#wij21day3

[whumpmasinjuly]

Whumpmas in July - Day 3

Day 3: creation prompt - sleep

Today we have our first creation prompt! You can write a drabble, draw some art, make a moodboard, or create anything else that strikes you!

How's your whumpee's sleeping been lately? Is it the fitful sleep of someone who can't let their guard down, or the deep sleep of someone who realizes they're finally safe at last? Unable to sleep from the pain, or unconscious from anesthesia? Alone, or in the arms of a loved one, or in a hospital bed, or in the dungeons of their enemy?

Do they have dreams? Or, if we're very lucky, nightmares?

Write, draw, create—and don’t forget to tag us @whumpmasinjuly​ and #whumpmasinjuly when you do!

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Whumpmas in July Day 3: Sleep

@whumpmasinjuly creation prompt: Sleep

CW: Implied whump of a minor (OC is 17), drugged whumpee, isolation, captivity, pet whump

Baldur lay in a tangle of limbs in the center of the bed, drifting in and out of a doze he couldn't escape. His thoughts drifted like fog, dissipating entirely when he cracked open his eyes to watch the light as it moved shadows along Sir's balcony, coalescing again when he closed them and let himself be lost in the warmer, soothing darkness.

Get up, his thoughts whisper. Walk out the door. Show the security guards at the stairs you're here. Let them see you. Maybe someone will help you.

No one will help him, the stronger thoughts know. This is what he is. They'd only look, with cold disgust, the way Miss Nancy looks at him. Then they'd push him back into the hallway, close the door, and call his Sir to tell him what Baldur has done.

He couldn't stand up if he wanted to, anyway. The most he can do is tap, fingertips dancing over silk sheets and soft mattress, making no sound at all. He watches his fingers for a while, tapping in rhythms, allowing himself the worst of rebellions-

A low, tuneless hum, a soothing sound underneath the roiling slow-moving turmoil in his mind.

Sir would punish him for this, but... he's alone here, right now. He's so quiet Miss Nancy won't catch him, and it feels good to tap and to hum. It feels so good.

Tears build in his eyes, leak out over his nose and down the corner to soak into the sheets below him.

It feels so good, to tap just a little bit.

Just a little.

Just while he's all by himself.

He's alone today - and tomorrow - and the day after that. His Sir has gone and left him here, he's on some kind of trip to see the survivors of a mudslide during a wet and rainy year.

Sir had patted him on the head as he slipped on his favorite suitjacket, practiced rolling up his sleeves for the cameras, parted his hair just so. Baldur had watched, dazedly, while he gave his camera-smile to the mirror at this angle and that one, until he was satisfied with its image of sincerity.

You'll stay nice and quiet while I'm gone, darlin'. Miss Nancy'll keep you fed, and I'll see you when I get back. Won't some time to yourself be nice?

Yes, Sir, Baldur said, because he was supposed to.

But... it isn't nice, being alone.

It's horrible.

Miss Nancy comes in to leave a dish with some food on it, returns to take whatever he hasn't eaten a little bit later, and otherwise... it's just Baldur, alone on the bed, in a room where nothing happens but the sun shifting with an awful deliberation along the floor.

He misses his Sir, if only because Sir would talk to him, and Miss Nancy only stares with her cold eyes and calls him names she doesn't dare say when Sir is right there to hear it. She leaves Baldur crying and guilty for what he's done, and he doesn't know what he's done, only that it's his fault he's here.. He signed up for this, anyway.

There's nothing to be done, now, Miss Nancy snaps at him, holding out the glass of water for him to drink. You made your bed, didn't you? So lie in it.

He wants his Sir to come home.

The pills Miss Nancy feeds him are different than his usual ones. They leave him shivering with a false cold and nearly motionless. He has to crawl to the bathroom, even just standing is too exhausting to even think about. He doesn't have to fight the energy inside of him to stay still, but somehow this feels even worse.

His limbs feel like someone has tied blocks of concrete to them to weigh him down.

His eyes slip closed against his will. His hum is silent. His fingers stop moving. Sleep comes for him with an iron grip. It's dreamless and suffocating and feels like drowning, not rest.

He takes in a deep breath before he's once again dragged under.

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @whumpfigure @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband

[nicolepascaline]

Claire and Tinsel Masterlist

Whumpmas in July, day 3!

I took some liberties interpreting the prompt "sleep" but I think it still fits. Super excited since this is my first fiction piece on Tumblr and my first attempt at a Box Boy Universe story! I'm also new to these TW tags so please let me know if there's anything I missed.

Also! The terms "boy" and "kid" get thrown around but Tinsel's nineteen, no minor whump in this piece.

TW: the usual BBU warnings (i.e. institutionalized slavery, institutionalized whump, ect.), referenced starvation, referenced alcoholism, victim blaming, gun violence

"This isn't what I ordered."

Standing in front of the man was a boy, shaking so hard it looked as if he might rattle his joints out of place. Unbuttoned, the white button-down parted to reveal a ladder of red welts. His skin looked as if it had been vacuum-sealed, his bones and eyes standing away from his body unnaturally. Crossing his legs, the man moved the phone to the other side of his head.

"Yes. No, I won't hold. Yes, I would like to talk to her. Thank you."

The man's fingers tapped out a rhythm on the arm of the couch.

"Name?" the man said. He gave the boy a nudge with his foot, jolting him upright.

"Name," the man repeated, and the boy mouthed sorry while fumbling for his sleeve. A tag was tied around his wrist and he squinted at it a moment.

"Tinsel, six-twenty-three."

"Hello, yes, is this Miss Marrs? The boy you sent me--yes there is a problem. To start it would appear he's refurbished."

The boy shook his head, wide eyes meeting the man's stare.

"That's what I said, refurbished. Actually, that might be too strong a word, it implies that he has been restored to some kind of usable state."

"Please," the boy whispered, flinching away at the way the man hardened his eyes.

"No, I'm not going to file the form. He's got visible welts, probably lice, I do not want him in my house any longer. The shipment was two days late and now--thank you. Yes, this number is a good one to reach me at. I expect to be hearing from you soon."

The phone clattered onto the side table leaving the man's hand free to massage his temple.

"I--" the boy's voice was almost too quiet to hear. "I don't have lice. Master."

"Did I give you permission to speak?"

The boy's teeth clicked shut.

"And get off the rug."

There was the shatter of ice against the glass as the man poured himself a drink at the side table. If they'd known who he was, this would never have happened. Or if he'd been cognizant enough to realize who they were. A whimper came from across the room, the boy was desperately trying to bite back his tears. Unprofessional.

"Snap out of it before you get snot all over the floor."

"Please don't send me back," the boy said.

"Quiet,"

"They'll put me to sleep," the boy was panting behind trembling lips. Then quieter, like he was considering it for the first time. "They'll put me to sleep."

"Probably because you can't follow orders. Don't make me repeat myself."

The boy's Adam's apple bobbed but he kept his mouth shut. This was supposed to be simple, the man thought, it's what I deserve for making a spur-of-the-moment decision. He hardly knew anything about box boys, just the minimum needed for work. He certainly wasn't planning on getting one himself.

