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29 Days of Whump - Day 23 - Stabbed

Taglist: @yuckwhump @slaintetowhump @constellationwhump @whimperwoods - LMK if I missed anyone!

Laurence’s breath came in short gasps. His hands flew to his stomach, trying to stem the flow of blood. Who knew such a small knife could hurt so much? With trembling hands, he pressed around the knife, not daring to remove it. I shoulda known this would happen. It may be a small wound, but with how much blood is pouring out… He glanced down at the wound, then winced as he looked away. He felt sick. The lightheadedness didn’t help. Focus. I need to get help. Where’s my cellphone? Slowly, he removed one of his hands from the wound, sticky with blood. He felt in his pocket for his phone - gone! Where was it? From where he lay slumped against a dumpster, he looked around. Did it fly off during the fight? Something glimmered in the light. Could that be…? He tried to hobble over on his knees, but collapsed. The impact of the landing drew a cry of pain from him. Gritting his teeth, he started to drag himself forward. One hand trying to stem the blood flow, the other dragging him forward, he inched his way towards what he hoped was his cellphone. Dark blood stained the dirty alley floor. Laurence could feel his breathing becoming increasingly labored. His vision was fading in and out. I have to make it. If I don’t get help, I will die here. His bloodied hand landed on something solid in the garbage pile. Relief flooded him - it was his cellphone. Wait, what was my passcode? He scrunched his eyes shut, trying to remember. It’s no use, I can’t…wait. Laurence, you dummy. You don’t need a passcode to make an emergency call! Laurence forced himself onto one elbow, bringing the cellphone where he could see. The screen was smeared with blood, rendering the touch screen useless. Groaning, Laurence rubbed the phone against his shirt, hoping to clean away enough blood to use the phone. Just dial it…9…1…1… Laurence felt himself collapse as he pressed the last key. A female voice answered on the other end.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

Laurence started to speak, but was overcome by a coughing fit. His coughs brought up blood, splattering the illuminated phone screen. He struggled to breathe.

“Hello? Is someone there?…”

If more was said, Laurence didn’t hear it.

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Okay this might be a weird request but would you be able to write question 7 off that prompt list as grumpy caretaker John saying it to Sam after they maybe take something too far? Personally I thought it could be a visit to Maia that got a bit out of hand for Sam’s safety without them realizing, but you do whatever is most realistic for your characters :)

I’m sorry I didn’t quite fill the prompt (even though I think it would definitely happen, because Sam can only hide what they do for so long) but I did write something close to it, so I hope this fulfils what you wanted, at least partially. The prompt was “After that stunt you pulled?” from a list by @cynicalwhump.

There’s a knock at the door, then another, and only then does it finally open. John stands in the doorway, holding a bag in front of him, like an offering.

“May I come in?” he asks with a smile, polite as always.

“Sure, yeah,” comes the reply. Sam blinks up at him with a surprised sort of expression on their face, like they had forgotten that the world existed beyond their tiny flat. “What uh, what time is it?” they ask, brushing stray curls out of their eyes.

“It’s ten. In the evening,” John replies, as if the darkening sky outside leaves any room for questions. “I’ve been trying to get in touch all evening. I made dinner. Didn’t have anyone to share it with.” He steps inside, heading towards the kitchen. It’s empty, predictably.

“Sorry. I got,, caught up.” Sam looks down at the floor, not quite meeting John’s eye. “Nothing bad,” they add, a little too quickly, before their friend can fill in the gaps with anything too unsavoury. “I was just making a model, that’s all. Lost track of time.”

John looks them up and down, checking for anything that would say otherwise, but if the marks are there, they’re well hidden. All he sees are tiny flecks of paint littering their shirt, and he nods, relieved of some concern. At least they’re not bleeding out in an alley. This time.

“Have you eaten?” he asks, eyeing the spotless counters and the lack of dishes in the sink.

“Today? Or in general?” they shoot back at him. It’s a good way to avoid answering, he’ll give them that. “You don’t have to worry so much, you know." 

John lets out a quiet laugh. "After that stunt you pulled?” He shakes his head. “When you don’t answer your texts all I can think is that you’re in some dark, abandoned corner, slowly bleeding out, and when I find you it’ll be too late.”

Sam steps a little closer, keeping their head down. They don’t meet John’s eye and he’s used to this, but he knows that this time, they’re doing it on purpose. “It was only a couple stitches. I was alright.”

