe he can reason with them, tell them what they want to hear…

No answer. “What do you want?” he tries. Still, nothing.

Someone punches him in the stomach, which is...unexpected. They hit him a few more times before stopping abruptly, like they’ve changed their mind.

Which he supposes they have. He’s hit again, across the chest, but definitely not with a fist. It feels...like some kind of pipe, maybe? Definitely metal. It makes a sort of hollow clanging sound every time it hits him. He tries to think of other things about the pipe. Maybe it was from a plumbing system, or maybe left over at a build site...anything to distract himself from how it feels slamming into his torso, over and over, each time causing him to lose his breath, barely able to catch it before the next hit is coming. It’s a dull kind of pain, but it hurts more than the shocks had, and he can’t stop himself from making occasional noises of pain. He’d ask them to stop, too, if he had the breath to do it.

Like they’ve read his thoughts, the beating stops. It takes a moment for that to sink in, as his body feels so raw with the pain that for all he can tell they may very well still be hitting him. But it must stop, because he hears the pipe clatter to the floor.

Everything just aches. He tries to take a deep breath, feeling it catch in his throat with a kind of choking sound. It hurts. His whole torso throbs in time with his heartbeat.

“What…” he tries to ask, but the person slaps him across the face, sharp in contrast to the pain in his torso, and he feels tears well unbidden in his eyes. Shutting up, he thinks. I got it.

The water comes back, for a split second welcome against the burning in his face and the aching in his torso. Then it’s just cold. He shivers, feeling the movement interact unpleasantly with his injuries.

Then they stab him. He doesn’t even feel it at first. Not until the warmth of his blood becomes noticeable against his cold skin. Then he feels it. Shallow and thin, but definitely a stab, into his right shoulder. It burns.

Evidently, the knife is not done being used with just the one stab. Nick feels it trace a slow pattern across his face, and then cut a thin line from the corner of his right eye down to the middle of his cheek. It’s actually not that painful.

And then the knife is back, tearing cuts through his shirt until he’s sure the fabric must have turned red. Each cut on its own doesn’t hurt too much, but all together they do. Several of them are right across the area on his torso where they’d beaten him with the pipe. These ones present an especially intense pain that makes him wish that they’d knock him over the head just a little bit too hard. Unconsciousness is sounding really good about now…

Another round of water is dumped over his head, stinging unpleasantly on his new cuts. Then they punch him in the jaw, and then again on either side of his face, sending his head from one direction to the other entirely too quickly. They finish off the punches with a powerful one to his already battered and cut torso, which makes him scream for the first and only time. He takes a shuddering breath that turns into something like a sob, and can’t stop himself from muttering, “please...stop.”

They...listen? He feels his legs get untied, though he’s in too much pain to use them to kick out at his captor. Then he’s being lifted, his arms never getting untied, just moved upwards until they clear the back of the chair. He feels his body get thrown over someone’s shoulder with a jolting pain that makes all of his injuries hurt at once, and then something is held over his mouth and nose and he doesn’t try to fight it at all, just breathes in as deeply as he can and willingly falls into unconsciousness.

He wakes up confused, shivering, cold, aching, still tied up, still blindfolded, lying on something that feels like dirt. He focuses his ears above the blood pounding in his head and hears a bird caw, hears distant cars. He’s outside. He’s free.

The ropes around his wrists are looser now, and he manages to wriggle his hands free, feeling his wrists grow slick with blood.

As soon as he gets a hand free, he’s reaching up to tear off the blindfold, noting with discomfort the pulling feeling on every single injury on his torso. It comes away, and...he still can’t see. Because it’s night, he reminds himself, blinking hard. A few stars twinkle in the sky, and faint moonlight comes through a cloud. He turns his gaze to his surroundings as he unties his ankles.

He’s on a dirt path, surrounded by trees. They grow denser to his right and seem to disappear to his left. He hopes that means there’s a road, rather than some kind of cliff.

He slowly gets to his feet, legs shaking underneath his weight. His body aches, and it feels like the hardest task in the world to just take a step, but once he starts walking it gets a little easier. He curls an arm protectively around his torso and starts off at a slow limp for the edge of the trees.

A road. He’s never felt luckier in his entire life. It’s a fairly small road, with no cars on it and no lights on in any of its buildings, but it’s a road, and that means people, somewhere. People that can hopefully help him.

He looks around, squinting in the darkness, shivering in the cool nighttime air. There are no visible landmarks, just vague shapes that might be buildings or might be nothing at all. He wishes that the clouds would uncover the moon.

