#amowmm.b1

[hurting-fictional-people]

Sometimes, it’s still hard to believe they’re actually safe, actually warm and fed and comfortable. Curled up under a blanket in front of the tv, Whumpee sighs and closes their eyes, paying attention to the soft feel of a clean cotton shirt against their skin, the warmth and fluffiness from the blanket, the softness of the couch cushion under them. It took them a while, but they had relearned that they do deserve love and respect, they are a person, they can go up on furniture and make decisions. 

Still, some days, when they are half asleep, they forget for a moment where they are, and it’s both terrifying and amazing to realize it wasn’t all just a dream.

“Hey, what are you thinking about?” 

With a crooked smile, they look at Caretaker, curled on the other side of the couch, eyeing them curiously.

“Nothing. Why?”

Caretaker shrugs but doesn’t take their eyes off them. “You made this thoughtful face, I was just curious.”

“I was just thinking about how soft the blanket feels,” they guarantee. Not a lie, but also not the entire truth. They know the face Caretaker will make if they tell them they forgot for a second that the comfort and the safeness were real, and the night is way too good to be ruined by sad thoughts.

Caretaker opens their mouth, ready to reply, but before they can, the doorbell rings.

“It’s the pizza!” Whumpee exclaims, jumping up.

“I have never seen someone so excited about classic junk food,” Caretaker says, rolling their eyes. Whumpee simply smirks as they leave the living room and stride to the door, grabbing money from Caretaker’s wallet on the way. They might be eating pizza every week without fail for a year now, but they still remember rather vividly what it was like to get only old bread and water as sustenance.

Shuddering away the memory, they yank the door open with a little smile playing at their lips, hands already reaching up.

…only to be quickly pulled away when a broad figure almost falls over them.

The person catches themself on time, leaning against the doorframe to keep standing, one hand grasping it with white knuckles while the other stays tightly pressed to their abdomen. To a red stain that seems to be growing with each passing second.

“What– who…” Whumpee starts, but the words fail them. “What the fuck,” they mutter to themself, taking a hesitant step closer.

“I didn’t, didn– h-have any…where else to go,” they mumble, looking up through sweaty strands of hair.

It’s the voice that makes Whumpee halt. They know it better than their own. Had been ordered and punished and praised by it. And even if they hadn’t recognized the sound, those blinking eyes, even hazy with pain, are unmistakable.

“Whumper?”

Whumper only whimpers softly in response, leaning harder against the doorframe. 

They had dreamed about that sound too, many times. The time when Whumper would be the one hurting, the one crumbling to the ground in a boneless heap, the one under the whip or the taser or the knife. And although in the dreams it felt like justice, in real life it felt like fear. 

“What… I don’t– what happened?”

Flashes of their time with Whumper blink under their eyelids unbidden. Suddenly trembling, they bring a hand to their neck, just to make sure that there isn’t a collar there anymore – they can feel its weight around their throat, the tight leather always choking them. Even when they are met with only soft, lightly scarred skin, the tightness in their throat doesn’t go away.

“I need, need he-elp,” Whumper groans, reaching out to grab their hand. 

Frozen in time, Whumpee lowers their head and lets Whumper hold onto them to keep standing. Pets never pull away from their Masters, after all.

It’s only when they pull Whumpee out of the door that reality comes crashing back and they yank their hand free, wide eyes and hitching breaths, but still a person. Still at home – safe, warm, rescued.

“Why should I help you?” Whumpee hisses, tears welling up in their eyes. It’s all they can do to keep from falling down in a sobbing mess. “All you ever did was hurt me. You never had mercy, no matter how much I begged or complied.”

For one moment, one fleeting instant, Whumpee waits for an apology. Or maybe a plead.

What they get instead is a growl and a threat. 

“Whumpee,” Whumper calls in a voice that nearly sends them to their knees, “You’ll h-help me, b-because I said so.”

A puddle of crimson shines in the moonlight, dripping to Whumper’s feet. Their breathing is coming in short gasps, their body leaning completely against the door now. They barely have the energy to keep their head up, let alone strength enough to force themself inside the house – Whumpee knows they would have done it already if they could.

They take a moment to just stare. Take in the view of the person they loved and hated and feared, hunched and swaying on their feet at their doorstep, so lonely they came to their former captive for help. It’s a pitiful view and one that gives Whumpee a twisted kind of satisfaction. And a surge of guilt soon after – but still. That is Whumper there. 

It’s hard to believe that that feeble person is the same one who had hurt them so many times. Who had made them into someone so completely new, they were still picking up the pieces a year later, still fighting their training and their memories. Still trying to understand who they were and who they’d become. All because of Whumper.

“I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to,” they whisper, voice quivering but words clear. Whumper coughs and looks up, and Whumpee straightens up at the glare. “I don’t owe you anything. For all I care, Whumper, you can fucking die.”

With one last long glance at Whumper, they step back and close the door with a soft thud, and a satisfying click from the lock. They walk back to the living room with their heart hammering and their hands trembling, but their steps seem lighter somehow. They feel like freedom. True freedom.

“Hey, what took you so long?” Caretaker asks when Whumpee sits on the couch again, covering their shaky hands with the blanket. “And where’s the pizza?”

“It was someone lost, they thought someone else lived here,” Whumpee states, mildly surprised that their voice sounds completely calm and collected.

With a warm smile at Caretaker, they turn the tv back on, even though they can’t hear it under the roar in their ears.

Later, after the pizza comes – and thankfully Whumper is nowhere to be seen and the blood is easily missed by the delivery guy in the dim lighting –, while Caretaker is boiling water for some tea before bed, Whumpee calls 911 to tell them about a weird guy bleeding out in the neighborhood, half hoping it is already too late. 

#amow march madness #amowmm.b1 #doorstep collapse #whumper return #whump #whump writing #whump recovery #aftermath of whump #pet whump recovery #collar mention #referenced torture #referenced captivity #blood cw #wounded #revenge whump

[alexversenaberrie]

March Madness (week 1): Betrayal

#amow march madness #princess leia #amowmm.b1 #betrayal #empress leia #leia organa #leia #dark leia #luke skywalker #star wars #march madness

[redstainedsocks]

Human Again

For @amonthofwhump’s March Madness for the whump trope: choking

Here’s my whumpee Zach having a very bad wake up call. I know the previous four Zach pieces have been post-escape but, and hear me out here, he was just in need of some whumping. So have some out of context, out of order, pain. (Read more high up the piece for vaguely referenced thoughts of noncon)

Warnings: Forced nudity, implied torture, implied past noncon, choking, noncon kissing, shotgunning cigarette smoke, smoking, cigarette burns, manhandling, antagonistic language, blindfolds, captive whumpee, nausea mention, food mention, prisoner denied food

Zach woke up naked. He woke up stiff and sore, and though he knew he was on the thin mattress that was granted as his bed—he could smell the musty stink of it—he had no idea how or when he got there. 

The two things combined were enough to turn his stomach, and bile crawled up his throat. There were fuzzy memories, blurred indistinct ones of beatings and being bent over a table… but was that the last thing that had happened? Or was there more? Was that even yesterday, or two days ago? It all mixed up together, and he couldn’t work out what had happened when, or which thing it was that had made him lose consciousness. Was it drugs again? An electric shock? Or just the accumulation of pain and fatigue and he’d passed out naturally?

He only knew he must have been out a while to have been brought back to his cell. Not knowing if anything more had happened while he was unawares he shivered and curled up, wishing for a blanket to cover himself with. As he moved he felt the protest in his bruised ribs and moaned as he clutched his side. 

“Ah, he lives,” came a smarmy, grunt of a voice. 

Great, Mack, of all people, was here. 

Zach opened his eyes to better defend himself against whatever Mack had in mind and found something still blocked his sight. He groped for his face, arm numb from his own dead weight crushing it. 

“Leave that,” Mack said. “Don’t you fucking dare touch it, that’s your first rule of the day.”

Zach swallowed, groaned again and pushed himself to sit up, hyper aware of every inch of skin on display. He smelled Mack’s cigarettes before he heard the man move, felt the stale smoke waft over his face and another roil of nausea that it brought with it. He lifted a hand to rub his nose and coughed onto the back of his hand to try and rid the smell and the almost-taste of it from his body.

Mack’s hand—probably, unless someone else was here too—caught his wrist and squeezed painfully. “You deaf today or some shit, I said don’t touch your fucking face.” Mack twisted his hand until the skin pinched beneath his grip, and the joint protested. Zach hissed in pain and lurched into action to try and grapple his hand free, digging nails into the back of Mack’s hand.

Mack held on for a few more long moments before he shoved Zach, freeing his wrist, and he scooted further away from where he thought Mack was crouching.

“Actually you said not to touch the blindfold,” he replied tersely. “Try thinking before you speak it might help you get your point across.”

Mack grabbed the back of his neck, fingers curling into the ends of his hair and yanked his head back. Zach hadn’t known to brace for it and the jerk sent a wave of pain that ricocheted down his neck and jarred something in his aching hip. “Far too mouthy you little shit. If it were up to me I’d sew that mouth of yours shut.”

“But then how would we have these little chats I know you love so much?”

Another puff of smoke rolled over his face and he wrinkled his nose, stomach churning. He needed food, water... he needed proper rest, not just to pass out after some torment or other and wake up bruised and sore. Resigned to not getting enough of any of those things he focused on the slight sense of satisfaction of irritating Mack instead.

He heard the hiss of the cigarette being dragged on and hoped it was nearly gone. It was fruitless hoping when fingers gripped his jaw until his lips puckered, the heat of the cigarette sizzling far too close to his skin, held in the fingers that gripped him. Then Mack’s lips were on his and he sucked in a breath of surprise only to inhale a mouthful of smoke.