But still reeling from his last kill, and the ensuing paycheck, assassin Bartholomew Claire had splurged. Should have waited until I was sober, he thought, wrinkling his lip at the generic brand printed on the side of the box still haunting his living room, cheap wood contrasting with every other piece of furniture in the penthouse.

Whumpees-B-Us, with a B? Which was more embarrassing, the faux brand or the fact he'd fallen for it?

Another groan.

The boy would be gone soon enough and Claire could forget this had happened. It had been a moment of, not weakness. Irrationality. If he could just get the hideous thing out of his home he'd be able to forget the whole thing. Like nothing ever happened.

Claire opened a book and pretended to read until the doorbell rang. It was dark out already, stars showing through the glass wall that revealed the city below.

"Hello, no, don't come in," Claire said, "Get over here, Tinsel."

The boy shuffled unsteadily, he hadn't moved an inch all afternoon. Couldn't even remember his name, Claire thought.

"Something you're not happy with, sir? Whumpees-B-Us employee asked. Or maybe this was someone they subcontracted, either would explain the cheap beige suit.

"Yes. I'm returning the boy you sent me, here you go. And when can I expect my refund?"

"Refund sir?" The person behind the suit gave a noncommittal smile.

"I want my money back," Claire said, speaking slowly. "I want him gone. Do I need to sign anything before you leave?"

"Ah well, yes, you will need to sign this complaint of service, and if you wouldn't mind taking this short survey describing you're experience with us--"

"And then you can leave?"

"Yes, I can go yes, and then you can put your little pet to bed," they gave a knowing wink.

"You are taking him with you," Claire said, through grit teeth. "Tonight."

"I'm afraid that's impossible since the complaint of service will need to be on file for at least seventy two hours before it can be reviewed by one of our--"

Claire stared with half-lidded eyes. I shouldn't have to put up with this, he thought, I could just close the door, put down the pet myself, put down their whole stupid off-brand, this clown's neck is small enough I could probably do it with one hand--

"Excuse me," Tinsel said, hesitating. "I'm sorry but are you offering Master a return or a refund? Only, code 5.16.04 says that rebates are only issued during refunds, and rebates are the only exchange that requires an associate's signature on a complaint of service. And um, and if Master was being issued a refund he would have been read the refund fees and exceptions policy when it was issued, which would have been, been over the phone?"

The boy glanced up at Claire.

"I didn't hear anything like that, HR Representative Marrs told me he'd be out of my house by the end of the day," Claire said.

"Ah, yes, well," The suited individual rubbed their hands nervously.

"The conversation is recorded according to, to the company policy so there won't be any question in court," Tinsel said. "I mean, unless it wasn't recorded, but, um, but that would be a bigger problem, wouldn't it?"

Claire looked down at the boy, bartering in the doorway. The boy's legs were still trembling from the effort of standing at attention all afternoon, and his bangs clung to his forehead with sweat.

"Oh no, no that's quite, a return works just fine. You won't get to keep the boy though, with a return,"

"I don't want to," Claire said, "Just look at him."

The boy hung his head and let out a shaky exhale.

"Ah, yes," the employee scrambled, "It's only most people prefer refunds since they get to keep the--we have to dispose of them anyway and that costs, well, most people,"

"I'm not most people," Claire said. The employee laughed nervously.

"I see, yes, just take this then and sign here at the top, and again here,"

"Don't," the boy said, and then his extended hand began shaking worse. "I-I'm sorry, I mean you can if you want, it's just that it's a mutual safety agreement, which uh, it's saying you can't sue them even if they violate policy, so he might not, they wouldn't have to take me back or refund you."

Claire glared from the boy who wouldn't shut up to the employee babbling over him.

"Now it isn't anything like that," the employee said quickly, "This is to keep you safe! The protections go both ways, we won't sue you for,"

"You don't have any reason to sue him but he--" the boy said.

"This kid's just a slave, he doesn't know what he's--"

"You animals are the one's who made me memorize it all in the first place! And again when I was returned, and again when--"

The boy was screaming through tears now and Claire shoved him away from the door.

"Just shut up, both of you. For the love of--here," Claire picked up the cheap crate and used it to shove the employee into the hallway. "The least you can do is dispose of this for me. Goodbye."

Claire slammed the door and leaned on it a moment. It just couldn't be easy, could it? No, he could still fix this. The stupid boy was pricey but he could make it back in a week. Nothing he would miss.

"Kneel down," Claire said, "Right there,"

The boy fell on the concrete floor. The wall behind would have to be whitewashed again, but at least he wasn't near the furniture. Bloodstains were a lot harder to get out of wood. Claire drew a pistol from his shoulder holster and took a step closer.

"Look up,"

Keeping his eyes squeezed shut, the boy raised his head and whimpered as the cool barrel touched his forehead. Slowly letting out his breath, Clair let his hand steady.

"You didn't want them to take you and put you to sleep, did you?"

The boy whined.

"Did you?" Claire said, applying a little more pressure.

"N-no, no, Master,"

"So what were you doing cutting in with all that code and policy and--whatever that was?"

"I--" the boy swallowed, "They made me learn it all. It's the law, and I've been, I've seen other returns so,"

"That salesperson knew the code as well as you," Claire said, "That didn't stop him from trying to pawn you off on me, why didn't you go along with it?"

The boy was struggling to breathe, his eyes flickered open and quickly shut again.

"Please,"

"Answer me," Claire said, and a tear escaped from the corner of the boy's eye.

"I, I know I'm a useless pet. But you wanted to return me so I thought that maybe if I could help, help it go smoother you'd be happy and,"

The boy tried to lower his head but was stopped by the barrel between his eyes.

"I just want to be good," Tinsel squeaked out, barely a whisper.

Claire watched him for a moment, finger taught on the trigger. If nothing else, the boy cried pretty. Funny that I hadn't noticed earlier, Claire thought, he's certainly done enough of it today. And if Claire ignored the bloodied shirt the boy's torso had a satisfying curve to it. Even the hair, it may have been hazel instead of blonde like he ordered, but brush the mats out and. . .

"A good pet? And you make a scene on my doorstep. Really now, you'll have to do better than that," Claire said, holstering his weapon.

@whumpmasinjuly

[cowboy-anon]

Whumpmas in July - Day 3

Prompt - Sleep

Introducing Auggie, AKA Apple before he was Apple.

CW: Blood, pet whump, self-harm, sleep deprivation, torture (both mentioned and implied)

Edit: Just realized this is kind of an Apple piece, so I’m tagging!

Tagging: @happy-whumper, @milk-carton-whump​, @sideblogformindtrash​, @whumperfulart​, @unicornscotty​, @starnight-whump​ (Let me know if you want to be added or removed!)

Sleepless

When his punishment is done, the salesman drags Auggie by the arm across the blood-slick back room floor and throws him back into his storage room cage. Auggie can’t manage any more than a whimper when his bare, split back hits the wire, so cold it stings, but… but it’s keeping him awake. 