Which they do, after a time. The moonlight reveals nothing but an empty stretch of road and a solitary billboard. Great, he thinks, and then he looks at the billboard again and realizes that he knows it - he’d driven past it earlier, on his way to the house he’d been exploring. It can’t be far, then. He doesn’t know whether he should really go back there, but it’s the only familiar thing he can think of, and familiarity sounds pretty damn good, so he sets off.

At some point, he passes the billboard. The moon disappears back behind the clouds, and when he turns around he can’t see the billboard at all. He wonders for a horrible second whether or not he’s delirious and imagining things, and then he sees lights up ahead. He goes towards them instinctively, not particularly caring who they might belong to. He’s nearly gotten close enough to make out distinct figures when he hears footsteps behind him, and the sound of a gun clicking.

He raises trembling hands into the air, hoping he’s not about to get killed after all of this.

“Who are you? Turn around slowly,” says a voice, and Nick knows that voice. He’s safe.

Any adrenaline that might’ve been in his body leaves it all at once, and he collapses to the ground, which hurts quite a lot, but the relief of lying down more than makes up for it.

Until he feels a gun press into his back.

“Stop, stop,” he mutters, hoping he’ll be heard. “‘S me. ‘S Nick.”

“Nick?”

He nods jerkily, face scraping against the asphalt. The gun leaves his back, and he feels himself get turned over, then finds himself looking directly into the face of his boss. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more grateful to see the man in his life.

Renard is still for a moment, kneeling in front of him on the ground, looking him up and down.

Nick waits for him to finish doing...whatever the hell it is he’s doing and ask him what had happened. But the question never comes. Instead, Renard very gently helps him up into a sitting position. Then he pulls off his jacket, and Nick wonders what he’s doing, because it’s really cold out here, and if he had a jacket on right now, he wouldn’t take it off for the world.

And then there is a jacket on him, Renard’s jacket, too big but incredibly warm and dry, and he burrows himself into it as much as he can, grabbing its edges and pulling it tighter around his body.

“What’s happening?” he hears someone say from above him. He resolutely does not look up at them, in fact scrunching his eyes shut. He really doesn’t want to share anything with anyone at the moment.

“I found him,” Renard says, and Nick experiences a shocking array of emotions in a few seconds as he realizes that there’s people out here who were looking for him. “Or, he found me.”

There’s a bit of chatter that he doesn’t really focus on, and then Renard’s hand is on his shoulder, and he’s asking whether Nick wants to tell them about it.

He really doesn’t. He shakes his head, feeling slightly overwhelmed as everything that had happened to him starts to sink in.

“Okay, that’s fine,” Renard says, which is definitely not what Nick is expecting him to say.

His next statement is not addressed at Nick. “Clear up,” he says, and Nick hears feet moving away. “Thank you all for your help, but Detective Griffin and I have it handled from here.”

Hank.

Nick hears another pair of feet approach and opens his eyes, relieved when the only people he sees are his Captain and his best friend.

“Hey,” Hank says, sounding concerned but not pitying. “How are you doing?”

Nick shrugs. “Cold,” he says. “Wet...achy. Pain.” Not the most coherent sentence he’s ever uttered, though he figures it gets his point across well enough.

“I bet,” Renard says, rather gently. “We’ll get you to the hospital, and they’ll fix all that for you.”

He nods. The hospital...actually sounds pretty good, for once. He feels someone pick him up, very gently, though it hurts like hell anyway.

He finds himself in the backseat of Renard’s car, lying down with his head across Hank’s lap. He’s pretty good for a makeshift pillow, Nick decides, as Renards starts the car.

A short drive later, he’s being picked up again, and he watches with unfocused eyes as various doctors hurry up to their little group. Someone comes up with a gurney, and then he’s being set down onto it, and then he’s moving and Renard and Hank aren’t there, which is a scarier feeling than he’d like to admit, but then something pokes into his arm and everything fades away.

He wakes up hurting less, feeling rather warm and very much dry. He feels a bandage on his face, another on his shoulder, something wrapped around his torso…

“You awake?”

He blinks his eyes open and looks around for a second, until he sees Hank. He gives him a tired smile, which Hank returns.

“Feeling better?”

Nick nods. “Much,” he says. “Thanks.”

“No thanks for me?” comes a voice from his other side.

Nick turns around carefully, eyes landing on Renard, standing next to the bed with what looks like two steaming hot cups of coffee in his hands.

Renard must catch Nick’s eye, because he steps around the bed and hands one of the cups to Hank, pulling the other close to himself. “Sorry, no coffee for hospital patients,” he says, almost smiling. Nick gives him the same tired smile he’d given Hank.