He sucked it down, drawing it into his lungs in surprise, hoping and hoping for clean air to come on the back of it. Mack’s lips were a seal over his own that breathed the filthy, cloying stuff from his own mouth—expelled it forcefully right to the back of Zach’s throat. 

Zach’s lungs grew tight and full and he needed to exhale but Mack’s mouth was still smacked over his own and his tongue was in Zach’s mouth too, invading and claiming and bitterly acrid. Zach grew dizzy, swayed forward as his lungs tried to force the shotgunned smoke back out, he coughed and wheezed and batted at Mack weakly. Over the sound of his own hacking coughs he heard Mack’s laughter. Why was it always funny to these pricks? Why did they have to delight in making him suffer or making him ill? 

The weight of it all was enough to drive him flat back onto the mattress, gasping for breath, aware he wasn’t going to catch a break here. Not even given a moment to try and process and remember the previous day’s horrors before the current day’s began.

“Your mouth has other uses too, I guess. Wouldn’t want to miss out on those,” Mack’s shoe nudged him.

He was about to respond when Mack’s heavy weight descended on top of him, driving more air from his lungs. The hand was back and it caressed his jaw as he grew tight as a bow string, muscles locked like he could fight this, change whatever was about to happen by being ready. Mack’s calloused hand slipped lower and closed around his throat... and squeezed. 

It trapped the air in his lungs, stopped the coughing in its tracks and he arched up, kicking his legs looking for the pressure to lessen. Mack held him on the knife edge of breathlessness until he went limp, allowed him a precious few wheezing breaths and then closed his hand again while he blew another round of smoke into Zach’s gasping mouth. 

Zach squirmed as his chest failed to expand and his lungs didn’t fill, the black behind the blindfold going haywire with flashes of light and colour and then fading to grey. There wasn’t room for breathing or thinking, he was only animal—desperate, hungry and directionless with the fear that came hot on the heels of being pinned down and choked out.

He clawed and kicked, begged with soundless words as he tried to make the shapes and couldn’t find enough air to give them voice.

Mack pressed tighter one more time and then released. Just as Zach thought it was over a burning, blinding pain sparked to life on his shoulder. He writhed, still sputtering inhaled smoke while a scream—half surprise as well as pain—was forced out of his throat. He smelled his singed flesh as well as the ashes of a cigarette on his shoulder. With a heavy hand he blindly flicked the hot ash from his skin, feeling it smear on his fingers with intense heat. He knew the scent would linger on his hands for a while, like some sick sort of reminder of the mornings activities.

“I’d miss that scream too, oooh man, you’re like a little girl sometimes. Can’t handle a little ciggy?”

Zach grit his teeth while tears swelled hotly behind his eyes and he only hoped to keep them at bay. He felt sluggish, no idea if it was from whatever knocked him out, or the lack of breath in his body, or just the general exhaustion and constant suffering. He almost began to laugh, and caught it before it turned into a pitiful whine. Drawing more attention to himself for being strange wouldn’t help him now.

“Think fast,” Mack said and a thud of something heavy landed on his chest with a slosh and a thud. “Drink up. Boss wants you in the training rooms today.”

Grateful for the fresh bottle of water, and hating that he was, Zach fumbled to screw the cap loose. The water soothed his abused throat, settled his stomach a little. Made him feel, briefly, more human. 

Mack pulled him off the mattress and to his feet and shoved a pair of loose trousers into his hands, holding him steady with a thumb pressed firmly on the spot Zach had just been burned. Zach steeled himself and ignored the sharp pain. He stepped one foot and then the other into the trouser legs, leaning on Mack for balance while he couldn’t see.

“Now you’ve got your modesty let’s fuckin’ get on with it, step to it Griffin, time to go see what else you’re good for today.”

With tired, heavy feet Zach followed where Mack steered him. Whatever dregs of human decency he was given were always taken away sooner or later. He wondered if today would be a day he remembered, or if it would fade and be lost to some indescribable pain like the day before. He shuddered, unsettled by the idea that maybe it was kinder if he forgot; if the memory was choked out of him into oblivion so he could sleep deeply and soundlessly. If all the days bled into one, would he really be living them? Or could he float through them like the moments he drifted, lacking in oxygen, somewhere between consciousness and sleep. 

He hated that that seemed appealing and wrapped a tentative hand around the bruises forming on his throat and pressed down, just because he could, just to feel the pain because he chose to for once; just to remind himself he was still very much alive, awake, and human, and that was worth fighting for.

#amow march madness #amowmm.b1 #choking tw #forced nudity #implied torture #referenced or implied noncon #noncon kissing #smoking tw #cigarette burns #manhandling #blindfolds #sensory deprivation #captive whumpee #food mention #denied food as punishment #nausea cw #cigarette smoke #strangulation tw #whumpee and whumper #captivity whump #out of order writing #bad language #derogatory language #defiant whumpee #exhaustion #Zach and Archer

[sableflynn]

a month of whump

thought i would try something different and write a series of 100-word drabbles for my eight chosen prompts for @amonthofwhump and it was tough! turns out i like being wordy too much. but it was a good experiment! 

contains: take me instead, defiant whumpee, choking, whipping, nightmares, escape attempt, doorstep collapse, whumper return

1. take me instead

She didn’t say the words. She didn’t need to.

She threw herself between her partner and their attacker without a thought, because it was necessary. If her partner was taken—if this man, this brute, had them completely at his mercy—she would never see them again.

She might still never see them again, but at least this way they would stay safe. If someone had to take the blow, she would offer her neck every time.

As her partner vanished into an alleyway and the attacker gripped her with cruel hands, she told herself this was the best option.

2. defiant whumpee

She refused to make it easy for him.

Her blow caught him off-guard, and she almost escaped until his fist cracked across her skull.

She made him work for every inch as he dragged her to the van, her snarled fuck yous lost in the screech of tires on gravel. As he wrestled her down and bound her wrists behind her back, the passing glow of a streetlight illuminated the bruises blooming across his face.

They dropped her in the dim warehouse and he stood before her, fists clenched. He asked his first question, and she spat at his feet.

3. choking

He paced before her, shoulders tense. He wanted names, locations, plans. She gave him curses, defiance, silence.

She couldn’t stall forever. Her face was already swelling from his beating, and he was becoming more brutal in his frustration. She prayed she wouldn’t let anything important slip when she inevitably lost.

He asked, and she ignored, and he snapped. He was on her at once, his hands wrapped around her throat, squeezing, squeezing. She couldn’t breathe. The world narrowed to his fingers crushing the life from her.

The last thing she heard was his growled threats before her world went black.

4. whipping

She knelt, her wrists tied to a pole. The back of her shirt was pulled over her shoulders, and a chill ran along her spine.

The man asked her a question. She said nothing.

A crack, and a line of fire across her back. She hissed through gritted teeth.

His question was angrier the second time. She set her jaw, and said nothing.  

The whip sounded a split-second before lashing her. She bit back a scream, and continued to give him nothing, and the whipping became more erratic. Her back was agony, skin splitting under his relentless attacks.

She screamed.

5. nightmares

When he was done with her, he unbound her wrists and left her in the darkness. She lay unmoving, wondering when he would be back, wondering if she would die here, wondering if her partner would ever know what happened to her.

Her eyes couldn’t adjust to the darkness. The shadows only held deeper shadows, shifting and blurring whenever she tried to focus. Half-formed shapes of monstrous men smothering her, the unblinking void tearing at her soul. She sobbed, and the darkness swallowed the sound.

She didn’t realize she was sleeping until she awoke. Thin morning light broke the darkness.

6. escape attempt

He had left her alone, and her hands were untied. She wouldn’t wait for him to return.

The first time she tried to move, her shredded back seized with agony. She shuddered and sobbed until the waves of fire ebbed.

The second time, she stood on unsteady legs and stretched to grasp the lone windowsill. Her arms were barely halfway lifted before the strain on her back became a paralyzing pain.

I won’t die here, she told herself. She wouldn’t give the man that satisfaction.

Breathing deep, she threw herself at the window before her body could process the pain.

7. doorstep collapse

She must’ve been leaving telltale smears of blood behind her, but she didn’t care. She was escaping.

Her mind was a haze as she forced herself to walk through winding streets under the cool dawn light, the concrete and steel of the warehouses eventually giving way to rowhouses and bright boulevards. Her breath caught in her chest as she saw the familiar peeling paint of her front door.

She just managed to climb the few steps before the events of the past twelve hours hit her in a wave of exhaustion. She sank to her knees, and the door opened.  

8. whumper return

Her partner lifted her in strong arms and brought her to the couch. Her head was spinning, but one thought persisted.

He knows we’re here, she said as they dabbed at wounds with a warm soaked cloth. He’ll come back for us.

Then we’ll be ready, her partner replied.

When he returned, they were ready.

She whispered to them what she’d seen in the warehouse, what vulnerabilities he’d shown—and they knew exactly how to destroy him.

Not dead, but chastened. Forced to retreat. They would have time to recover, to rest. To love each other.  

They would have peace.

#amow march madness #amowmm.b1 #whump #my writing #generic characters #writing is HARD idk how anyone does it #anyway stay tuned for your regularly scheduled over flowery over written emotional nonsense #trying to write exactly 100 words each was infinitely more exhausting than whatever i usually write lol

[evilwriter37]

Some Horrible Nightmare

Written for @amonthofwhump’s March Madness bracket 1, Trope: Wing Whump.

Rated: mature

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence

Pairings: none

Word Count: 2,906

Summary: Hiccup is captured by Viggo Grimborn, one of the richest men in the world, and Viggo wants to break him and add him to his collection. 

Hiccup couldn’t see in the dark. He didn’t know where he was - some kind of basement, maybe. He was without a shirt, his arms chained above him, leaving him vulnerable. The room was big enough for him to spread and stretch his wings, but he kept them close to his back, afraid of anyone or anything touching them. 