It’s been three days, just three since he came to this store. Two since he last ate, one since he last had something to drink. Three since he last slept. 

Auggie, he’s barely awake as it is—barely alive it feels like. Paired with the exhaustion of these last two hours of torture and the low blood sugar and blood loss, he very well could fall unconscious at any moment.

The salesman must see it on his face, because after a click—the lock, Auggie reminds himself, the cage lock keeping him here—he repeats the same line Auggie’s come to dread but expect: “For every minute I catch you sleeping, I’ll add a unit to your punishment tomorrow. Could be a lash, could be a cut, could a burn. Whatever I choose.”

Today… today he had five long cuts carved into his back in addition to the belt across his back, so many times he lost count. “Starting slow,” the salesman had said. 

“I’ll be back in… eight hours.” The salesman wipes Auggie’s tacky blood on the sides of his pants. “Sixty minutes in an hour. Four hundred and eighty minutes. Four hundred and eighty potential cuts, lashes, burns, and far worse than anything else a dog like you could imagine.”

The fog that’s settled behind his eyes has Auggie nodding despite the severity of his situation. The words, they’re barely processing. It’s not tiredness, not anymore. It’s complete and total exhaustion. 

“I’ve got my camera set to record while I sleep,” the salesman continues, “to make sure you don’t. Night night, dog.”

Through the wire grating, those black slacks and leather shoes walk away, and the door out of the storage room swings open, then closed. The eight hours start. 

The fluorescent lights stay on when the salesman leaves. Auggie leans back harder onto the grating and sighs, grateful for at least that much. With the lights on, his natural clock might be fooled for just a little longer. 

That tiny relief doesn’t last long. Not ten minutes in, his eyelids go heavy with sleep, and his mind goes fuzzy with the effort it takes to just stay awake.

He tries everything. He counts the cages in the room,  the ones beside him and above him and across from him. Sixteen. His is the only one that’s occupied.

He tries talking to himself next, and humming, and singing, and telling himself stories. By then, he figures about two hours have passed, but really, he has nothing to base that estimate on. There’s no windows in the storage room, not anywhere, and no clocks either. For all he knows, the salesman could keep him locked up for eight hours or ten or twenty, and he’d be none the wiser.

The thought is terrifying. He goes back to mindlessly singing songs.

When he reaches what he thinks is the fourth hour, Auggie’s so out of it that he resorts to reaching around his back and digging his overgrown fingernails into the fresh wounds there. He feels sick at the smell of blood and the sticky film it leaves on his fingers, but he keeps at it, choking back his snivels and sobs because anything is better than falling asleep and having new ones opened.

The more tired he feels, the less he feels, the harder he digs—until he’s sure he’s doing more damage than the salesman did with his knife. It’s not enough.

Somewhere along the line, Auggie falls asleep. 

He swears he only binked, but when he opens his eyes, the salesman is in front of him grinning maniacally.

The night, it wasn’t over. The salesman shouldn’t be here, not for another few hours.

A few… hours…

Auggie’s stomach drops, and suddenly his insides are empty, replaced by a dark, all-consuming dread. Auggie, he slept—for who knows how long. 

The salesman lowers himself to Auggie’s level and peers into the cage, the smile never leaving his lips.

“I suppose we should get started early today.”

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Whumpas in July Day 3: Sleep

I know, I know. I missed days one and two. So to introduce myself: "Hi I am Gypsy and I am really interested in villain whumpees! Right now, I am righting a series called "Drowning" that depends if people want it continued will continue. I have a werewolf book that I am writing (guess, villain whumpees again). I love to workout, ride horses, and write. I have my cats, horse, cows, and poultry who are the loves of my life. I don't like pigs or dogs, but I have them."

And how I found whump? "I was into whump (didn't know what it was called) in third grade. I was loved Warrior Cats, especially the battle/care scenes. With Pete's Dragon in elementary school, I told my friends that my favorite part was when the parents died. *no comment*. Everyone probably thought I was a sadistic murderer in the making. Anyway, I found whump on pinterest, looked it up on google and then convinced Mother to let me get tumblr. And so here I am!"

Anyway. Here is the snippet. Inspired by this by @laurenhufflepuff2. @whumpmasinjuly do I tag this? Sorry if I don't.

Warnings: battle scene, death, self-drugging, field medicine mention

~

A fire burned deep in Villain's veins, threatening to come to the surface like a scuba diver ready to emerge. It boiled within, lapping at his self-control and nerves until he was jittery. He twitched his fingers, brow furrowing, but nothing soothed the flames. Nothing kept them down.

Nothing kept them in control.

Villain jumped into a crouching position and started to rock back and forth. He eyed his desolate surroundings. Classic war rubble with bleeding heroes and villains alike. Gosh, he should be out there counting the casualties and caring for the wounded...

It was a fight with Supervillain. Villain united his troops with Hero's just for the occasion- not that it was a permanent treaty. No, Villain was too thin on his promises for that and Hero would never allow herself to sign a contract agreeing to a villain. Nope, it would never happen.

They weren't even friends. Acquaintances at best, but even that was a bit far fetched. That's right, the correct terminology was enemy, or nemesis, or foe. They were opposites: one with golden morals and the other with none. Every thing about them was different, even their hair. But they both had one similarity and that was a woman of the arrogant name Supervillain.

Which is why they allied for one night- to stop her advances on the city and to protect Villain's special orb that gave him his superpowers, the flaming fire that was currently waiting to explode.

Villain groaned, clutching at his temple as dizziness and nausea coursed through him. He dug his heels into the ground, crying out very slightly. He was sure that someone was watching him; he could feel their peering eyes glaring into his back, but he drew his mind away from that. His body felt like one big fireball and he was sweating profoundly.

It was escaping. His powers were escaping and ready to unleash its fury. He gasped for breath and pleaded with himself to soothe the powerful surge, but nothing alleviated it.

A figure was creeping along his line a vision, obscuring his left side and leaving his right open to view the destruction and death. He groaned, collapsing forward and pressing his nose into the ground.

"Villain?" A voice, definitely, and spoken to him, but Villain couldn't bring himself to exactly register the meaning or speaker of the word. He held out a quivering hand as if asking for someone to wait- or in this villain's case, to be quiet.

"Is he hurt?"

"Are you alright?"

"Oh gosh, I think he's gonna pass out."

The voices floated around Villain's world languidly, none having any known meaning or intent of purpose. They were just there.

Suddenly, as if his last straw of instinctual push persuaded him to deal with the dilemma, Villain jumped up. He ignored the lightheaded feeling and ran to the medical tent.

Trucks held down the extra long canopy, giving the doctors plenty of shade as they stabilized the wounded. Villain could hear the rumble of nearby helicopters, whether or not they meant anything to his swimming head, and the strident shrill of ambulances.

He rushed to one of the silver fords and opened the tailgate. Rummaging blindly through endless different bottles and applies, he found what his primitive logic was searching for.