“How long until I’m not a hospital patient?”

Renard sighs. “A day at most. Nothing required stitches, but they’d like to keep you for observation for a while.”

Nick nods. “Thanks,” he says, figuring Renard will understand he doesn’t just mean thanks for the information.

Renard nods. There’s silence for a second.

“Nick…”

He knows what’s coming.

“I’ll file a report,” he assures his boss. “Just...not until I’m out of here.”

“Okay.”

He’s immensely grateful that neither of them presses him to talk about it any further. He will talk about it, he knows, and it’ll be fine, but for the moment, everything’s a little too raw and he’s a little too tired to be able to do it.

His eyes slip closed, and he hears Renard leave. Hank doesn’t move, staying right where he is, and Nick knows this means he’s safe, so he gives in to sleep.

thanks so much for reading!! love u <3

#febuwhump2021 #febuwhumpday12 #who are you?#grimm #nick burkhardt #tortured #my writing #i say things

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penpatronuswhump · 4 years

Photo

WHUMPTOBER 2020

No.9

Fandom: Avengers

Whumpee: Tony Stark

Caregivers: Steve Rogers, Bruce Banner

Title: Into the Dark, Part 3

By: PenPatronus // PenPatronusAooO

Author’s Note: Read “Into the Dark: Part 1” and “Into the Dark: Part 2” before you read this! 1 was published on day 3 of Whumptober 2020 and 2 was published on day 6.

“Stop, please,” Tony begged. “I don’t want to.”

Steve sat down on the floor so that he could make eye contact with the child. “Hi, Tony. Do you know who I am?”

“I don’t want to wake up.”

“Your brain is healing perfectly. You should wake up. Why don’t you want to?”

“Because it’s safe in here. Out there, there are nightmares.”

Steve patted the floor in front of him. “Why don’t you come out here and tell me about the nightmares.”

The child hesitated, then complied. He scooched out on his stomach. He was holding a Captain America doll in his arm. Tony held it up and said, “I know you.”

“That’s right. And I know you. We’re friends.”

Child Tony frowned. “We were in a – a mine. Bad guys were chasing us. Clint got hurt.”

“That happened a month ago, Tony. You’ve been in a coma for a month. We’d really like for you to wake up now.”

Tony lowered his head. “People always want something from me. Mom wants me to do chores, dad wants me to learn how to build a motorcycle, my nanny wants me to dress up for dinner every night… Everybody wants to tell me what to do.”

The room changed. The posters of various rock bands replaced most of the Captain America posters. Toys disappeared. More than one table was piled high with all sorts of metals and wires. Cap wasn’t sure if they were in the same room or a dorm room. The child turned into a teenage Tony.

“People expect so much of me,” teenage Tony told Cap. “I’m supposed to be like my father – I’m supposed to be bigger and better than my father. I’m supposed to take over the company someday, but, do I want to?”

Steve told himself to go with the flow. Be patient. Listen. “Do you want to?”

Teenage Tony shrugged. “I just wanna party – kiss girls and drink and smoke weed and forget about all this. That would be so… Easy.”

“Sometimes what’s easy isn’t what’s best,” said Cap quietly.

“It makes the nightmares go away…”

The room switched again. Cap stayed still while it swirled around him – making him dizzy. Tony now stood in his father’s office. A newspaper on the desk read, “Howard and Maria Stark Killed in Car Accident.” Cap stood up. Tony had his back to him. “You’re right,” he told him. “There are a lot of nightmares out in the world. But there’s a lot of good, too.”

The room was replaced by a dark cave. Terrorists were waterboarding Tony to within an inch of his life. Cap had to remind himself that this was just a memory, a dream, to keep himself from wringing those assholes’ necks. He knew Tony had been kidnapped and made to build a missile in the desert, but he didn’t know he’d been tortured. More memories – more things Steve didn’t know about. The arc reactor almost killed him?

“I don’t want to be here,” Tony said when they saw Whiplash. “Let’s go. Let’s get out of here. Run!”

Tony literally did start running, and Steve chased after him into the darkness.

And then they were in New York, a month ago, and Cap and Tony were watching Iron Man carry a nuclear missile through the portal. “Nooooo,” Tony groaned. “Not here…” There was nowhere to run. The scene followed Tony out into space where the suit wasn’t designed to go. The missile hit the mothership. Tony fell backwards. The portal shut. The portal shut, but dream Tony and dream Steve stayed on the other side, watching as the mothership exploded, only to reveal more Leviathan, more ships – some twice as big as the Chitauri’s. Some big enough to block out the suns.