He didn’t know what had happened. One instant he had been at a bar, and the next he was in a car with his head lolling against a man’s shoulder. He hadn’t remained conscious for long, and now here he was, chained up and vulnerable and in the dark. 

Footsteps, heavy, like the person was wearing boots. Then blinding fluorescent lights flickered on with a series of clicks. Hiccup cringed, blinked against the sudden light. 

“There,” the man said in a British accent. “Now I can see you.” He came to stand in front of Hiccup, hands clasped behind his back, a pleased smile on his face. He was quite a bit older than Hiccup, his hair, beard, and eyes dark, his jaw square. He was taller than Hiccup too, by a few inches. He was dressed in a black suit. 

“Who the hell are you?” Hiccup asked, replacing his fear with anger. There were a million questions he wanted to ask, but why not get this one out of the way?

The man laughed lightly. “Viggo Grimborn. You might have heard of me?”

Yes, Hiccup had heard that name before. He didn’t check the news often, but sometimes the man’s name was in headlines. He was an affluent businessman who often avoided scandals. 

“What do you want with me?” Hiccup asked. 

“Well…” Viggo came forward, reached over Hiccup’s shoulder, and stroked the curve of one black wing. Hiccup shuddered, tried to pull back, but the chains wouldn’t let him go anywhere. He didn’t like it when people touched his wings without his consent. The Winged People were rare, so it happened quite frequently. The only one Hiccup really allowed to touch his wings was Astrid, his lover. “Let’s say I’m drawn to you.”

That sparked something in Hiccup. Drawn to him? Did that mean Viggo knew who he was? Had he been watching him, having someone else watch him? Why was he here? Why him?

“That doesn’t answer anything.” 

Viggo circled around to Hiccup’s back, and Hiccup fluttered his wings and pulled on his chains, but to no avail. He wasn’t getting out of this, whatever this was. 

“I’ve been watching you, Hiccup, my dear,” Viggo said, and Hiccup cringed at the term of endearment. There was no denying that this man was creepy as all hell. “Closely. For weeks now. You should see some of the pictures my employees got of you. Quite wonderful, I must say.”

“Why?” Disgust curled in Hiccup’s stomach, fear racing like ice through his veins. He’d been stalked for weeks and hadn’t even noticed. 

“Because I want you.” Viggo touched his right wing, ran his hand along the top of it, and Hiccup gave a warning growl, though, there was nothing he could do to stop him. “You’d look beautiful in my collection.”

Collection? What did that mean? Were the people and things in it living or dead? 

Viggo seemed to sense Hiccup’s nerves over this. “Not to worry, my dear. It’s a living collection.”

“So you want me as a prisoner?”

“Yes.”

Hiccup was trying his best not to panic. There had to be some way out of this right? Certainly his friends would notice that he’d gone missing and would search for him or alert the proper authorities. But how long was it until he was considered a missing person? How long did he have to stay with this Viggo Grimborn? 

“Though, there are some things we have to go through before I let you go upstairs,” Viggo said, still stroking his wing. “A process, if you will.”

“W-what process?”

“Breaking you.”

Now Hiccup laughed. He wouldn’t break for this man. He wouldn’t break for anyone. He knew his own will and strength, knew that he could take pain. His left leg had had to be amputated below the knee. He knew what agony was. 

“Enjoy yourself while you can, darling. It won’t be for very long.”

And then Viggo stopped touching him, and he was leaving, going back up the stairs, and turning off the light. Now, Hiccup was alone to contemplate everything that had just happened. Viggo wanted to use him as some prized toy. And what was with the “my dear” and “darling”? Was he… attracted to him? Were there other things he wanted from him? Sexual things?

Hiccup shuddered, and then he was hyperventilating, breathing much too fast. It didn’t take long for him to get dizzy or for his chest to hurt. He sagged in his chains, his prosthetic slipping on the floor. Even if the lights were on he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to see. He’d been kidnapped by one of the richest men in the world, a man who could throw money at any problem and make it go away or hush it up. Stalking and kidnapping apparently weren’t new to him. He’d be able to keep Hiccup, wouldn’t he? He had enough influence to do it.

And that scared him to no end.

---

Hiccup wasn’t given any food. Chained up like this, he would have to eat it out of someone’s hand like a dog, but right now, he was so hungry that he didn’t think he cared about how humiliating that would be. 

He hadn’t really slept, either. It was difficult to do so, forced standing like this. He didn’t know how long he was left down there. It felt like a day, maybe two. His body wanted food and rest, and so he actually perked up when there were footsteps on the stairs.

Two pairs of footsteps this time, one pair Viggo’s, the other heavier than his. Was he bringing someone down here to beat him?

The lights flickered on, and Hiccup squinted at the suddenness of it. He turned his head towards the stairs to see Viggo stepping down into the basement, in a suit like last time, followed by a big man that bore a little bit of a resemblance to him. Was this his brother? He didn’t know if he had a brother or not, but that’s what he looked like. 

“And how is our guest doing?” Viggo asked, coming to stand in front of Hiccup with the big man, who didn’t look impressed.

“You could have had the decency to unchain me,” Hiccup spat, not wanting to show that he was already beginning to lose his fire. He didn’t want to show that two days with no food and sleep was getting to him. 

“And have let you get away?” Viggo asked. “I think not. You could just take off into the air and never be seen again. No, no. We don’t want that.” He glanced at the big man beside him. “Have you met my brother Ryker? He’s the one who did such a good job of apprehending you.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Hiccup said sarcastically. “Congratulations. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.” He fluttered his wings a little, gave them a stretch. He’d been trying to keep his wings maintained by stretching them every once in a while, but he was pretty sure they needed grooming. 

“Now, when I said I would break you,” Viggo began, “I did mean your spirit, but also your body. I want to be able to let you roam free while knowing you can’t leave me.”

Those words sparked Hiccup with fright. Break his body? How? 

He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “And how are you going to do that?”

“I was going to let Ryker here take a swing at you.” Viggo stepped back, then gestured to Hiccup. “Have your fun, brother.”

“Wait! No, no! I-” Hiccup didn’t really know what he was going to say, but he didn’t get to finish as Ryker stepped forward and drove a huge fist right into his gut. The punch was incredibly hard, knocking the air out of him, bursting him through with pain. He slipped and the chains had to hold him up, tugging on his arms. He felt like he nearly passed out. 

While he was recovering, Ryker punched him again. And again. Hiccup lost track of where he hit him. He just knew that everything hurt and that there might be broken bones. He could hardly make a sound as it happened, just grunts and gasps for air. 

Then the flurry of blows stopped, and Hiccup sagged in the chains, making them rattle. He hung his head, panting, groaning. Ryker had avoided hitting his face. That was good at least, right? 

Viggo came over. He took Hiccup by the chin, forced his head up to make him look at him. 

Hiccup glared.

“Hm, a simple beating won’t take the fire out of you, will it?”

“Go to hell.” 

Viggo smiled at the remark, clearly amused. He let go of Hiccup’s chin. 

“I think I know what will break you,” Viggo said, circling around to Hiccup’s back. That made Hiccup’s hackles rise. His wings. He was talking about his wings.

Hands touched the base of them, ran over the strong bone at the top. Hiccup fluttered them to try to relieve them of Viggo’s touch, but he gripped them hard and kept them in position. 

“Don’t touch me there!” Hiccup shouted. 

“These will make you a fine addition to my collection.” Viggo completely ignored him, gave his wings a tug. Hiccup moaned in distress. “But after they heal.”

“H-heal from what?” Hiccup inquired fearfully. 

Viggo ran one hand over to the delicate finger bone on his right wing. Hiccup’s eyes went big. That would be easy to break.

“No, no, no!”

Viggo, of course, didn’t listen. Hiccup shrieked as the bone was snapped, his voice bouncing off the walls of the basement. Fire screamed through his nerves, and he couldn’t stop yelling. Tears formed in his eyes.

The tears fell as Viggo broke the same bone on the left with a twist of his hands. Hiccup just screamed with it. He tried to move his wing away, but oh, that hurt so bad. He tossed his head back, bellowing. He’d never felt anything like this before. People were usually careful about his wings. His friends certainly were, and so was Astrid. God, he wanted her to find him and take him from this horrible place. 

Viggo didn’t let go of him once the breaking was over. He ran hands over the soft feathers at the top, then down towards his flight feathers. 

“If you’re good, I won’t shear these off,” Viggo told him. Hiccup definitely didn’t want that to happen. There were blood vessels in his flight feathers, and nerves. Such a thing would hurt like hell. 

“Wh-what counts as being good?”

“Doing as I say and not trying to escape.” Viggo kept stroking his wings, and Hiccup cried at the pain and the unwanted touch. He hadn’t wanted to cry in front of these two men, but he couldn’t help it. “The better you act, the sooner you get brought upstairs.”

Viggo finally let go of him. Then he did something Hiccup hadn’t expected: he reached for the manacles around Hiccup’s wrists and began to undo them. 

Hiccup couldn’t hold himself up once the chains were off him, and he collapsed to the hard cement, surely scraping up his knees through his jeans. Ryker laughed rather hard, and Hiccup was afraid he was going to kick him.

“You know, I hate your stupid collection,” Ryker said to Viggo, “but I do like breaking in the pieces.” Then he did kick Hiccup, in the shoulder, making him go down with a grunt. 

Viggo sighed. “Yes, you’ve expressed your contempt many a time.” 

Hiccup flinched as Viggo leaned down and pet his hair. “Food and water will be brought down for you shortly. Be a good boy now.”

Those words and the touch made Hiccup want to spit on him, but he was in no position to do so. He just groaned at the pain in his body and his wings.

Then Viggo and Ryker left, Ryker giving him one last look as he ascended the stairs. The door clanged shut and was locked, and Hiccup was left alone.