“Alright?” John doesn’t yell, has never yelled in his life, but his tone is sharp now. His words hold an intensity that’s usually hidden from the world, or at least from Sam. “You never stop to consider the risks, do you? Would you even care if one of these days you didn’t make it out alive?" 

"It doesn’t really matter, does it? One way or another, we don’t live forever.” Their voice is quiet, and they shrug slightly, as if it could be possible to lighten what they’ve just been talking about.

John sighs, resting his head in his hands for a moment before he can continue. “I’m saying this as a friend, not as your boss, alright? But I can’t be sending you into dangerous situations when I can’t trust that you’ll be doing all you can to get out of them alive.” His eyes are hard and his gaze is firm. Reaching out, he tries to put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, but they flinch away from him and he lets them be.

“I would never let any harm come to you. I would never let my actions jeopardise the mission.” Their voice is firm and unfeeling. Cold words recited on instinct.

“Listen, it doesn’t matter if my rank is higher than yours on some piece of paper. Your life isn’t worth less than mine. Your life isn’t worth less than anyone else’s. So don’t go sacrificing yourself for me, alright?” He doesn’t wait for a response before continuing. “If anything, I’m in charge, so I protect you.”

Sam just stands in front of him, motionless and unblinking. He knows they’re listening but he doesn’t know if they’re taking any of it in.

“Maybe I should just call your sister,” he adds with a slight shake of the head. “She’s always been better at getting through to you." 

He tries to lighten the mood. "What are you building anyway?" 

"Harrier. And I’m painting now.” They smile slightly, thinking about their project and how close they are to finishing. It’s taken them most of the weekend, but they’re almost done.

“Alright well, there’s chilli and rice on the counter, and a little something for tea as well.” He reaches his arms out, and this time Sam lets him gently pull them into a tight embrace. “Try not to die, alright?" 

"I’ll try,” comes the muttered reply. And with that, John leaves, closing the door behind him.

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Bay stepped onto the branch, crouched low and her wings folded behind her. Her eyes danced and she jumped off, throwing herself into the pool. It wasn’t very deep, but by god it was refreshing. She cupped her hands, throwing the water up into the air. it sprinkled around her like real raindrops. She leaned back, letting herself relish in its luxury.

“Oh, tiny!” an all-too familiar voice called out. “Tiny! It’s dinnertime!”

Bay hardly paid any attention to what they were saying. Their voice was enough to stab her heart.

“Tiny? Come out now. I don’t have time for games,” they called.

Bay climbed out of the water and jumped to a large branch. She grew.

“There you are. Come, eat. Steak and potatoes tonight,” they said. They moved to the tree stump table, setting down the plate. “Hurry up now. I don’t have all day.”

She jumped from the branch. Her wings, useless in this form with their steel bindings, tried hesitantly to keep her from a rough landing. Bay’s feet hit the ground. She was quiet as she jumped forward to keep moving, letting the impact roll through her body rather than jolt.

“You’re wet.” Not a question. Not a statement. Something in between.

“There was a small pool of water. I jumped in it.”

“Did you, now?” They pulled out their silverware and set it in front of them. Two wine glasses emerged from a bag as well.

“Yes.” Bay was toeing the line of danger carefully.

“Sit on the chair and tell me the rules before you even ask to eat,” they said.

Bay sat. “Rule number one: I must always say please and thank you for every bite you allow me to eat and sip to drink. Rule number two: I must never say no to you for any command you ask of me. Rule number three: I must always ask for permission to do anything unless explicitly told to do so. Rule number four: I must always do as I’m told. Rule number five: I must never ask questions unless they’re very simple, such as “what would you like me to sing?” Rule number six: My outfits are decided by you. I have no say. Rule number six: My only right is to reject songs, and that is only allowed when they are songs I do not know. Rule number seven: I must always come when called. Rule number eight: I must always look my best for spontaneous appearances. Rule number nine: I must always wear my collar when in company. Rule number ten: I must never even think of leaving. Rule number eleven: My desires don’t matter, only yours do. Rule number twelve: Everyday I must pray to our god. Rule number thirteen: I must always refer to you by your preferred title. Rule number fourteen: If I break a rule, I must ask for punishment to fit the crime. Rule number fifteen: I must never lie to you.”

“Good,” they said. “Are you ready to eat?”

“Yes, Mix.” Bay’s mouth watered.