“That’s what’s coming next,” adult Tony said, gesturing at the larger ships. “I see them. In my dreams. There are bad guys out there in the universe we can’t begin to comprehend. There’s one – he’s in my head – I sometimes hear his voice, but I never see his face or know his name. But, it’s like we’re connected somehow. Like we’re cursed… He’s the endgame. And he knows MY name.”

Steve put his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “That’s why we need you to wake up. To help us fight what’s coming next.”

Tony shook his head. “It’s too big,” he whispered. “Even for the Avengers.”

“Nothing’s too big when we’re together,” Steve insisted. “You, me, Thor and the others… There’s nothing we can’t beat.”

Tony finally looked at Steve – looked him straight in the eye with water in his own. “You sure about that?” he whispered.

Steve added his other hand to Tony’s other shoulder. “Listen to me, Tony. Listen to me. These nightmares, they’re not going to go away if you hide in here forever. You have to confront them. You have to wake up. We need you. Sounds like the universe needs you, too.”

Tony stared back, face pale and lax. “The universe is asking too much. What if – what if I can’t do whatever it is I’m meant to do?”

Steve squeezed his shoulders. “I swear, whatever happens, I’ll be beside you the whole time.”

The pair turned to look at the spaceships approaching them. “I’m building something,” Tony whispered. “Something to protect this planet. A suit of armor around the world called Ultron. Because if I can’t protect us, maybe it will…” Tears returned to Tony’s eyes. “You’ll be there when I wake up? You swear?”

“I promise,” Steve assured him. “I’ll be right there.”

“Ok… Maybe it won’t be so scary then.”

“Wake up, Tony. Just wake up. Just wake up.”

Outside in the “real world,” Bruce stood in front of the television watching the entire scene with a hand against his mouth. The doctors and nurses and police officers who had busted their way through the barricade stood beside him, equally mesmerized by the exchange between Steve and Tony.

The screen went blank. And then a voice behind them said, “Bruce?”

Everyone in the room whirled around to see a groggy Tony Stark sitting up in hospital bed. “What happened?” He turned his head and saw Steve lying unconscious beside him. “WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?”

Bruce grinned, crossed the room, and stabbed a pre-prepared needled into Cap’s arm. Everyone watched as his life signs and brainwaves improved moment by moment. “I told you I only killed him a little bit,” Bruce said to the officers. “Had everything under control.” He gave Tony an I-mostly-had-it-under-control look.

Steve woke with a start. “What happened?” he sputtered. “Tony?”

Tony waved. “Were you in my brain?”

“I think so. Do you remember what happened?”

“No,” Tony lied. “Just that you were intruding, you jerk.”

“I don’t remember anything, either,” Steve lied. They both looked at Bruce.

“Yeah, I saw everything,” Banner admitted. “It was… You two were cute.”

“Cute?” Steve and Tony sputtered.

“Like a Hallmark movie.”

Steve and Tony suddenly realized they were in the bed and Steve rolled out of it. “You’re ok, though?” Steve asked his friend.

Tony shrugged. “Yeah, but I see that no one bothered to give me a haircut.”

A month later. Steve knocked on the door to Tony’s office in the Tower. “Hey.”

He caught Tony staring at a framed picture of his father on the edge of his desk. “Yeah. Hey. Have a seat.”

Steve did. He hated sitting across from people at desks. No matter who it was, there was always an implied hierarchy. “Listen, uh, I have a confession.”

“Oh?”

“Last month. When Bruce did that mind meld thing… I remember. I remember everything that happened. Everything.”

Tony nodded. “I do, too.” He cleared his throat. The pen in his right hand clicked over and over. “Never thanked you. I should do that now.”

Steve waved his hand. “No need.”

“There is a need,” Tony insisted. “You saved me back there. In the mine, in my mind… I’d still be in a coma if it weren’t for you.”

Steve shook his head. “You would’ve found your way back to us one way or another.”

“Thing is… I don’t think so,” Tony admitted. “I don’t think so at all.”

The pair sat in a heavy silence for a minute. Then one corner of Steve’s mouth popped up. “You didn’t actually say thank you.”

“Huh? Sure I did.”

“No, you talked about thanking me, but you didn’t actually say it.”

“I swear I did.”

Cap put his hands up, surrendering. “Ok, ok. Whatever you say.”

Tony squinted. “Well, just in case…” He sighed. “Thank you, Steve.”

“You’re welcome, Tony.”

The End

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