Since he was alone, he cried. He wailed and sobbed. He’d been kidnapped by one of the richest men in the world, and he was trying to break him to add him to a collection of living beings, some probably like him. And now his wings were broken, and oh, how they hurt! He just wanted to be home, wanted to curl up on his bed with his cat and his lover. He wished that none of this had happened, that it was just some horrible nightmare.

It felt like an hour passed before the door unlocked and opened again. Hiccup had managed to stop crying, but hadn’t moved from his place on the floor. A tray of food was set next to him, and then whoever it was, a servant, probably, was retreating up the stairs and leaving him alone. Hiccup could have followed them up the stairs, but what was the point? He couldn’t fly away, he didn’t know where he was, and what if Viggo or Ryker found him? 

Hiccup had no appetite anymore. He pushed the tray away, then curled into a ball and lay on his side, leaving his wings spread. Bending them would definitely hurt more than this currently did. 

He wanted to cry again, but had no tears left. He felt like he would have been able to take starvation and beatings, but his wings were an intimate part of them. To have them defiled so… He didn’t know how to handle it. And he wished he didn’t have to handle it.

Hiccup closed his eyes against the bright lights, wishing for unconsciousness. 

---

Viggo visited him a lot, sometimes with Ryker, sometimes without. He bandaged his wings for him, but then wouldn’t stop touching them. So, Hiccup fought. He grappled with him and spit at him. What did that earn him? A kick to already-sore ribs and his flight feathers sheared off. Blood sprayed across the concrete floor and he was left screaming. 

It went on like that for a long time. Hiccup finally stopped refusing food. He didn’t exactly know why, other than the fact that he was incredibly hungry. Now wasn’t the time to psychoanalyze himself. 

Hiccup was sitting peacefully on the floor when Viggo came in. He had a brush with him. He sat behind Hiccup, began to undo his bandages to check how his wounds were doing. Hiccup was silent.

“How are you feeling today, my dear?”

Hiccup said nothing. Why should he have to respond to such an inane question? He was hurting, body and soul. How could he not be? His bruises were beginning to fade though, and his flight feathers were new stubs beginning to grow back. The pain in his wings wasn’t so bad anymore.

But he didn’t think of escape. 

Viggo began brushing his wings. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this. Hiccup had gotten very used to him touching them by now. 

“You know, I think you’re the prettiest piece I own,” Viggo said. The brushing felt good, and Hiccup couldn’t help sighing. He loved getting his wings groomed. That was usually an intimate task reserved for Astrid, but he had no choice but to let Viggo do it. “You might even end up in my bed.”

Hiccup didn’t know how to react to that. It didn’t surprise him though, not with the way Viggo had been treating him, not with the terms of endearment and gentle touches. 

“Wow, lucky me,” he said sarcastically, finally thinking of an answer.

Viggo huffed. “Don’t be so upset about it. I will treat you well. I promise.”

Hiccup didn’t believe him, but he said nothing. More sarcasm would probably end in punishment, and Viggo knew how to get to him now. Hurt any other part of his body - that was fine. Hurt his wings? He would break. 

Viggo began humming as he brushed Hiccup’s wings, and he wasn’t at all surprised to recognize a classical tune. His humming didn’t sound bad though, and that combined with the brushing left Hiccup in an almost dazed state of bliss. He just closed his eyes and let this happen, let his body relax.

He was disappointed once the brush stopped. Viggo stood, brushed himself off. There were some small, loose feathers on his suit. With the brush in his right hand, he held his left out to Hiccup. Hiccup looked at it, then glanced at his face.

“I-is it time?” Hiccup asked.

Viggo smiled. “Yes, I do believe you’re ready to go upstairs.”

Hiccup tentatively took Viggo’s hand, let him help him to his foot and his prosthetic. He was filthy after having been down here for so long without so much as a bath, but hopefully he would get one once he left the basement. Maybe the food would be better too. 

Together, he and Viggo went up the stairs, and this time when the door closed, Hiccup was not behind it.

#amow march madness #amowmm.b1 #wing whump #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #hiccup!whump #viggo grimborn #hiccup haddock #ryker grimborn #kidnapping #imprisonment #chains #httyd #how to train your dragon #rtte #race to the edge #fanfiction #writing

[thewhumpstuff]

Dislocated/Broken Bones

@amonthofwhump, here is yet another vote for Dislocated/Broken Bones. I’m really trying to belt these out as fast as I can now. Kind of wish I knew exactly when the votes were going to be counted, like... The specific time, y'know for us procrastinators and/or those who got in on this a lil too late. I’m going off on the assumption that it’ll continue to accommodate our westerners and so as a person in the european zone, I still have at least a few more hours to throw some more in. Fingers crossed, I have 3 more planned. Quoting my dear friend @SableFlynn, who got me into this march madness mess to begin with, and who was quoting someone else: "With a heavy heart I shall be tagging this as lady whump for… engagement." I better get some, or I would have given up my honour for nothing! (I jest... Only partially.) Things continue to get worse for our lady. Drabble below the cut for safety and length. Cw: Restrained, whipped female whumpee who proceeds to earn a dislocation injury. Creepy male whumper pulling out all the stops and going to town with his whip (implied) referred bleeding wounds and described dislocation. Reluctant male forced to watch.

Just like she had once rhythmically and incessantly banged her knee against the roof of the trunk from the inside… A tattoo of a beat played against her. It left a tattoo of intertwining red lashes on her skin too. It was a sharp sound, a cruel sound, one that hurt her, quite literally, and made anyone watching and listening to it - Aodhan - wince. Peter was an expert with the whip, which was initially surprising. He didn’t typically descend from his throne to personally attempt wrangling the kidnapped people into accepting their new roles. But it became obvious why the whip that sliced the air and landed against Kadri with such ease, why it looked like it could have been an extension of Peter’s limbs. It was because he no longer differentiated between the thick rump and hind-legs of his horse… and the lithe body in front of him. And Peter liked to ride his horses. It went on till another unique cry that Kadri had never let slip tore through the rhythm. It echoed in the cell and forced an eerie silence. In an attempt to twist away from the cruel implement, while still being limited by the binds that held her in a semi-strappado, her shoulder popped out of place - visibly. Aodhan turned away as her already contorted form, now turned an unfamiliar sort of grotesque. Peter was disgruntled at the pause. So much so that he didn’t pause and let a few more lashes rain against her, despite the seeming urgency of her injury. Each evoked a heart-shattering cry. Till Aodhan was once again forced to beg in her stead for mercy, and subconsciously he wondered if she would at least now, if she could. His feet carried them of their own accord and once he made contact with Peter’s he could sense the satisfaction and joy that reeked from him. Aodhan could sense just how much he wanted to go on and how irritated this pause left him. He wanted to exert his dominance, he wanted to feel like no one and nothing could stop him. Peter wanted this, almost like a need. Aodhan was eager to break contact, it was difficult to know how much joy this brought the cartel runner. Peter made it easier, the man with his rolled sleeves wrested away from Aodhan roughly. Aodhan let go eagerly, Peter turned to stare him down, with a wrathful challenge. For once, Aodhan didn’t flinch, or back down, he held his ground, but his pleas were garbled and desperate. “Please… Please stop. Please, just… stop.” Peter’s eyes darted from Aodhan to the breathless, blood-streaked, awkwardly buckled Kadri and then back to Aodhan again. He threw the crimson coated whip to the floor, “Fine, fix her then. I’m not done.” With that, Peter left the two of them alone, like he had so many times before. But never had things been this bad.

#amow march madness #amowmm.b1 #Dislocated/broken bones #lady whump #whump drabble #whump challenge #tempered grace #quill writes #oc Aodhan #oc Peter #oc Kadri #restrained whumpee #whipped whumpee #creepy whumper

[shapeshiftersandfire]

The Osprey and the Barn Owl, pt. ii

Emma plots her escape from Sinister’s lab. Without knowing what’s around every corner, she has to take her best guess and hope she can escape before the Marauders catch her.

previous

for @amonthofwhump​’s bracket challenge!

Bracket One; Trope: escape attempt

taglist: @whumpinggrounds​

cw: lady whump, wing whump, lab whump, collar mention, blood mention, stress position, threats to break bones, hair pulling, starvation mention, implied sleep deprivation, emma gets punched in the face, wing clipping

With no sunlight and no way to tell time, Emma tries to measure her stay in visits from Sinister and his lackeys. But the visits are so irregular, sometimes with long stretches of time between them and others with only a few breaths, that Emma can’t properly deduce whether it’s night or day or how long she’s been there.

She’s left with the perpetual ache in her shoulders and her wings, strung up in three directions with no relief. Only once so far have they let her down to relax her joints and finally fold her tormented wings.

They creak and smart and sting as she folds them, the places where her feathers have been ripped out throb; sharp pain runs through her wings when she moves them the right way. She sits for a moment, leaning up against the wall as the feeling comes back into her legs, trying to survey the damage done. But her arms are too sore to do much more than hang them at her sides and let the blood and feeling flow back into her fingers.

She doesn’t even have the strength to try to comb the blood from her feathers. The most she can do is wipe the tears from her face--and Sinister’s lackeys watch her do it. They stand in the doorway and watch her wipe the salty tear tracks from her face. Some watch with a smirk, others watch with indifference. Emma doesn’t know which she prefers more.

The Marauders give her a moment to compose herself, to catch her breath and clean her face of dried salt, before Multiple Man and one of his copies hauls her up and drags her out the door. Emma stumbles along at the center of a loose ring of Marauders. She can’t quite get her feet underneath her; her legs cramp and tingle and being in heels doesn’t help her cause. More than once she nearly twists her ankle, and fans her wings in an effort to keep herself upright.

But the action earns her a pair of hands clamped around the base of her already sore wings and her face slammed into the nearest wall. Emma cries out in pain and distress, the hands tighten around her wings, pulling at the tender joints, sending bolts of pain up her back.