“Very good. What would you like to eat first?”

“Whatever you wish for me to eat first, I’ll eat.”

“Very good. Here.” They cut up a piece of steak and held it halfway across the table.

Bay leaned forward and took a bite. She chewed, savoring the flavor of an animal she used to know. She swallowed. “Thank you, Mix.”

“You’re welcome. Try this too.” Mashed potatoes met her lips next.

Bay thanked him. She thanked him for every poisoned bite, for every bitter sip of saltwater. She knew exactly why this food was nice.

This food was meant to harm her. This food was going to be ruined for her.

She missed her food. She missed eating the sugared pineapple from her lands. She missed the juicy fruit that ripened on the hottest day of summer and would run down her chin after half a bite. She missed the water from the waterfalls that ran by her village. She missed home, and this dinner was a sloppy attempt at ruining it for her.

Bay watched as they stood up.

“I’m going to bed. Feel free to sleep after you sing me a song,” they said.

She nodded, her stomach churning with poisoned dinner, and asked them to let her stand. She stood.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high. And the dreams that you dream of once in a lullaby. Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly. And the dreams that you dream of? Dreams really do come true. Someday I wish upon a star: wake up where the clouds are far behind me! Where trouble melts like lemon drops, high above the chimney tops that’s where you’ll find me!”

She hated the human language. She hated the way she was forced to use it.

She missed her language. She missed the dialect of home, where she spoke like the burbling of the river she had her first bath in. She missed her laugh, high and sharp, when her brother fell in that river.

But now…but now Bay was a prisoner of war. A war she hadn’t known was being fought. She wondered if the word of war had yet reached her village. She wondered if they were still alive. It would be a mercy if they weren’t.

As she finished the song, Bay came back into her body.

Mix was smiling softly, like a fool in love.

But Mix was no fool and they weren’t in love with her: only her voice.

“That was lovely.”

“Thank you, Mix,” she replied. She hated herself for leaning their touch, for even thinking of needing warmth from any filthy human. After all, no one could touch her but them, and it was hardly a touch at all. But she was so tired. She was so needy. She was so, utterly, alone.

No one was coming to save her.

Their face was the last she would ever see, she was sure of it. “Goodnight, my nightingale.”

“Goodnight, Mix,” she said.

They left her in the sanctuary to sleep. They didn’t turn back to look at her.

She pretended to not notice the door lock behind them.

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Aa a fellow whump lover, does it bother you when in tv or film a character is in a whump situation that hasn't been done properly? Like if they're tied up, it's clearly loosely, or their hands are only tied in front of them and they could easily get up and run or pull their gag off but they just don't. I've noticed a few instances of this and it ruins the whumpiness of the scene imo. What do you think?

Yeah, that does really bother me. Like, what’s the point if they can get out of it so easily? Do the whump right! Tie up your whumpee tighter!

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Hi could I please request 💐+🌾 with Scarlett? I love your writing :)

Flowers + itchy eyes/ears/nose. I love this! Thank you so much! :) I’m sorry, this is short!

Requests are open, feel free to send some in! Planning on writing a lot tonight, so I could use some inspiration. :) I write mostly nat x reader and scarlett x reader, but will do nat x Steve platonic, and maybe wanda.


“Ugh,” Scarlett scrubbed at her nose as much as she could without taking her makeup off.

“You okay, baby?” You asked quietly, placing a hand on her back.

“It’s the flowers,” she nodded in the general direction of the hundreds of flowers scattered all over the place at the awards show. You nodded, eyeing them all. Scarlett was incredibly allergic to several types of flowers, and it seemed like they were all here.

You gently grasped her chin in your hand and turned her face in your direction. Her eyes were slightly glazed over and very teary, and her nose was practically quivering.

“We should get you out of here,” you murmured.

“You know we ha..h’h- heh… have to stay,” Scarlett replied, fighting off a sneeze.

“Scarlett, if you don’t get out of here you are going to have a full on allergy attack. You do not want that.”

Scarlett sighed, realizing you were right as she quickly pinched her fingers over her nose and stifled a rapid double.

Bless you. We need to go because you’re just getting started.”

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Is it not just awesome when the whumpee is weakened from heavy bleeding, and they try to get up but their hand slips on the blood, making them fall back down again? One of my favourite gory whump tropes!

I’ve never actually considered that particular situation before!! But the falling back down after weakly attempting to rise is definitely a favourite of mine for sure!