His found treasure was a heavy, heavy sedative. He also grabbed a syringe, inserted a needle and prepared the drug.

He acted without any conscious will. He got like that when his powers threatened to overpower him. But luckily, his subconscious was still intact.

He filled the syringe up. It might've been an overdose, but that was besides the point. He needed to sleep, to be unconscious, so that he could dampen his powers.

He again could hear those floating words, fixating on Villain's ears. This time around, however, as miniscule as it was, they held meaning.

"He's gonna drug himself."

"Someone stop him!"

Villain could hear the trampede of footsteps, but the deed was already done. The needle was in his thigh and the fire was extinguishing. The world slowed down as Villain collapsed face first on the ground. Blackness crept towards him in obnoxious slow motion. He breathed deeply allowing sleep to encase him in its safe blanket.

Hero ran towards Villain and quickly searched for a pulse. It was too faint, way too weak and slow for her liking. Gosh, did he take such a heavy dose...

"Why did he do that?" Someone asked, astounded.

"I-i think, now don't quote me on this," Hero replied. "I think he almost lost control of his powers. When he wakes up, well ask." Hero didn't want to think of the "when" as being a lie, but she also didn’t want to think that Villain would never wake. That was a possibility right?

What if he never woke up from this induced sleep?

[albino-whumpee]

Whumpmas in July day 3 “sleep”

Just a little something from the irony of being sleep deprived.

CW// implied captivity, aftermath of torture, nightmares, ankle chain and some caring for the Caretaker.

Caretaker’s eyes snapped open in the middle of the night. Memories, the worst of their fears and the horrible truth had mixed inside their head in their sleep. Damped in a cold sweat, Caretaker closed their eyes and hugged themselves tight.

“It was just a dream” they whispered “We’re safe. They’re safe”

As the words left their mouth they stretched their neck to the floor, hoping to find Whumpee curled up in their sea of blankets in the ground, but finding them empty and going cold.

Caretaker took a deep breath before shakily swinging their feet over the bed and walk up to the door.

The shadows and the moonlight had been their only company for too long, yet the unfamiliarity of what had been their home after such a long time, still made Caretaker slide their hand over the walls to guide themselves. Yet another night they ached for being at home finally, and yet still expecting to find the locked door, the pipe to where their ankles were chained to, but finding just their couch and a fluffy carpet instead.

“Can’t sleep either?” Whumpee asked from the spot in the ground they were sitting on. Wrapped up in blankets and faintly illuminated by the small desk lamp besides them. Their cheeks were still hollow and Caretaker could see scars beginning to fade over their arms, but that had never made Whumpee stop smiling so warmly when they extended their hand to Caretaker. “I have some space for you too” they said, opening up the blanket as an invitation.

Caretaker grinned as they walked to them, finding being wrapped in the weighted blanket comfortable, but simply having Whumpee to lean onto what made their heart ease finally.

[pretty-face-breaker]

WIJ Prompt: Sleep

CW. creepy whumper, pet names, implied murder, blood stains, forced to get rid of evidence for a killer, past consensual torture, coercive relationship

@whumpmasinjuly

Timeline: A few months before Hayko escapes

— At its corner, the desk clock read 2:00 am. 

The light of the lamp fell on his hand as he wrote, eyes skipping the document before he turned the page to give the pen a healthy shake. Then, it was from the top again with the court file number, judicial centre, applicant. Down until his hand hung off of the desk. He seemed to only breathe once a page.

He had been dealing with paperwork for the past few hours but for Hayko, filling in blanks was like second nature as riding a bike might be for someone. Just as they would know when to lift their hips for an oncoming bump, he knew where to push the nib hard enough that the ink wouldn’t swipe and smear the space. By muscle memory, he crossed every t and dotted each i but ensured, as each page filled up, to go back and check. 

Two empty fruit bar wrappers sat near him beside an empty mug - all he had eaten since the single boiled egg and tea in the morning - which wasn’t his proudest meal plan but there was work to be done for next week. Crisis had struck. One of the cartel’s major benefactors was on trial for embezzlement. 

He wanted to laugh.  

Hayko sighed, letting the fountain pen click down before stretching up to the ceiling and then back. The exercise was useful when he needed a reminder that he had bones that weren’t made for crouching over a desk for hours at a time.  

“Good morning.” 

The seat almost toppled back as Hayko flinched and darted his eyes to the doorway of the other man’s room. “Jesus, you scared me, Nick.” He stood up quickly, fingers leaning on the desk for support when his head suddenly began to spin and his vision blacked out for a moment. 

Looking at his figure in the doorway, they suddenly felt colder.

“Working late again, busy bee? You should be asleep.” Nick wasn’t moving from the doorway, just leaning on one shoulder and just out of the perimeter that the light would allow him to be seen. It was all too dark to tell, but Hayko felt like he was smiling.

He smiled nervously in response, dragging his hands closer to him. “Always.” They held a long look under the benevolent layer of darkness before Nick ripped it away by stepping forward, then again until the yellow light of the desk lamp crawled up to his face. When Hayko saw his face, he was silently surprised at having guessed correctly that he was smiling.

Then, he saw his shirt. 

Nick must have noticed the immobile terror in his face because he chuckled. It rumbled in his ear, signalling a little involuntary shiver up the man’s back. “Don’t worry, doll. It’s not mine.” 

His fingertips were chilled against the desk now as Hayko kept his eyes locked on the bloodstains, of which there were plenty, clotting near the buttons at the waist, splattered across his sleeves, and painting a grimly neat stripe up to his collar. The glaring light of the bulb brought out their faint redness but mostly, it looked like Nick had painted the shirt black. 

“Th-... then whose?” He’d been meaning to ask. Hayko breaths mellowed as Nick began sliding off his watch and walking over. When it was off, he dropped it behind him with a thunk that made him blink. Right on the court order, too, he thought.

He should have been asleep by now. He should have gone to bed before he got home because then, he wouldn’t have to be dealing with him in the late hours. Nick was different at night, less human, and not in his humanity but his general appearance.  

Nick’s hands travelled to his waistband and plucked the dress shirt from his pants, not hesitating to start immediately unbuttoning. For courtesy, he turned at an angle to the bed next to the desk, facing the headboard as he took off the stained shirt. His chest was splattered with fainter spots of blood. Those would be easier missed and Hayko was glad they were. 

He finally found enough courage to bring his hands fully to his sides but not enough to look at him as he undressed, not out of disgust of the bloodstains but out of awkwardness. Never really figuring out where to look any time Nick undressed in front of him - although he probably would prefer it to be at him - Hayko let his eyes wander to the floor. 

“Is that all you ate today?” Nick was looking at the empty wrappers and mug, skipping the pile of paperwork entirely in a way that made Hayko redden a little for the mess.

He anxiously scraped the tiny crack in the floorboard made by his chair. “Yeah, um... ‘didn’t have much time for much else.” While technically not true, he thought, it wasn’t that he had the appetite for anything more either. With the recent heat-wave that had overwhelmed the city, he could hardly remember to eat without Nick being the one to remind him. Like they were god damn married.