“Wait--wait--” she tries to gasp out in between yanks on her wings. Any other words she tries to say come out as thin wails. She claws at the wall, desperate for some relief from the grip on her wings, but there’s none to be found.

“Try that again--” Arclight, it’s Arclight that has her pinned against the wall, Arclight whose hands are tight around her wings, whose fingers dig into her back, who twists just the right way and Emma screams, her knees buckling, even as Arclight holds her up-- “and I’ll snap your wings in two.”

Emma stiffens, hardly daring to breathe, and closes her eyes. She can’t close her wings, she’s not even sure she should move them, lest Arclight make good on his promise to break them in two. But after a moment the kite releases his hold on her and she drops to her knees, wings drooping to the floor.

Still, Emma manages to find her voice. “I assure you,” she says hoarsely, hoping her voice doesn’t waver with fear, “I have no intentions of trying anything of any kind.” Her arms shake with the effort to support her weight; her head spins.

“Good.” Arclight hauls her up again, this time by her hair, and drags her down the rest of the way down the hall.

“Let go of me!” Emma’s hands fly to her head, all at once trying to dislodge the iron grip Arclight has and trying to keep her wings still. Every instinct screams at her to flap them in desperation, anything to get him to let go and he won’t, and every jerk brings tears to Emma’s eyes. No matter how she protests, he doesn’t let go, not until they reach the end of the hall.

Someone opens a door wide enough for Arclight to throw Emma in. She hits the floor with a hard thump as the door is slammed shut behind her. The sound of the door slamming reverberates through her skull, making the radiating pain worse. Her hair aches down to the roots, and no amount of rubbing makes it go away immediately. Emma lays on the floor for a moment, clutching at the back of her head as though Arclight’s fingers are going to dig into her scalp at any moment.

But she’s alone, and when the ache finally fades as much as it will, Emma sits up and looks around. She’s in another gray room, smaller than her original one, with nothing more than a toilet and a sink.

Emma sighs. “Must everything in this facility be gray?” The design choices are less than appealing to her--and she wears white day in and day out.

The first thing she does is sit back against the wall, white on gray, the only color in this small bland landscape her pale hair and brown speckled wings. She shudders against the cold seeping through her wings. The cold does some good against the muscle aches in her back.

How much longer is she going to be here? How long is Sinister going to keep her strung up like that? It’s not a sustainable position, it’s not something he can leave her in for extended periods of time. She’s growing tired already, and it can’t have been more than a day. Every inch of her aches already, and she’d like nothing more than to curl up on the floor and sleep for a few hours. But she doesn’t have a guarantee they’ll grant her that.

Another few minutes and Emma finally hauls herself up off the floor with a sigh. She goes to the counter and looks into the mirror, finally seeing the dark circles lining her eyes, the dried salt still clinging to her cheeks, the smudged eyeshadow across the bridge of her nose. Only a day, and she’s already a mess.

And it’s only going to get worse.

She pulls her gloves off and sets them beside the sink. Her arms shake as she leans on the counter. She’s worn and exhausted, her body aches with the strain of being  strung up for so long, her wings are sore and swollen, bloodied and ruffled. Sinister’s attempt to look for a decent feather has left her feathers mussed and out of place. With whatever time she has to herself, she’ll have to clean up her wings and get them looking presentable again for however long they’ll last.

A wet paper towel is decent enough to get the blood off, but it's a tedious process that means scrubbing at her feathers a little harder than she’d like. The slightest bit of pressure near the missing feathers, now red and swollen and clotted with dried blood, sends bolts of pain through her wings. The most Emma can do is lay cold towels over the sites in the hopes of relieving the irritation and swelling as best she can.

Someone knocks on the door. “Five minutes.”

Emma sighs. A limited amount of time. She has to make the most of it.

With her last few minutes, she takes the time to relieve herself and drink as much water from the faucet as she thinks is safe--she doesn’t know when she’ll be let out again and she can’t take any risks.

She takes another moment to splash cold water on her face, washing away the dried tears and smudged eyeshadow. It does little to help her exhaustion, but she can’t deny she feels the slightest bit refreshed by such a simple thing. The cold water clears her head. And that’s when the thought finally crosses her mind: she needs an escape plan.

The X-Men haven’t yet come to break her out, and she can’t rely on them to get to her before things get worse. She’s seen some of the things Sinister has sitting around the lab. She’s seen what he’s done to Warren. She’s not eager to see what he has in store for her. But, if she plays her cards right, she’ll be out before he could even think about taking a knife to her wings.

With a plan in mind, and much to the disappointment of the Marauders--no doubt looking for another excuse to swing her around by the wings--Emma emerges from the restroom with time to spare.

Arclight’s displeasure is clear, but Emma offers no resistance. She quietly shuffles along, wings low, and uses this time to get a look at her prison.

Everything is gray, for starters, rather drab, really, though she doesn’t know what other color she’d expect a laboratory to be. Certainly not red. Red in a laboratory is never a good color to see, if her wings are any indication.

Every hallway, every door, every room she catches the briefest glimpse of is gray, and there’s hardly a distinguishing feature between them. What Emma can tell from the few hallways she can see down is that they don’t lead anywhere, only to more rooms and things she knows she doesn’t want to see--even as part of her wonders if she’s going to see them anyway--when Sinister inevitably cuts more from her than just small bits of her wings.

Her wings fluff up at the very thought.

She spots a few avenues she thinks could be promising, but of course without properly exploring them, she won’t know until she’s on her way out. There won’t be nearly enough time for her to test every single one of them; once the Marauders find her out of her cell, the hunt will be on, and she’ll have a finite amount of time before they catch her.

If only she had her telepathy…

But no, they took that from her the moment she came through the door. They made damn sure she’d never be able to use her powers against them. No one wants to worry about a telepath that could render them unconscious without even being in the same room.

Well… She’ll make due with what she has.

(And the moment she gets home, she’ll have Logan hack the damn collar off her neck and grind it into the floor with her heel.)

“Eyes to yourself,” Harpoon snaps, raising his wings to her.

Emma mantles her own, even when she knows she has no chance against the hulking eagle. But she’d rather have her wings broken in a fight than have them broken by a madman in the name of “science.”

“That’s enough.” Arclight steps between them, wings flared. “I won’t have any fights breaking out here.” To Harpoon, ignoring Emma entirely, he says, “Sinister needs her in one piece. You can break her wings when he’s finished with her. If there’s anything left." He shoots Emma a knowing glance. It only fuels her need to escape as soon as possible.

With that, they finish leading her back to her cell. Arclight simply guides her in, but makes no move to chain her. “Sinister has decided to hold on the restraints for now.” He scowls at her. “I don’t agree with it, but he seems to think you’ll be well enough behaved.”

Emma scoffs. “Of course. I have no intentions of running--”

She has every intention of running--

“--therefore I would hate to take advantage of Sinister’s hospitality.” She opens her bloodied wings for emphasis. Arclight says nothing.

When they leave, Emma slumps down against the back wall of the cell and tries to get some sleep. It’s all she can do.

                                                        [***]

When she’s next retrieved for a break, Emma doesn’t know if she’ll be able to pull off her escape. She’s weaker this time around; Sinister has started taking more from her than just a handful of feathers. Blood, tissue--Emma’s screams had echoed off the walls of the small cell and been loud enough even Arclight had petitioned Sinister to gag her the next time he wanted to cut into her wings--and she suspects he’ll be coming for bone next.

All the while, she’s been hanging by her arms with her wings splayed out behind her. The toothed clamps have been irritating her wings, rubbing little bald spots where they bite her. Her arms and wrists have begun to go numb and she’s lost all feeling in her legs. There’s no way for her to move to get comfortable without aggravating something else.

The pain in her body doesn’t give her much opportunity to refine the details of her escape plan, of which she doesn’t have many. She knows, at least, that when she’s taken out for another break she’s going to make a run for it and hope for the best. If she can find a way out before the Marauders catch her, she’s golden, if not...She doesn’t want to think about that.

Part of her wonders if Sinister knows she’s plotting something. He’s given her a look every so often as he works on her, as though he has an idea there’s something stirring in her head. She’s tried to keep the thought buried deep in her mind where he won’t find it; she doesn’t need her telepathy to know how to guard her thoughts, although it certainly helps.

On the other hand, she hasn’t felt Sinister trying to probe her mind for any thoughts of escape. So either he has his suspicions and says nothing, content to let Emma hang herself; or he doesn’t have the slightest inkling, thinking her too weak to attempt anything.

Well. She’s about to surprise him, isn’t she?

She’s barely got the energy to shuffle along with the Marauders. It’s only Arclight and Harpoon this time; the kite had called off the other three when they’d pulled Emma from the cell and decided she was in no state to be making trouble.

She’s about to surprise them, too.

Emma musters enough energy to look around without getting Harpoon’s attention. She’s committed her possible avenues of escape to memory, counted the halls and held on to the ones she thinks will be her ticket out. All that’s left for her to do is make a break for it.

She’s already decided she’s going to run after her break. She needs to get water on her face, the back of her neck; take a drink, clean her wings. There’s no sense in running with a sluggish mind.

Or an empty stomach, she thinks regretfully. Water is the only thing she’s had in her stomach for days, though it feels like longer. Oh, how she wishes they would give her something to eat. She can’t remember the last time she had anything.

Emma groans as she leans on the counter. The circles under her eyes have darkened. She’s grown pale. Her hair is mussed and greasy; her wings are bloodied, her feathers unruly; she’s gone bald in some places, between the yanking and cutting and the clamps. Every inch of her hurts.

What she really needs is a warm shower and something warm in her stomach. And what she wouldn’t give to have either of those.

She can’t decide which one she looks forward to more.

“Three minutes.”

Emma lets out a strained groan. “Please,” she tries to say, her voice tired and thin. They don’t hear her.