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A little IronDad and Spider-Son drabble for @heartofcathedrals ! (Won’t let me tag you for some reason, sweets.)

I actually don’t think I’ve ever written asthma before, so forgive me if I fuck something up. 

Peter’s alternating from swinging across buildings to running on rooftops, arms and legs pumping hard and fast the second his feet hit the rough gravel. He’s working overtime to catch back up to the others, having drawn a few mutated aliens from a sporadic Earth attack away from the scene so the others could target the ship’s source that’s spitting out aliens left and right. 

He held his own fighting off five aliens that were annoyingly persistent, killing each with practiced ease, yet once the last one hit the ground, his chest started to grow tight, feeling a little restricted, but he pegged it on the adrenaline from playing a large role in only his third official outing with the Avengers because the spider bite’s wiped away his past ailments, he’s sure of it. 

Still, his chest is growing tighter with each slamming footfall and swinging web, and he’s struggling to suck in a deep, swelling breath, only managing short, weak intakes that just barely fill his lungs. He doesn’t hear the faint whistle with each breath, too lost in his thoughts, to wrapped around the pressure in his chest, but he does hear Karen’s voice chirping softly in his ear. 

“Peter, do you have asthma?”

The question catches him off guard, and he loses his footing, tumbling onto another rooftop, landing on his hands and knees with a groan. “What? No.” He’s back on his feet in seconds, charging forward, regaining his pace despite his lungs beginning to tremble and burn against his ribs. 

“You’re experiencing respiratory distress, and I’ve ruled out general illness and panic after scanning your vitals and running a brief neurological scan.”

“You can do that?” Peter shouts, stopping just at the ledge of the roof to cough dryly into his first. His balance teeters, but he forces his limbs back a few steps, blinking around slightly hazy vision. “That seems intrusive.” 

“It’s necessary,” Karen answers, voice just as composed as ever. “Mr. Stark had me run a complete background check on you when you first piqued his interest, and I have an entire file on medical concerns, including asthma.”

“That was before,” Peter grumbles, motioning weakly with one hand, “the whole spider bite turned into super hero thing.” He leaps off the ledge, shooting sharp strings of web and swinging around buildings until he’s dropping to the ground just a few feet from the ship. “I haven’t had an attack since then.” A sharp cough punctuates each word, and he kind of really wants to rip his mask off because he’s sure it’s what’s keeping him from taking in air. 

He thumbs at the bottom of his mask, swallowing back the urge to slip it away from his face. He glances around, hearing shouting and fighting, and starts running toward it as Karen chimes in his ear again. 


He slams into Tony’s back, vision swimming, and Tony whips around, firing off a beam toward an oncoming alien in the process. 

“Easy, Spider-Man,” Tony mutters, and he makes to twist around, to run back to the battle, but then Peter’s coughing behind him, and his muscles tense against his suit. “Hey, kid, are you okay?” He clamps one hand to Peter’s shoulder, and Peter swats it away, stepping back and hunching over to cough out dry coughs that do nothing to ease the pressure in his chest. 

“Karen, what the hell is going on?” 

“Nothing,” Peter wheezes out, voice panicked, but Karen’s already relaying all of his vitals to Tony, and she concludes with his current respiratory distress caused by a sudden asthma attack. 

“Asthma,” Tony hisses when Peter finally rights himself, and he shakes his head quickly. 

“No, Mr.– Iron Man, I’m fine, I swear!” His voice is shaking, weak with a need to grow around breaths, and he tries to push past it, he really does, but his knees are beginning to wobble, and his entire chest is really hot and tight. 

“I’m pulling you out,” Tony snaps, swapping back to the joint comms. “Gotta run with the kid. Think you all can handle the rest?” 

“Yeah, sure, this will be much easier two men down.” 

Sam’s annoyance is evident through his tone, and Peter winces, shoulders sagging as he tries really hard to suck in a deep breath. 

“Everything okay?”

Peter makes to answer, to tell Steve he’s totally fine and that Tony’s being over dramatic, but then he’s coughing again, and his lungs are shaking hard. Everyone’s shouting loudly in his ears, asking if he’s okay, what’s going on, and Tony shuts them up with a low growl. 

“He’s having an asthma attack apparently, and I need to pull him out.”

Peter’s hand flies to his ear at the loud, rapid talking in the Comms, but then Tony asks Karen to break the link, and he’s left only hearing his heart hammering in his ears. 