The man pulled his tie loose then swooped both off, tsking in disapproval as he hung them over his arm and faced Hayko. “You need to seriously take care of yourself, love,” he chided with a hint of warmth. “You have work, sure, but not eating?” 

He found it harder to stare at the floor with Nick looking directly at him now. “Wasn’t hungry,” he mumbled, frustrated with the nagging while he stood there covered in a litre of fucking blood. 

It seemed strange to him, even this far into this veil of a romantic relationship, that Nick insisted on playing concerned spouse and talking down to him in that voice thick with adoration. He hated it. But mostly, he hated how it tricked him every time, for a few moments, to believing that the concern was genuine. 

That if Nick wanted to, he wouldn’t just break him in two for a quick, sadistic fix. 

“What if I hire a chef, hm?” Hayko’s eyes travelled uneasily up to his, avoiding the body not out of embarrassment or modesty but the light bruising, the little scratches at his shoulders that indicated there had been a struggle. 

He swallowed down the image of his victim clawing from below so he wouldn’t accidentally imagine his own face to fill in the blank.

“A nice one, family friend even, so you don’t starve yourself cooped up in my bedroom all day with your papers.” 

“Your papers,” Hayko reminded him carefully. It was annoying when he couldn’t at least pretend to remember that he was his employer. But Nick just chuckled before handing him the shirt, tie draped over. His fingernails were black with blood. 

“Do me a favour?” 

The dried, metallic smell overwhelmed him and he swallowed as the scent lingered, reminding him of the uncharacteristically pleasant evening a few nights ago, how the stench had replaced the man’s sage cologne as he had looked over Hayko’s bare back. Looked over the cuts there and decided to open a few up again as he shivered and bit back whimpers. 

He closed his eyes a moment, reliving the painful buzz his mind had been in, too clouded by chanting of more, more, more to say anything coherent until Nick had finished and planted a kiss on his neck and woken him up. Memories like those and how close they happened to each other sometimes made Hayko forget the nature of how he even got here but if he was honest in the moment, that one evening had...almost made it count. 

Hayko gasped back to reality, snatching the shirt before Nick could snap at him. “Sure, yeah, I-I’ll throw it away.” 

“Don’t throw it away, silly,” Nick interrupted as he turned to his bathroom. “Clean it. I like that shirt a lot, you know, you’ve seen me wear it to lots of those end-of-the-month parties Don Miguel likes to organize for us.” 

Hayko seemed at a loss for just what to do with the bloodstained clothing in his hand when he noticed that it wasn’t just stained but bathed in life. The combination seemed heavier in his hand than any of his shirt’s ever had. He thought, with a stirring and morbid curiosity, just which of his fucked up methods Nick had used to squeeze the breath out of the-

“Did you hear me?” 

He should have been asleep, and then he wouldn’t have to deal with this tonight.

“Nick-... I don’t think-” He stammered and motioned to the red cluster. “There’s too much… I don’t think I can, um, actually clean it with the amount of blood.” Waiting in silence for a response, Hayko unfolded the shirt by the shoulders, as if he hadn’t already seen the wreck. “Plus, a lot of it is dried. How long ago did you?...”

Sighing, Nick stopped and tilted his head. “You know I’ve got a couple of those enzyme detergents in the left cabinet of the other washroom. Multiple, actually, so fill up the sink and leave it.” 

And with that, Nick nodded at him which was cue that it was time to stop asking questions.

When he stumbled through the living room, he noticed it was pitch black where Nick hadn’t even spared the bar lights to make his way to the bedroom. Only further proof that the man was a born predator, Hayko thought grimly. 

He searched blindly for the light and squinted upon flicking it on. Nick may not have convinced him with the criticism of his diet but Hayko was starting to pay attention to the poor lighting he usually worked under. 

The left cabinet revealed the detergents. Hayko took them out, one by one, and stacked them on the sink before opening the faucet. He took note to plug it before it filled up and shut the warm dial. The colder the better Nick had mentioned off-hand once on a night similar to this one, where Hayko had watched him scrubbing a shirt in the sink from the hallway, pretending the water wasn’t turning pink between his fingers.

He breathed once, the sharp smell of chemical piercing his nose, and sprinkled it in. The shirt went in next and then the tie and all he could do was stare at it, infatuated. He had watched a man come home from killing someone, taken his clothes, and stuck the evidence in heavy-duty detergent.

He was a fucking lawyer. 

He didn’t sign up for this. 

Where had the time gone for it to have gone this far, to be involved like this with a psychopath? Going from tied up in his god damn basement to playing boyfriend? 

Sure, it had been a stupid mistake on his part but it was a mistake, all he had wanted was to live, and one verbal contract later, now watched blood merge with water.

The blood stained dress shirt stared back up at him disapprovingly. It probably thought he deserved it, Hayko thought faintly and the sudden rush of nausea almost made him double over and wretch into the sink.

The clock ate the time with ticks, and all Hayko did was stare at the shirt in the sink. Until he heard a rustle from behind. The man had probably finished washing up and just in time, too. “You should’ve been asleep.” 

Nick was right, always right. 

Tagging: @doveotions @heathenville @thewhumpstuff @thatsthewhump @adamantem-rose @lonesome–hunter @whumpsorbet @whumpasaurus101 @lektricfergus @downrivergirl914 @burtlederp

Ask to be added/removed!

[callaeidae3]

Whumpmas in July: Day 3

Sleep

That thing that Yuuki wants, but can't get. Insomnia sucks. Nightmares do as well. And that's not even mention the scenes that haunt his nerves when he does try to sleep...

...it shouldn't be so hard, right?

[straight-to-the-pain]

Whumpmas in July Day 3: Sleep (Or the lack thereof - a slow descent into madness)

They’re not sure how long they’ve been in this cell, though they know that the guards have come and gone. They’re not sure if the woman sitting across from them now has been there before. They’re not entirely sure that she exists.

They had tried to count at first, but as the seconds turned to minutes and the minutes turned to hours, and their eyelids grew heavier and heavier, they couldn’t really remember what they were counting to begin with.

Sometimes there are voices, begging and screaming and talking to them. Telling them to give in. Telling them to hold out. At first they told themself that they were just the guards, but now the voices twist and mingle in their mind, a cacophony of noise.

Pain is a constant. Sometimes it’s sharp and bright, dragging them back into the harsh light of their cell against their will. Sometimes it’s a dull ache that they’re dimly aware of, their mind elsewhere. The only thing they know for certain is that the pain is worst if they dare close their eyes.

Thoughts slip through their mind. The harder they try to hold on, the more they run away from them, like squeezing wet cornflower. They’re not sure why they think of that, but they imagine the the sticky white substance between their fingers, the way they played with it at school. They imagine it for hours. Or maybe mere minutes.

They catch themself talking out loud sometimes, then realise they can no longer recall what it was they said. There’s things they know they shouldn’t say, languages they know they shouldn’t speak. Did they say that out loud? What does out loud mean when all the voices in their mind are now outside?