She uses every second of her time this time, to where they practically drag her out. She goes willingly, doesn’t fight them, doesn’t even so much as give a hint that she’s planning on running. It’s not hard, either. Emma is genuinely exhausted and nothing about her current condition says she has it in her to attempt escape.

But she does it anyway.

As they pass one of the few hallways Emma made a mental note of, she feels a slight breeze come down the hall. It smells fresh, not yet tainted by the stale lab air, and it’s comfortably cold against her wings. Arclight grumbles, something about someone leaving the door opened again, but for Emma, it’s an opportunity. And she takes it.

With as much energy as Emma can muster, she makes a break. She slips behind Harpoon and bolts down the hallway, following the breeze as it combs through her wings. There’s a commotion behind her as Harpoon and Arclight realize she’s taken off, momentarily shocked that she’s even able to take off at all, and the sound of Arclight radioing for the other Marauders echoes down the hall.

The footsteps aren’t long to follow. Emma is out of sight by then, or so she hopes; she doesn’t see anyone when she looks over her shoulder but that doesn’t mean they aren’t going to catch up with her soon. She rounds the corner. Two gray doors lay at the end of the hall, and Emma knows--she knows--that on the other side of those doors is the freedom she craves.

And she knows, no matter how sore and abused her wings are, she’s going to have to fly--and hope she can carry herself all the way home.

The Marauders aren’t far behind her. She can hear them getting closer with each step she takes. She pushes herself towards the doors, even as her body protests, unused to such activity after being chained in one position for so long. But she pushes, she runs faster, and then she’s out--warm air brushes her face, real air, not the stale, recycled air of the lab.

Real air, and trees, and the sun is warm on her face and her wings, it’s been so long since she’s seen the outside and she doesn’t want to go back in, not to Sinister--

The door flies open behind her, the Marauders are on her, if she doesn’t go now, she never will.

Emma unfurls her wings, even as they ache and smart and fiercely protest, and flaps once, twice, and then she’s off, she can just barely make out the horizon over the tree line. The city dosn’t seem so far away, and the Xavier Institute is just beyond that, she can get there no problem, it won’t take her long--and if she has to stop in the city she can take a cab if she needs to--

The trees begin to warp in front of her eyes. Her head spins severely, uncomfortably. Her stomach churns. She loses control of her wings; she can’t fly straight, she can’t fly at all, she needs to land--she needs to get away--and she can’t--she’s going down, and she’s going down fast.

No, no, no--

And then there’s a hand around her ankle and she’s not just falling she’s being yanked out of the sky. She hits the ground hard enough to see stars; the ground never stops spinning, it just spins differently. Black tinges the edges of her vision.

Emma rolls over, watching the clouds swirl above her head and thinking with tears in her eyes that it will be the last time she ever sees them. They’ve caught her, the Marauders caught her, and she’s never going to see the sky or the sun or the trees again.

Her last view of the sky is blocked by Harpoon. The eagle draws his fist back, Emma’s head clears as she realizes what’s coming.

“No, no--”

Harpoon’s face is the last thing she sees.

                                                        [***]

Thick, heavy pain pulses through Emma’s face. She can barely open her eyes. Black outlines her vision. Warm blood runs down her face, drips onto the floor. The sound is deafening. It echoes off the walls. It grates in her ears.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Emma can’t raise her head. Trying to makes her head pound and her stomach turn. She groans.

She’s chained up again. The soreness in her arms and her wings is painfully familiar. This time, she doesn’t have the strength to sit with the restraints, and instead she leans against them, straining her limbs further.

The door opens. Emma’s heart races.

She whimpers.

“I must say,” Sinister’s smooth voice rattles her head, “I didn’t expect you to run.” He tilts her head up to look at him. She can’t see much through her swollen eye, and her good eye is filled with tears. Sinister’s face is blurred.

“I must commend you,” he says, “for having that kind of audacity. You made it farther than any of us had anticipated.” He lets her head drop. “But I can’t let such a thing go unpunished, can I?”

Emma finds the strength to raise her head, blinking tears down her face. She should have known he would find some way to keep her from running again. She thinks somewhere in the back of her mind she knew there would be consequences to face for her attempted escape if she was caught, but she’d been so sure she’d get away that she hadn’t taken the time to consider it. Sh whines.

Sinister moves away from her and toward something at the front of the room.

She hadn’t noticed it before, the metal tray sitting across from her. On it are two instruments she can barely make out. Both of them are long and silver and look like blades of some kind. Her heart catches in her throat as she realizes what Sinister plans on doing with her. She lets out a strangled whine.

“Please…”

Sinister ignores her, turning away to look over the instruments on the table. “Be grateful I have no intentions of breaking your legs,” he says, glowering at her. “As for your wings...I have two options.” He lifts the first instrument, something Emma can barely make out as being a large pair of sheers. She lets out a thin wail.

“No, no, please…”

“Your wings will serve me better while they’re still attached.” He sets the sheers down. “But,” he says slowly, thoughtfully, hovering his hand over the second instrument on the tray, “I can’t risk you flying off again, can I?”

He picks up the second instrument. Nothing but a simple pair of scissors.

Emma pulls weakly at her restraints. “Please,” she begs, her voice heavy with tears, as she realizes what Sinister plans on doing. “Please, please don’t, please don’t.”

He ignores her pleas. “And that, Miss Frost, is why I’ve chosen to spare you the pain of a permanent grounding. A simple cut is all I’m going to give you. Quick and painless.”

“Please!” She struggles in her chains to no avail.

Still Sinister ignores her. He reaches down and grabs a handful of her feathers; the overwhelming wave of discomfort and nausea-inducing feeling of wrong makes Emma’s head spin. She can’t look, can’t bring herself to look at her feathers in Sinister’s hand, or the scissors he’s about to use on her.

“No,” she whimpers, finding her voice, harsh and ragged, “no, please, don’t--don’t take them from me!”

The cut doesn’t hurt, but Emma screams all the same.

#wolverine and the x men #emma frost #mr sinister #nathaniel essex #wing au #wingfic #lady whump #wing whump #lab whump #collar mention #blood mention #stress position #threat of broken bones #starvation mention #implied sleep deprivation #hair pulling #wing clipping #holy fuck this got long i'm so sorry #amowmm.b1 #amow march madness #escape attempt

[angst-is-my-friend]

Written for @amonthofwhump March madness

Prompt used:Wing whump

She had wings. It shouldn’t be that big of a surprise with the way he had seen things heading. But somehow, seeing them now coming out of his partners back, it was a different story.

And he was enraged. August saw Oakley struggle to sleep. He saw her crying as he rubbed her back and he saw her shying away from mirrors and throwing on big clothes before going out. And somehow none of that compared to seeing the bones push through her back as they had been for the past few months and actually come out of her skin. Nothing compared to the way he saw her clutching the bathroom sink and sobbing as he helped them out. And nothing, absolutely nothing compared to the knowledge that it was caused by those dirty, rotten, foul excuses for humans, coworkers that did this. He could do nothing. And he was enraged.

So he just quietly helped Oakley to the shower to clean the sweat and blood from her and then led her to bed with a painkiller and the softest clothing he could find.

He sat there as she fell asleep and googled how to take care of open wounds.

#wing whump #blood #open wounds #crying #angst #emotional whump #body image issues #body dysmorphia #? #gore #kidnapping mention #growing wings #pain #August #Oakley #caretaker #amow March madness #amowmm.b1 #body horror

[shadow-warren-whump]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Boruto: Naruto Next Generations, Naruto Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Sasuke, Haruno Sakura & Uchiha Sarada & Uchiha Sasuke, Uchiha Sarada & Uchiha Sasuke Characters: Uchiha Sasuke, Haruno Sakura, Uchiha Sarada, Uzumaki Naruto, Nara Shikamaru, Orochimaru (Naruto), Yamato | Tenzou Additional Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Panic Attacks, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, March Madness, Tumblr Prompt Summary:

Sasuke comes face-to-face with someone who helped ruin his life: Orochimaru. Unable to stop the rising panic, Sasuke goes home and shows Sarada a side of her father she thought she was never going to know about, but apparently her mother does.

@amonthofwhump

#amow march madness #amowmm.b1 #whumper returns #naruto #boruto naruto next generations #sasuke uchiha #panic attacks

[the11tailedwrites]

Prompt: Stress position

Fandom: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008)

Characters: Commander Cody, Clone Cadet Mirage, Crosshair, Sargent Hunter, Tech, Wrecker

Mando’a Translation:

Ori’vod: Older sibling (gender neutral)

Ad’ika: Little one

Tw: Depictions of torture done to a minor, Separatists not caring about the fact the clone cadet is 13, tw: blood

With a groan of pain, Cody opened his eyes. His entire body hurt and his vison was a bit blurred at the edges. It was then that he noted that he was bound. Shackles were secured tight against Cody’s wrists with the chains held taught. Cody tested his binds, but doubted he could get free.

“O-Ori-vod are you awake?” a young voice called and Cody turned confused before his face morphed into one of horror as ice built up in his stomach.

It was one of the 13 year old clone cadets they’d been giving a tour of the ship to. The cadet was standing up, his wrists were bound behind him and there was a rope wrapped around his neck and connected to the ceiling, forcing the kid into a very uncomfortable position. 

“Ad’ika,” Cody breathed, eyes wide with horror.

The kid couldn’t move for fear of pulling the rope around his neck.

“I-” the kid stuttered out, but he seemed pained whenever he tried to speak

“Don’t talk ad’ika” said Cody and the cadet gave him a tearful look of affirmation, “Just try to save your strength”

The cadet, Mirage, if he remembered correctly sucked in his breath, his breathing was shaky. Cody tested the binds. He need to get to his brother. He needed to help him. Cody tested the bind again and tried to think how he would get them off. He twisted his wrists, ignoring the pain in his wrists. The flesh on his wrists tore and his struggled with them. He continued to struggle against his binds determined to get free.