He doesn’t hear Tony talking with Happy because the wheezing is suddenly too loud, and his legs are shaking. He fades out, only coming back when Tony wraps a cold, steel arm around his shoulder. “Happy’s pulling up the car a block away. Think you can make it?” 

Peter’s body is screaming no, his lungs are quaking for help, but he nods weakly, leaning into Tony’s cold suit, and they start toward the car. He makes to rip off his mask once they spot the car, but then a crowd of filming bystanders start toward them, and Tony tenses at his side, urging Peter to the car. 

“Go, I’ve got this.” 

Peter stumbles the rest of the way, hand shaking as he pulls the door open and collapses into the back seat, tugging the door closed and ripping his mask off hard enough to fling it at the window. His breaths are weak, raspy, and he clutches at his neck, only faintly aware of Happy whipping around to him with a sharp frown. 

“Boss had me store the car with medical supplies,” Happy says, digging through the glove box for the bag labeled ‘Parker,’ and he grabs the inhaler from it, handing it to Peter who clutches it like a lifeline. 

Peter’s hands are shaking too hard, his vision is going in and out of focus, but then Tony’s slipping into the car beside him, suit gone, and he’s taking the inhaler from Peter’s hands and pressing it to his lips, and Peter slowly sucks in the medicated air when Tony quickly pushes down on the inhaler, and he holds it in, feeling the swell of relief hit his lungs, before exhaling shakily as the pressure breaks away in his chest. 

“Take us back to the tower,” Tony tells Happy, yet he keeps his eyes on the color returning to Peter’s cheeks. “Make sure med-bay is ready for him.” 

“I don’t need–”

“–If I say you need to take a trip to med-bay, then you need to take a trip to med-bay, got it?” 

Peter nods, sinking back against the seat as Happy drives them away from the scene. He stares out the window, quietly taking in deep breaths, but then he drags his gaze to see Tony gripping the inhaler hard enough to have his knuckles fade to an off-white. 

He’s got his gaze trained forward, but Peter doesn’t miss the tense line of his jaw, an indication that he’s clenching his teeth, so he clears his throat, turning briefly to cough weakly into his fist. 

“I haven’t had an attack since before the bite, Mr. Stark.”

“I know.” 

Tony sounds mad, and Peter chases that muted anger with a frown. “I really thought I was over it–”

“I know you did, kid,” Tony sighs, fingers finally easing up on the inhaler. “But super hero or not, you’re still human, and you still have to pay attention to stuff like this,” he says, placing one hand to Peter’s chest, feeling the strong, rhythmic beats of Peter’s heart against his palm. “You can’t be a super hero if this stops beating.” 

“I know,” Peter mutters under his breath, eyes falling to his own hands, but then Tony’s hand moves to his shoulder, prompting him to bring his eyes back up. 

“We’ll get you looked over at med-bay. It won’t take long, and then I’ll take you back home so you can rest.” 

“Are you going to tell May?” 

“No,” Tony says, turning back to the front. “But I”m going to wait there while you tell her.” His lips curl into a hint of a smile when Peter groans, tilting his head back against the seat. 

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The youngest/weakest member of the team meets a new group of fighters that they’re really excited to introduce to their team leader as potential allies. They convince Team Leader to come with them to their next meeting, only for their new “friends” to ambush them. They were just taking advantage of the youngest’s naivety so they could lure the more powerful Team Leader here for killing/capturing.

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Amadeus was trembling. He had always been cold, from the moment he was born. Freezing toes even in the summer, hands that always felt as if he had ust dipped them in ice water.

This was unlike any cold he had ever felt before. He had been walking for hours, this cold road promising a pick-up point at the end. But no one else had been at the last pick-up point. These roads were covered in packed down snow, but he didn’t know how long those monsters had him underground. At least the bleeding had stopped, and they wouldn’t be able to track red smears through the snow anymore. Were his wounds closing up or had they frozen closed? Amadeus didn’t even know if that could happen. He had to hope. Just like he had to hope that he could make it to the next pick-up point. Hope that someone was there.

Amadeus thought that he was alone as he stumbled through the snow, leaving a series of wavering footprints. 

Someone was following at a distance, though, with a knife in his hand.