They were hungry once. They suppose they still are, though they can’t remember what that’s meant to feel like. Sometimes there is water and sometimes it drowns them but somehow it always feels like a mercy. The water is cold. The water makes them feel real.

They kneel. It hurts less when they kneel. They wait. They know eventually they will no longer be able to kneel. They hope that maybe soon there will be darkness.

@whumpmasinjuly

[whumpsy-daisy]

Day 3 Whumpas in July Prompt Sleep

Taglist : @thecitythatdoesntsleep

Kieran had watched over him the last three days carefully. He was healing perfectly fine and eating well too. It was mentally Kieran was worried about. Elliot stopped sleeping in his room, he couldn’t go near the stairs anymore. He slept on the couch refusing any other blankets and pillows Kieran would bring. He only managed to get small intervals of sleep before waking up screaming, sobs echoing through his home once again. Tonight he wanted to try something different. Dinner was quiet as usual, aside from the gentle prodding from him trying to get Elliot to tell him what he’d done while he was at work.

“I watched cartoons...again, but I cleaned the kitchen and I mopped!” Elliot stammered, his fork trembling in his hand. Kieran told him he didn't have to clean anything at all, but Elliot insisted on it even though he could barely stand, let alone clean something. Kieran didn't bother chastising him about it though. He was scared enough about just admitting to watching cartoons.

“I can tell. You know you don't have to though, right?” Kieran spoke softly, hiding anything that sounded condescending in his voice behind a soft smile. Elliot’s brows furrowed. Kieran shook his head rapidly.

“B-But if that's what you want to do that’s fine, as long as you're happy!” he chirped. Elliot put his head back down continuing to eat. Kieran wasn’t exactly sure the message had gone through completely but he could worry about that later. On cue, after dinner, Elliot would get from his seat, pad over to the couch, and curl up. Kieran turned on the lamp he’d given him as usual. Elliot gave a small wave before turning the other way. Kieran didn’t bother staying awake himself when he got to his room. That was a scream he didn’t think anyone could sleep through.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

It’d been barely 3 hours when Elliot’s screaming pierced through the silence. Kieran rose up groggily fumbling with the door. He slowly crept down the stairs, as if he could scare Elliot anymore. The floorboard hissed, Elliot whipped his head around.

“M'sorry I didn’t- I’ll be quiet! Please I’m sorry!” he sobbed. Hands quickly coming up to protect himself.

“S’okay, not gonna hurt you. Let’s just try something new, ok?” He started softly. Elliot hiccupped looking at him with wide eyes. Kieran lowered himself a bit, holding out his arms. Elliot’s knuckles were as white as his hair with how tightly he had the blanket in his grip.

“M’not gonna hurt you, c’mere.” His words still slurring from sleep. Elliot reached out for him shakily, Kieran took him gently from the couch. Carrying him bridal style back up the stairs. He was relieved to find that his ribs weren’t poking into him when he had to carry him anymore. Elliot shut his eyes the moment he saw where Kieran was taking him. He made the journey up the stairs quickly. He side eyed the shattered door to Elliot's room. He didn't remember much of what happened, but from the way Elliot's heart began to speed up he knew taking him inside probably wasn’t the best idea. He turned back down the hall to his room.

Elliot sniffles subsided as Kieran place him on the bed. Kieran gestured to the side on the left and Elliot scrambled to it, wiping tears out of his eyes.

“If you feel scared, you can hold onto me. I don’t think you’ve gotten more than a few hours of sleep this week.” Kieran yawned. Elliot begrudgingly moved closer to him wrapping his frail arms around Kieran’s larger one.

“I’ve got you.”

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Kieran's eyes fluttered open, eyes meeting Elliot’s sleeping face nuzzled into his arm. He hadn’t seen him look so peaceful since he'd been brought home. But if sleeping was his only escape from whatever was plaguing his mind, Kieran was going to make sure Elliot at least got to enjoy that.

[minerscanary]

Just Another Night

Whumpmas in july day 3, with the prompt ‘sleep’.

CW: This ones pretty bare, more of a dull pain and comfort rather than hurt. Medication mention, some barely self destructive behavior, does this even count as whump? Nathan Prescott.

----

Nights rarely went without being woken up.

Whether that be in a cold sweat, his clothes drenched and teeth chattering as he climbed out of bed to the shower, or with a burning pain tearing and pulling at his leg. The meds all hit each other terribly, but after so much trial and error you begin to be okay with the side effects. It was either this, or staying in bed all day doing nothing, unable to do anything. He could sacrifice a little bit of sleep anyways, it wasn’t worth it.

But now… There was him in the picture.

Nathan worried about waking him up every time he would wiggle out from under the sheets. Worry about waking up as he would slip into the shower, or pull on his shoes to leave the apartment. If he did decide on the former, like tonight, he would wonder if Warren would notice and mention it in the morning over coffee, just before he had to run off for the day. He ran through a million and one different scenarios on what he would say, how to answer perfectly.

Someone like him, it would be a miracle from god if he didn't have nightmares. Nightmares trapped behind a glass wall, being locked out from doing anything, only able to watch the blood spill and robes burn, stuck just behind his eyes through a thick haze. He turned the knob all the way to the left first, letting burning steam and water splash against his skin, opening his pours and all the dirt stuck in them from when he inevitably forgot to wash his face. It always seemed to be the smallest things, the mundane and ritualistic things he couldn’t quite get. It was better when Warren was there, someone to keep him on the schedule, on some sort of routine, but some nights just fell through the cracks.

He flexed his toes against the white linoleum floor, just to get the feeling back in his leg. His hands were just barely shaking, rubbing at his face, through dirty blonde locks that had days of product in it. Some things just fell through the cracks.

Nathan could almost melt in the heat of the steam, let it sink into his skin and follow it down the drain. Just melt away from the world, the fluorescent and disinfectants. It was a nice thought, to just step away from the world for a second, to let it all melt away from you.

But again… There was him. Warren. The dipshit that he let in his dorm room once and couldn’t get enough of. Somehow they landed out here, away from the hills of Arcadia Bay, in a studio apartment Nathan's father did not trust him with, alone at least. Warren was his little secret, someone that his old world wouldn’t be able to touch, not over Nathan's dead body.

He let out a little breathy laugh in the steam, just at the thought, then reached out to turn the dial the opposite direction, icy cold. It was just a quick burst, enough to give his skin life from all the heat had taken. He wasn’t under it long before turning it all the way off, hearing the smallest knock at the door.

“Nathan?” He heard from the other side, eyes down as he watched water drip from his body.

“Yeah?”

Drip drip drip, down the drain, anywhere else.

Conversations with the man were hardly anything to be scared of, he wasn't. But conversations at all, through a door, in the middle of the night, were generally nerve inducing.