4 hours past and Cody still couldn’t get free. He knew that Mirage wouldn’t last much longer. He glanced over at Mirage. His brother looked worse. He was fighting for breath and Cody could see the way his little brother’s leg trembled.

“Ad’ika,” Cody said “Just hold on,”

“I-I can’t,” Mirage gasped out unshed tears shimmering in his eyes

“Yes you can ad’ika,” said Cody as he ripped at his binds again and blood dripped down hsi hand from the ripped flesh.

Tears slipped free from Mirage’s eyes. Cody watched his little brother’s legs give out and then the rope yanked and Mirage let a chocked out gasp. Cody was forced to helplessly watch as his vod’ika slowly suffocated to death. 

A sniper bolt snapped the rope and Mirage dropped like a stone. Cody whipped his head to the door. Standing in the now open door was Crosshair. The sniper put his sniper rifle on his back and cut Cody free. Cody staggered to Mirage’s side and dropped down. Crosshair cut the bind on the cadet’s wrists while Cody removed the rope from his neck. 

“Thanks, Crosshair,” said Cody weak with relief.

Hunter, Wrecker, and Tech walked into the room at that point and Hunter knelt down.

“Commander, we should treat your wounds,” said Hunter

“Forget me,” hissed Cody, “The cadet needs help right now,”

“Alright, fine, we’ll get you and the kid back to the ship and then we’ll treat you” said Hunter with a sigh knowing full well he couldn’t convince Cody.

Wrecker picked up Mirage and Hunter supported Cody as they made their way back to their ship.

#amow march madness #amowmm.b1

[alexversenaberrie]

March Madness (week 1): Wing Whump

#amow march madness #padme amidala #wing whump #nexu #amowmm.b1 #march madness #angel padme #star wars

[keeper-of-all-the-random-things]

Do Dreams Things True

I wrote a thing! For @amonthofwhump March Madness, which fit what I already wanted to write, but actually motivated me to write it.

This takes place a day or so following the last piece, after which Alex and Wes drink a boat load of tea, sit in awkward silence for a long time, and take a tour of Alex’s house.  I was going to write that, but they said no.

I’m not sure how to tag this, but if anyone wants anything tagged, please let me know.  The same goes for if you would like to be added to the taglist.  I am not great at responding, but it will get done.

Part 1   Part 2

There is a house, tall and dark and looming.  It is surrounded by nothingness.  Wes stands on the front porch feeling weightless in the empty.  Drifting.

Then comes the sound.  He is in the front hall.  People everywhere converse in loud, indistinguishable chatter.  A tuneless thrumming fills all the leftover spaces.

Above it all, barely audible, is a melody.  It bounces along unnoticed by most of the party goers.  It swings around the ones drinking to excess and the couples making out in dark corners and the ones getting high in the bathroom.  It skips over each person until it collides with Wes.  The song becomes smoother and urges Wes to follow it through the house.  Wes travels through many rooms and passes by many more, each one a different lifetime filled with people and places and things.

As Wes nears the back of the house, the song deepens, its cheerful tune becoming heavy.  It ends abruptly.  Wes is left in a large, open room lit by candles and filled with a different kind of party goer.  Men and women move gracefully across the floor in pressed suits and swirling gowns.  They form a wall around the perimeter of the room. 

Wes stands at the entrance, now dressed to match.  From the back of his mind, a voice calls.

Find me.

All at once, each person turns to face Wes.  His Mi- Alex - she’s here somewhere, he knows, if only he could get past all the secrets these people hold.

A new song begins.  Throbbing.  Menacing.

In the center of the room appears the Lady Great.  Wes has never met her, but  he knows with all his being that she is the key to finding Alex.

The Lady Great stares down at Wes with eyes cold and uncaring.  With a wave of her hand, the onlookers spring into action.  They converge upon Wes, pulling him into darkness.  The Lady stays safe above them all.

Help me.

The voice returns.  Wes can’t tell who it belongs to, if it is his own or someone else.  It is all he can hear as he is dragged further into the dark.

Help me.

Help me. 

Help me.

…

Wes woke with a start, breathing hard, tangled in the sheets that Alex had bought him earlier that day.  Or was it yesterday.  It was still dark, and Wes couldn’t tell.  He groaned and sat up, still reeling from the dream.

Help me.

The cry echoed in his head.  He closed his eyes and rubbed his hands over his face.  It had felt so real.  But how could it be?  Wes took a deep breath.  Perhaps it was remnants of his past life trying to break free.  He took a couple more breaths, drifting slowly back to sleep where he sat.

Please. 

Wes was instantly awake, the sound terribly familiar.  But this wasn’t in his head.  This wasn’t him.  The cries continued, muffled by the wall that separated his room from Alex’s.  Wes turned on the light by his bed and cautiously left his room, still unsure of all the rules of the house.  He moved slowly, silently down the hall and stopped outside Alex’s door.  A few moments passed and then there was a crash from inside.

Ignoring the feeling telling him to stay put, Wes rushed in to find Alex slowly picking herself off the floor.  She looked up at him, and something like understanding passed between them.  She gave him a small, fleeting smile.

“I guess I’ll put the kettle on,” she said quietly, passing close to Wes as she exited her room.  Wes remained rooted to the spot, alone again.

Songs that inspired me:

The Second Waltz - Shostakovich

Dance of the Knights - Prokafiev, Romeo and Juliet

tagging: @grizzlie70  @ashintheairlikesnow

#amow march madness #amowmm.b1 #nightmare #alex & wes

[amonthofwhump]

March Madness - Whump Style!

Welcome to AMonthofWhump's March Madness! The idea for this event was a suggestion from @khalwrites, thank you!

Each week in March, we will post a bracket of whump tropes. The first week will have sixteen tropes to choose from; the eight tropes with the most creations made for them during that week will move on to week two. From week two, the four tropes with the most creations made for them during that week will move on to week three, and in week four the top two tropes will be the final contenders! There will be a new post each Sunday with the next week's bracket and featuring a collection of links to all the creations made for each trope.

The event will begin on March 1. We hope this will be fun and entertaining for all!

What kind of content can I create: as always, writing, art, prompts, gifs, and any other creative endeavor are all welcome!

You can create as many pieces for as many tropes as you like during the event; every creation tagged with the event tags will be used to count up the winners for the following week!

Event tags: please use #amow march madness as the general event tag, and each week's tag as follows: #amowmm.b1, #amowmm.b2, #amowmm.b3, #amowmm.b4

#amow march madness #whump event #whump community #whump prompt list #whump challenge

[evilwriter37]

Out of the Shadows

Written for @amonthofwhump’s March Madness Bracket 1, Trope: Whumper Return

Rated: mature

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, implied/referenced torture, non-consensual kissing

Pairings: Viggo/Hiccup

Word Count: 1,964

Summary: Hiccup is captured by the Dragon Flyers while trying to retake the Edge. What he discovers during his capture has him spiraling into dark fears and nightmares.

Hiccup was on the Singetail of one of Krogan’s Dragon Flyers. He wanted to knock the Flyer off in some way and take control of the Singetail in order to escape, but he was bound hand and foot. Also, he was practically laying in the Flyer’s lap. He’d been slung over the back of the dragon and the Flyer came on behind. 

This whole situation was a mess. Hiccup had been leading an assault to take back the Edge. It had worked, but on the way out, the Flyers had decided to capture him. They’d gotten him right off of Toothless’ back, and his dragon had crashed into the water. He knew from previous experience that Toothless was a good swimmer though, so he would be safe. Hiccup, on the other hand, was very much not. He didn’t know where he was being taken or what would happen to him when he got there. Surely, he was wanted alive though, or else the Flyers would have just killed him. That thought didn’t help much though. If one was alive, one could be tortured.

They flew for what felt like hours. Hiccup wanted to say something, but there was no point. The sun was rising over the sea by the time an island came into view. The Riders hadn’t been following them, as there were too many Flyers and they had to help resupply the Edge. Maybe they’d come to rescue him though. They had Stoick and Skullcrusher with them, and Skullcrusher could track anything. 

They landed, and Hiccup was taken off the back of the dragon and tossed over someone’s shoulder. He struggled, but there was really no point; the knots on his bindings were tight. 

Light left as he was taken into a cave system, but then flickered to life as someone lit a torch. Hiccup tried to keep track of where they were taking him, but there were so many twists and turns. Eventually, they stopped in a large cavern and tossed him down on the rocky floor like he was just a sack. He grunted as he painfully hit the ground. It was luckily his side, so his face was spared. 

Then he was left alone save for two guards. Hiccup worked himself up into a sitting position. There wasn’t much he could do with his hands bound behind him and his ankle and prosthetic tied. He tried working himself out of the ropes, but it was no use. They were just too tight.

A large man entered the cavern without a torch or lantern, his face covered by darkness. Hiccup could tell from the height and build that it wasn’t Krogan, so, who was this? There was something a little familiar about him. 

“You know, my dear Hiccup, this capture is partially your fault.”

Hiccup gasped, then felt like he couldn’t breathe, like he was choking. That voice, the term of endearment… But no, he was dead. He was dead! 

His eyes popped out as the man stepped into the light of the torches. He still couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know how to. 

“Viggo?” This was nobody but, despite the horrible scarring on the left side of his face. It was the same facial structure, same build, same hair and beard, same type of clothing. But the scars… They looked like burns. His skin looked like it had turned into wax and been molded, and his eye was blue and glazed with blindness. 

A satisfied smile upturned the corners of his mouth as he stepped closer. “Yes, my dear. It’s me. Surprised?”

Hiccup felt like stones were falling into his stomach. He tugged hard on his ropes. No, he couldn’t be left alone with Viggo, not with all the things he had said to him, the ways he had touched him. Oh gods, oh gods… He was starting to panic. No, he had to keep his cool, remain calm. He couldn’t show Viggo that he was horrified at seeing him again.