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Day 23: Forced to Hurt Another || Stabbed (but a little bit both)

Have a continuation of the two I did about Bertol and his dragon friend on days 5 and 21! This series continues to be somehow also slightly comedy a little bit? Take that as you will.

Prompts by @yuckwhump

Challenge tag list: @inky-whump

tw: death, tw: immolation, tw: fire, tw: vomit


Daevrus hated it when knights found their lair. It was dangerous, and they didn’t like fighting, and if that weren’t enough, it meant they needed to find a new lair.

They snorted, displeased, and shot fire just over the knight’s head, hoping he would reconsider the whole thing.

The knight kept charging. A magical shield sprung up around him, a bubble that kept out the fire, redirecting it even farther over the man’s head.

Oh dear.


Bertol woke up to loud crashing sounds outside and dragged himself to his feet. He was feeling much better, but his body still ached. He didn’t know if it was from the cold, or the fever that had come after, but that was a little thing, and he was dressed in the finest clothes he’d ever worn, in fabrics he’d never so much as touched before. He felt he owed it to the dragon to at least go see what the noise was.

What it was, was a fight. The dragon was clawing at a knight on a horse, who was surrounded by a globe of blue energy that deflected its blows.

Bertol scooted back toward the cave entrance, staying out of sight. He wasn’t allowed soft velvet like this, or fur this nice. He didn’t think he’d be in trouble right away if he were spotted, but it didn’t pay to take chances.

The knight rode under the dragon’s front legs as another swipe of its claws glanced off the bubble surrounding him, and then he rose up on his horse and thrust his sword upward, stabbing it into the dragon’s chest and wheeling his horse back around before the dragon could stomp on him.

The moment the dragon’s blood sprayed into the air and it cried out, Bertol found himself filling with unexpected fury. This was his dragon. The dragon had saved him. It had even taken pains to care for him, which was just about the last thing he’d ever expected a dragon to do.

His face burning, he found himself moving to join the fight, and he didn’t stop himself.


Daevrus howled into the sky, pain wrenching the noise from their throat as the knight’s sword stabbed into them.

They wanted to take off into the air, but they didn’t want to leave their hoard behind, and they especially didn’t want to leave their guest alone with the knight.

They breathed fire again as the knight and his horse darted back away from them, but the fire separated around both man and horse and scorched only the ground.

Keep reading

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Beginning to Break — Box Boy Kenneth

AN: Here is the next installment, hope you all enjoy! Kenneth just can’t catch a break.

Part: 1 2

Warnings: Box Boy Universe, trafficking/slavery, forced stripping, dehumanization, shock collars, torture, swearing, humiliation

The minute Kenneth signed away his freedom, he was dragged off to begin his “training”, as Natalie Frisch put it. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he took some small solace in the fact that he wasn’t being tortured anymore. How long his respite would last, he wasn’t sure.

He was being dragged through the hall by two orderlies grabbing onto his arms. Kenneth scrambled to try to steady himself but he was being dragged too quickly. A metal door opened, and Kenneth’s broken fingers throbbed as he was shoved unceremoniously to the concrete floor. Kenneth tried to push himself to his knees, but one of the orderly’s boots was set on his back, and he was pushed back to the floor, the wind being knocked out of him.

“You’ll get up when we say you can get up, 93215.” Kenneth bit back a snarky remark about how his name was Kenneth Dunne, not some number. He didn’t want to antagonize them anymore. “From now on, you will follow our orders to the letter. We will tell you when to talk, when to eat, when to move.” The orderly with the boot on his back pressed harder, as the other one moved about the room. “Hell, we’ll tell you when you can fucking breathe. Is that understood?” Kenneth, face pressed against the floor, shook in fear and anger. He nodded.

The orderly grabbed his hair, lifted Kenneth’s head, and slammed it back into the ground. Kenneth let out a muffled cry as his nose started to gush blood. “I said,” The orderly yelled, tightening his grip on his hair, “Is. That. Understood?”

“Y-yes, yes, please, it hurts!” Kenneth struggled underneath the orderly, but he had him pinned down so he couldn’t escape his grasp. The orderly stood, shoving Kenneth before he had a chance to move.

“Good. Now, strip.” Kenneth looked up at the orderly in confusion, thinking he misunderstood. His hands tightened around his dirty sleeves, the clothes he was kidnapped in.

“Wh-what?” He asked, unable to keep his voice from shaking. He watched as the orderly pressed a button on a remote, and an electric shock went through his body. He screamed, thrashing as his muscles constricted.