There was a small pause, then trying to open the door, “Sorry, are you almost done? Nathan’s breath caught in his throat, just standing in the shower with nothing else. He quickly grabbed his towel, patting himself down before throwing on a clean set of clothes. The dirty ones were thrown on the floor, he could take care of them later. Warren didn’t say anything else, the studio was silent, listening to Nate’s feet against the wet linoleum, then, the door clicked. His hair was wet and messy, face flushed from the quick change in temperature. Water soaked the neck of his clean t-shirt, on the back of his neck where his hair dripped.

Warren gave this tilted kind of smile, arms out straight, and Nathan fell right in them. The younger brunette had filled out over the years, lanky limbs finally looking right when he grew to his full height. He was definitely bigger than Nathan, enough to rest his chin on the top of his head as he held him against his chest. “How are you feeling?” It felt like a dumb question, but Warren asked it anyways.

“Just fine, Graham.” Nathan locked his hands around Warren’s waist, the others over his shoulders, holding him as they stood outside the bathroom door. “I’m just fine.” He felt the hesitancy in the others movements, and spoke again. “I’m not fucking sensitive.”

Well. It came out wrong, but the meaning got by nonetheless.

He felt the other’s hand slip into his hair, brush at oily and wet locks, push them back and away from his forehead. That water dripped down his neck, onto Warren’s hand. “Do you need some advil or something? I got those strawberry melatonin things, if they’d help.”

Nathan let out a breath against Warren’s shirt, then in again, taking in the cedar scent of his cologne, mixed with the seaside smell of their laundry detergent.

Their laundry detergent, it sounded so fucking domestic.

“You should try and go back to bed,” Warren spoke again, resting his chin on top of Nathan’s wet hair. “Just a few more hours before we gotta be up.”

We this, and ours that, Nathan’s teeth clenched together, throat warm and tight as he gripped tighter around the tall brunette's waist. Someone looking out for him, who seemed like they cared about him, who wanted to take care of him, it all feld similar. Like a sweater you meant to throw out, scratching at your skin, yet you wear it regardless, lest it go to waste.

“Nathan?”

Warren’s voice was grating, scratching at Nathan’s ears like wool. He gulped, pulling away in a harsh movement, letting his messy hair fall back over his eyes. He couldn’t even say a word, too frightened of the cracks in his voice, almost stomping to his bed, grabbing one of the blankets before stopping back in front of Warren. He couldn’t look up at him, just squared his jaw with mumbled words, “I’m sleeping on the couch. Go back to bed.” He didn’t wait to see if Warren would, chances were he would probably just start the coffee machine and leave. Nathan just took the blanket to the living kitchen dining area, pulling it over him as he fell onto the couch. 

It was a cheap thing he managed to buy with his own money, dragged up the steps of his building, and into his apartment. It didn’t cost much, but nuzzling his face into the corner of it, back to the TV, the smell of mothballs in his throat, the plush blanket draped over him. 

Just alone. 

Completely alone. 

Quiet. 

It was nice. 

Empty, and nice. 

No one to pull him one way or the other, even if he could hear footsteps through the rooms. Warren didn’t matter right now. Nothing mattered right now. Just the few hours he could strangle until he had to be a functioning human being.

---

@whumpmasinjuly

[saccharine-suffering]

Sleep

haha whoops this is late

Prompt: Sleep

@whumpmasinjuly

---

Whumpee let themself lay back on the twin sized mattress. It had been so long since they had a real bed to sleep on. With Whumper, they had a towel if they were perfectly behaved. Otherwise, they would have to sleep on the cold, hard concrete.

The calluses and scars littering their skin were gently cradled by the memory foam and cotton fiber. Their head resting not on the floor by their kidnapper's feet, but on a cloud-soft pillow. They were wrapped in a soft blanket and quilt, and the stuffed bear they had been given was laying comfortably in their arms.

It had been so long since they had felt so contented, so provided for, so loved. While a part of their brain told them it was all a ruse, they were mostly grateful. Caretaker was spoiling them, and they knew that there would be hell to pay for all the comfort they had been given.

However, at that moment, they couldn't care to think about the consequences of their comfort. Their eyelids grew heavy, and their brain was clouded with exhaustion.

So, for what felt like the first time since they had been abducted, they allowed themself to sleep.

[whumpinggrounds]

Sleep - WIJ

day 3 of @whumpmasinjuly ! tagging my people and lmk if you want to be added or removed :)

@shapeshiftersandfire @killtheprotagonist @oceansevaporatetoo @itstrueiwasthewraithberry

She’s lying tucked between flannel sheets and she’s sleepywarm – like that, just like that, all one word. Jamie has one of her hands, is holding it up above them both, and she’s naming all the muscles in it, tracing the invisible lines down through the wrist, the arm. “Thank you very much, genius James,” she tells the redhead in bed with her, and Jamie laughs, only a little self-conscious.

“Thank you, Jude.” Jamie’s voice is light, but there’s meaning in the words, and something about them prompts a stab of pain. Jude – is she Jude? – furrows her brow. She tries to think what Jamie means, but in her head there’s a thick, bright white fog that her mind can’t penetrate.

She asks the question slowly. “What’re you thanking me for?”

“You know.”

“I…don’t.”

Jamie’s voice is encouraging, gentle. “Remember? Remember what you did for me?”

“No.” Bringing her hands to her eyes, maybe-Jude presses the heels of her palms down hard, as if that’ll help the pain starting behind them. “I…I don’t remember.”

Why doesn’t she remember? What doesn’t she remember?

“You don’t remember?”

The voice has changed. She blinks into the scowling face of Mara, Miss Mara – why is she calling her Miss Mara? Where’s…where’s Jamie?

No time to worry about that, because Mara sounds angry, accusatory. Her finger stabs forward, nail almost poking her in the chest. “You don’t remember what you did to me?”

“I…I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry, I don’t know, I don’t remember-”

Jude’s gone, she’s Isabella now, stumbling, fumbling, trying hard to find her footing. She’s lying in bed in a tangle of blankets and her face goes red, wondering what she and Miss Mara have been doing there. Her owner’s face looms above her, angry, eyes dark as thunderclouds. “You don’t remember what you did to me?”

“I don’t – I don’t do things to you, you do things to me, I don’t…I don’t remember-”

She’s not Jude, she’s not Isabella, she’s somewhere in between, forgetful and accusatory and apologetic and defiant. She’s made of conflicting impulses. Fear rages in her, all the while her voice raises and her hands clench into fists –

And white light hits her in the face, a stream of it, like a bucket of cold water. Frigid icy white light spills over her face and over her skin, and she’s cowering in the corner of a white white room. “What do you remember?”

Handler Collins roars it, inhumanly tall, head brushing the ceiling. The room stretches and warps around him, and Jude is gone, Isabella is gone, the girl on the floor is a doll, a pet, a toy, a nothing. The girl on the floor has no past and no future; she is empty and hollow and weeping on the floor.

“I don’t remember,” she sobs into her hands, “I don’t remember, please, please, I don’t remember-”

“Isabella!”