But his mind was reeling. He’d seen this man fall into a volcano. He’d seen him die, right? Right? Yes, there had been steam, but how could one even survive that?

“You’re… you’re dead,” Hiccup said. He felt stupid after saying it, because of course he wasn’t dead. He was here standing before him, talking to him. 

Viggo laughed lightly. “Well, the volcano gave me its best shot, but here I am.”

Hiccup glared up at him, wishing he could stand to be more level with him. Viggo clasped his hands behind his back, began circling around Hiccup, and Hiccup wished he could turn his head all the way to follow him.

“I assume your life was easier with me presumed dead,” Viggo said. “Less fears, I suppose. Tell me, did you feel guilty?” He came to stand in front of him again, leaned down to be closer to him. 

“No,” Hiccup lied. He wasn’t going to tell Viggo about the guilt that had eaten him alive, about the sorrow he had felt over Viggo’s “death.”

Viggo smirked, straightened. “You’re lying.”

Hiccup made a growling sound in his throat. “What do you really want from me, Viggo?”

There was cruel satisfaction in the man’s eyes. “Oh, you’re about to find out.”

---

Hiccup gave a cry as he was helped onto Stormfly’s back. His body was aching and throbbing. He was sure he had broken bones, and there was dried blood on him; it was his own. Astrid climbed on in front of him, and Hiccup grabbed hold of her waist. Then the Riders were taking off.

It was difficult getting off the island. They were shot at with catapults and nets and arrows. The fight had Stormfly going in positions that hurt Hiccup more, but it couldn’t be helped. 

They got away. Hiccup looked back. Not a single Flyer or ship was following them. Did that mean they’d gotten what they wanted out of Hiccup. Had he somehow slipped up and given a clue to where the Dragon Eye lenses were? 

“Hiccup, what happened?” Astrid asked. 

Hiccup suddenly feigned tiredness, though, he was exhausted down to his bones. He slumped against Astrid, leaned his head on her shoulder. Being in that position felt marginally better, actually.

“We’ll talk at the Edge,” he mumbled.

“But-” Ruffnut began to put in.

“I said we’ll talk at the Edge.” Hiccup nearly snapped it. The pain was making him irritable, making even the sensory input around him hurt.

And he wasn’t about to tell all of them about Viggo. Not yet. And there were certain bits he would keep to himself. Like how Viggo had grabbed him by the throat, pulled him up, and kissed him. Hiccup had been so shocked by the action that he hadn’t known what to do. He hadn’t bitten or struggled - he’d just let it happen. And then Viggo had dropped him back onto the ground, a satisfied smirk painting his lips. Hiccup knew that look would haunt him in his dreams, that he wouldn’t be able to unsee the man’s horrific scar. Viggo had chased him across the archipelago, and now, he was back. What would stop him from doing so again?

Everyone kept glancing at Hiccup throughout the flight. Eventually, Hiccup closed his eyes, not wanting to meet his friends’ gazes. He didn’t want them to know what had happened. Not yet. This was a talk for when they were all stationary.

Hiccup’s body protested being on a dragon, but hours went by, and he just had to deal with it. His breathing was harsh with pain. 

“We’re almost there,” Astrid told him, and Hiccup lifted his head and opened his eyes to see the familiar sight of the Edge. What was unfamiliar about it was all the Berkian ships there, resupplying it.

Oh no. His dad. Hiccup would have to face his father. 

Hiccup groaned and put his head back down.

“What is it?” Astrid asked him quietly, not getting anyone else involved in the conversation.

“My dad,” Hiccup responded. “He’s gonna be all over me.” So would Toothless, but at least Hiccup could confide in Toothless. He was the only one he’d tell about this kiss and the other touches that had followed, the way Viggo had looked at his body as it was stripped of clothing to be bared for injury. 

“It’ll be okay,” Astrid said. 

Hiccup very much hoped that she was right. He just grunted in response, unsure of what else to say. 

Stoick and Toothless were there as they made it to the clubhouse. Hiccup remembered them bringing Gothi along, so she was probably inside. She was the one he needed to see. 

“Oh, Hiccup, thank Thor you’re home!” Stoick exclaimed. He went in for a hug once Hiccup had dismounted, but then stopped at his slumped position, looked him up and down. His clothes hid most of his injuries, but not the bruising under his left eye, or the cut on his lower lip. They couldn’t hide how tired and haggard he looked either. 

“What happened?” Stoick asked.

“Talk later,” Hiccup said. He was leaning on Astrid for support. “Where’s Gothi?”

“Inside,” Stoick answered. He came and gave Hiccup support on the other side. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

---

Hiccup sat in front of the burning stove with a fur wrapped around him. He’d neglected to put a tunic on, and his abdomen was covered in bandages. There were cuts there that Gothi had had to stitch, and broken ribs. All in all, Hiccup was feeling terrible. 

But he had to talk to his friends now. He had to tell them that Viggo was back. 

“Now will you tell us what happened?” Snotlout asked, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Hiccup nodded weakly. He wanted his bed. Toothless sat beside him, and Hiccup kept a hand on his head. It felt good to be with his dragon again. He’d hardly let Gothi do her work until he’d been taken outside. He’d been given a potion for the pain that would eventually knock him out, but they needed to talk first. 

“I… I don’t know how to put it tactfully,” Hiccup said, looking at each of the Riders. “Um… Viggo’s not dead.”

Those words dropped into silence. Everyone just stared at him, and Hiccup couldn’t discern what was in their eyes. Did they not believe him?

“Hiccup, did they hit you on the head?” Tuffnut asked. “You saw the guy die yourself.”

“Yeah, well, there was a lot of steam, and-”

“So you’re saying he somehow got away,” Fishlegs cut in. “That he survived the volcano.” 

Hiccup nodded. At least Fishlegs was there to support him. “Yeah. He… He’s working with Krogan.”

“Why would he do that?” Astrid asked. 

Hiccup shrugged before remembering the action would be painful. He closed his eyes for a moment at the pain that flared through him, groaned a little. 

“Revenge, maybe?” Ruffnut asked. 

Hiccup didn’t know if that was the reason. Of course, he hadn’t been able to ask Viggo why he was working with Krogan, and he wouldn’t have gotten a straight answer anyway. 

“I don’t know.” He yawned, tiredness suddenly hitting him hard. He stood up on wobbly legs, and Astrid rushed over to him to give him her support, as did Fishlegs. “Thank you, you guys.” Hiccup gave them a soft smile. 

Once in bed and alone with Toothless, Hiccup felt better. Or… maybe he felt worse. Because now all he could think about was the way Viggo had kissed him, the way he’d trailed a hand down his torso and over his thighs. He hadn’t touched him between his legs, but the want to do so had been clear. 

And so when Hiccup drifted into sleep, it was with nightmares. 

#amow march madness #amowmm.b1 #whumper return #whump #hiccup!whump #httyd #how to train your dragon #rtte #race to the edge #fanfiction #writing #graphic depictions of violence #implied/referenced torture #non-consensual kissing

[thewhumpstuff]

Stress Positions

So technically this is predicament bondage... Still stressful obviously. (Apparently it does count!) @amonthofwhump as the title states, another vote for stress positions. Once again, these are quick snippets of something longer that I do have planned. These snippets feature one of my main characters - Aodhan Gallagher, a side character - Peter Zaeva and the newly minted - Kadri (she was wrought just for this arc). Hopefully, I do get to expand these later and post updates for them. For now, have the drabble, below the cut!

cw: Implied nudity, thickly-veiled implied training for human trafficking purposes in the future, female whumpee restrained in a stress position. [If I missed anything lemme know]

If he had lost track of time, of seconds, of minutes of hours and days, he wasn't even sure the concept of it existed for Kadri anymore. Aodhan dutifully carried a washcloth, which was carefully folded and draped over his arm. Even this piece of rag is treated better than her. Aodhan thought. He could only hope that she learned to cooperate, just to buy herself some time, if nothing else. Resistance only earned her more pain. Aodhan thought it was a simple and potentially effective strategy. I’d just do whatever they asked, I don’t want to fucking… hang from ceilings and be beaten into submission. As he thought that, he wondered if that made him a coward. It probably did, he wagered. But he thought it made more sense to live long enough to fight another day. The door to the cell - her home - creaked open. It was dank, it had a familiar, but not entirely unpleasant scent of wet earth. Despite being rather cruel, Peter was finicky about cleanliness. Aodhan was surprised at how quickly this had become the norm. He had gotten accustomed to seeing her strung up in various uncomfortable positions. Peter would let her down sometimes, just to ask her the same question: Are you going to obey? And everytime, her response - defiant silence, hateful spitting, incensed hissing, blatant refusal etc. - would displease him. Today, Kadri knelt on meticulously collected pebbles, small enough to almost disappear under her, and large enough to leave their indentations. Her arms were fastened at her wrists and elbows, forced to remain unflexed, they were hoisted behind her and strung up to a hook in the ceiling. The laboured rise and fall of her bared chest, drew attention to the slow and heavy nature of her breathing. Aodhan was certain that the smallest movements caused her immense distress. The smouldering hate that her eyes held, for everyone, in time, had dimmed for Aodhan, till it was extinguished entirely. Now, when she looked up at him, she betrayed a certain weariness. Almost a detached sense of kinship. It seemed that Kadri had realised he was the closest thing to a friend that she had in here. His were the only pair of hands that did not deliberately seek to elevate her discomfort. His was the only voice that did not make demands, and berate her for her insolence. He was the only one who didn’t want her here as much as she didn’t want to be here. And yet, as Aodhan reached for the hose that lay at the back of the room, he finally asked her, “Why don’t you just give up?”

#amow march madness #amowmm.b1 #tempered grace #quill writes #female whumpee #restrained #stress position #whump snippet #oc Aodhan #oc Peter #oc Kadri