“What did we just say?!” The orderly held up the remote controlling the shock collar as Kenneth pressed his hands into the ground, trying to get his breathing under control.

“F-f-follow y-your ord… orders!” Kenneth stuttered, body still twitching from the aftermath of the shock.

“That’s right. So take off your clothes, we’re going to hose you down. And do it quickly, we don’t have all fucking day.” Kenneth noticed the other orderly, who had been moving around the room, was now holding a hose that went into the wall. Kenneth, with trembling fingers, started to take off his shirt, scared of another shock if he refused. His fingers brushed over the bulky shock collar around his neck and he shuddered. He paused.

“Can, um, I’ll get my clothes back, right?” He said, looking at the orderlies distrustfully. Kenneth instantly regretted his question, however, as another shock went through his body. “AHHHHHH! f-fuck, ow.”

“I didn’t say you could talk. Now hurry up!” It took Kenneth a second to gather his thoughts, still in pain from the aftermath of the shock, and he struggled to remove the rest of of his clothes. He stood, trembling, in front of the orderlies, unable to look them in the eye. His face was bright red, humiliation seeped through his body. It was so degrading, and his skin crawled with embarrassment.

Kenneth flinched as one of the orderlies, the one holding the hose, walked closer. He took a couple steps back in fear until he was against the concrete wall. He felt so vulnerable.

“Stay still.” The orderly warned, thankfully stopping a few feet away from Kenneth, but his trembling increased anyway, both from the cold and from fear. A blast of colder water from the hose hit him, and he cried out in surprise. It was stronger than he was expecting, and he was pushed back.

He tried to listen to the orderlies, but the water hurt, and he writhed in pain. However, whenever he tried to move away the hose just turned to where he was. The worst was when they kept hitting his face, saying they needed to “wash his hair”.

After what felt like forever, the water shut off. Kenneth’s was full on shaking from the cold, and he tried to hug himself for warmth. He heard one of the orderlies snicker.

“You want to wear more than just a collar?” Kenneth glanced up at him, wary, but nodded. “Then ask for it.” Kenneth’s teeth were chattering too much to form coherent words.

“I-I-I-I-I” He took in a shaky breath. “I-I-I, c-c-c-can I-I-I-I h-ha-have,” Kenneth was struggling, and his heart sank as the orderly let out a loud laugh. He pushed through. “C-c-clo-thes?”

“Oh yeah? What do you say?” The orderly said in a mocking voice. Kenneth felt his eyes filling with tears in frustration, and forced out a,

“P-p-p-please?” Kenneth flinched as one of the orderlies tossed some clothes at him. Kenneth scrambled to pick them up, and instantly noticed that they weren’t his clothes, they were all gray and made of a thin material. He hurriedly put them on nonetheless. 

“Alright, let’s go, 93215. You’re late for your first lesson.” Kenneth hesitantly went to follow the orderlies. If that wasn’t even a lesson, Kenneth dreaded to think what it actually would be like.

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Day 9: Car Wreck

Half-asleep as he was, Elijah didn’t see the other car coming. Maelynn, sitting in the passenger seat, shut her eyes as the headlights blinded her, and a moment later, the other car careened into her door. She could only let out a yelp of terror before everything turned black. 

There was smoke. That was the first thing she smelled, even before she opened her eyes. Trying and failing to take in a full breath, she blinked, trying to make sense of the blurriness around her. The frame of the car was smashed, and a cloud of grey smog was rising in front of her. That definitely wasn’t good. “Mae?” A hoarse voice cut through her disorientation and she moved her head to the left, where her brother looked just as dizzy. “You okay?”

“Uh, I’m not dead,” came her reply after a few moments. She tried to climb out of her smashed side of the car, but when she twitched her leg, needles of pain shot up it. Maelynn choked out a groan. “My leg isn’t.”

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💤💞🤧 for Nat? :)

Sleepy, spoons, sneezes. I love this so much, thanks for the request :)


Natasha walked quietly into your shared room. She’d just returned home from her latest mission, which had been brutal, to put it mildly. And on top of a rough mission, she was sick. All Nat wanted was to sleep and relax and get better, and so she quickly changed out of her suit and into pajamas, before sliding under the covers. Natasha scooted up close to you so that she was spooning you from behind. The movement and arm around your waist woke you up, and you made a small, sleepy noise.

Keep reading

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