Shooting upright, Isabella nearly slams her head right into Miss Mara’s face. The room is dark and foreign to her, and for a long moment she can’t place herself, just sits there gasping, heart jolting almost painfully in her chest. Slowly, by degrees, the room resolves itself to her bleary vision. It’s Miss Mara’s bedroom. She’s in Miss Mara’s bed. There’s a headache brewing behind her eyes.

Beside her, Miss Mara shakes her shoulder, none too gently. “Hey. You were yelling in your sleep. What was that about?”

Shaking her head, Isabella reaches up tentatively to touch her cheek. The tips of her fingers come away wet.

“I’m sorry, Miss Mara. I don’t remember.”

[agentsofromanov]

whumpmasinjuly day 3 prompt: sleep

@whumpmasinjuly

fandom: marvel

characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov and Phil Coulson

relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov/Phil Coulson

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Clint Barton prided himself on the fact that he could go long periods of time without sleeping. However his partners Natasha and Phil did not.

Of course they understood that as it was an almost necessary skill for them to have as agents but they hated how Clint would walk around avengers tower or the SHIELD base and almost brag about how long he had stayed awake or how little he slept.

So when one day Clint came home from a solo mission Fury has assigned him to last minute , his body littered with minute cuts and bruises that covered large areas of skin and bags in which you could fit almost anything under his eyes. Phil and Natasha decided something needed to be done about it.

Clint seemed delirious with lack of sleep as he stumbled down the hangar bay and Phil and Nat intercepted him before he could make his way to the post mission briefing that he was expected to participate in.

“oh hi its my 2 favourite people” Clint mumbled while he received kisses on either cheek from Nat and Phil. 

At this point they had wrapped their arms securely around Clint and were manuvering him over to the waiting car

Once they were all secured inside the car Phil pulled at his phone and started making calls to let Fury know that “no Clint would not be attending the briefing” and that “yes all 3 of us will be absent from work this week” and finally that “fury you better dam well find a way because we’re taking the week off”

By the time Phil has secured their leave the car had pulled up outside Avengers tower.

Phil and Nat led Clint through the entryway and into the lift of avengers tower to bring him up to their shared floor.

The whole way Natasha whispered sweet nothings in Clint ear (“it’s okay, you’re okay” “you can rest now love , we have you”)

So by the time they had deposited him on the custom made bed (a perfect fit for the 3 of them) he eyes were starting to droop. The effect of not sleeping for several days truly showing on his face.

Natasha helped him undress while Phil used a wet cloth to wipe away some of the grime coating his skin and applied some cream to the many bruises littering his body.

When Nat and Phil were satisfied that Clint was comfortable they lay him down on their bed and finally with his lovers bracketing either side of him Clint fell asleep

[i-see-no-whump-up-here]

Whumpmas in July (Day 3): Sleep

I’m really just jumping straight into this with one of my whumpees, Cassius. He’s a former noble kid with uncontrolled fire powers in a fantasy setting where magic is forbidden Let me know if anything isn’t clear!

CW’s: nightmares, fires, family issues, improper use of exorcisms, surrendering to tumblr formatting issues

-—

Cassius checked behind him before he descended into the sunken clearing. He was only a few yards from the road, but the hill would hide him, and the small collection of stones in the center indicated others camped here before him. He must be doing something right then.

Cassius circled the small valley until he found a root that looked sufficiently sized to be a pillow, and he glanced round once more. After that last apothecary gave him a weird look, he got away from the major city as quickly as possible. While most apothecaries respected magic and probably knew of at least a couple mages, some bought into the King’s propaganda about the devilish nature of magic. If anyone found out about Cassius’s powers, they’d murder him on sight. If he managed to survive, they’d just burn him at the stake.

Another throb hit his head, and the young man rubbed his eyes. The brief darkness excited his mind. Sleep? Sleep?! They could finally sleep? Cassius didn’t want to. He didn’t feel safe. However, he’d already been on the move for two full days and a night. If he didn’t sleep now, in the tentative safety of the darkness, he’d have to wait another day. Sleep deprivation in that amount gave him hallucinations, and he couldn’t convince himself it was worth it.

He laid his head on the tree root, and it took a couple shifts around to get comfortable, but then he was out.

-—

Cassius pet a horse’s dark fur. Dilon. His sweet boy. A pit sank into his stomach as he realized why he was here. He could only see Dilon’s neck, where his head was buried, which meant he knew what happened next.

Even though Cassius knew what was coming, old Cassius still startled at his sister surprising him. A flame shot out of his palm. He blinked, and the barn was on fire. Cassius ran for his sister as her own horse kicked the stable door open toward her. Outside the barn, he saw her blistered and angry arm in the glow from the fire.

Cassius sat in a tavern. He knew now that taverns weren’t safe in his noble dress. He didn’t know that then. He curled up behind the tavern as two people kicked him and took half the belongings he had left. Dilon softly nudged his bruised face.

Now Cassius sat at a fine table, pushing food around with his fork. Typically, his parents would be quick to tell him off for it, but they were busy arguing over Cassius himself. Cassius only looked up from his food when his sister ran out of the room.

Chains dug into his arms, laying bruises into the skin. He’d given up fighting them, but they were still tight. Cassius winced as a priest sprinkled him with “holy water” and the other clergy chanted about demons and salvation. He remained unaffected for a while, until the crazy priest grabbed a candle and poured the hot wax all over his palm. He screamed.

-—

Cassius flipped over, grabbing the wrist near him and shoving them back. Flame illuminated the clearing. The robber shouted in surprise. The ball of fire hit a tree, igniting it in a flash.

“What the hell!” The robber yelled. It was a stubby man, and he dashed off before Cassius could stop him. No! He’d tell someone. Cassius ran after him, but he was still blinking sleep out of his eyes. His foot slipped on a branch, and he tumbled into the road. The man ran toward the town, and as Cassius scrambled to his feet, he saw that the fire had spread. His heart pounded against his chest. He had to go. He had to run. So he did.

[gallowswhump]

WIJ Day #3 Sleep

CW. Implied Abuse, Sleep Depravation, Homelessness, Self-Harm.

@whumpmasinjuly

How each of my OCs view sleeping.

_

Calcifire is a chronic under sleeper. From his times when he was living with his father, the only time he could study his magic would be under the cover of night to now when his research leads him to long sleepless nights. He has a problem with getting the correct amount of sleep. Luckily, he has a familiar who likes to keep him in check and make sure that he at least gets some sleep.

Cirelc finds it easy to sleep in almost any situation. He has a long history of sleeping on the streets and it makes it easy for him to fall asleep anywhere and get a good rest. This does contribute to him being a light sleeper though and he will wake at the hint of danger. This leads to his nights never being very restful.

Cygnus hates sleep. He hated it even before he started having nightmares. Sleep is when the worlds around him thin and his guide from the celestial plane is a lot louder and clearer to him. Now he also has to contend with nightmares from his own head and from the Abyss.

The answer to the question “How do you sleep at night?” for Ash is he doesn’t. The guilt and weight of what he has done is heavy on his conscience. He has a hard time falling asleep and will often fall asleep while he is outside and trying to work through his thoughts while smoking.