#Febuwhump all days

[blinktwicebaby]

I did it! 29 prompts for 29 days of my first ever febuwhump ❤️

I really feel like my writing saw some much needed improvement by the end of it.

Fandom: Batman (all media types)

Word count: 32,864

Posted as: Featherly

All ficlets can be found here

Since all of my responses to the prompt appear in the link my super post will be a summary instead:

Day 1- Tim and Dick attend Bruce Wayne’s funeral. Tim is helpless to remove an uninvited guest.

Day 2-Jason is used for different villains torture methods within the walls of Arkham. Ivy heals his injuries and he finally gets to sleep.

Day 3- Dick as Robin is captured by Joker and Batman saves him, but not before permanent damage is done.

Day 4- Jarvis Tetch captures Tim Drake as Robin and implants a mind control device in his brain. Tim cannot escape. (TW implied rape)

Day 5- Dick as Nightwing is captured by riddler, waiting for Batman to save him. The riddle might be too vague though, and the coincidence is unnerving.

Day 6- Jason and Roy take Tim out. They pull a nasty prank that lets Tim know just how they feel about him, so Tim let’s them know just how he feels about them.

Day 7- Damian tries to hide his injury, but Bruce finds it and helps Damian where he can.

Day 8- Jason watches the rain, remembering that the best part of his childhood was actually one of the worst.

Day 9- Bruce goes on a tour of an enormous garden to find out information on where Tim went. He plans to return as Batman, but what he finds renders that unnecessary.

Day 10- Dick as Robin gets tortured by zsasz. He takes his only opportunity to make it stop.

Day 11- Jason is caught in a time loop until he can stop the bomb from exploding. He uncovers a terrible secret that can’t justify his death every night.

Day 12- Dick as Robin goes on his first mission. It ends with him in hospital and his identity compromised.

Day 13- Dick teaches Tim how to ride a dirt bike. They go on Tim’s first ever track but don’t see the hidden danger until it’s too late.

Day 14- Dick as Robin goes out on his final patrol after donating almost everything he has (TW suicide)

Day 15- Dicks school councillors are concerned about the bruises. His lies are see-through and the police take over. Bruce isn’t happy about the fact

Day 16- Jason returns home in the dead of winter. Alfred nopes out of there immediately, but Bruce wants to find out why he has his son back.

Day 17- Jason as Robin doesn’t listen and faces the consequences of his actions

Day 18- Dick as Nightwing fights until he can’t. After 38 rounds, he can’t.

Day 19- Bruce asks Jason as Red hood to come on a mission. He hates Tim as Robin immediately and makes sure the kid doesn’t forget the fact

Day 20- Damian is in therapy and forced to open up thanks to something in his drink. His therapist gets to the bottom of his issues pretty quickly because of it

Day 21- Jason as Robin is injected with fear toxin and neither Dick nor Bruce can pull him back from it

Day 22- Bruce teaches Tim how to shoot in the growing darkness. They find out that someone else was out there too.

Day 23- Dick and Jason try to do something normal after Tim’s disappearance. They find their first and only lead while at lunch.

Day 24- Dick hasn’t slept since Jason’s disappearance. He has become unpleasant to be around because of it and Bruce does what he can to put a stop to it

Day 25- Talia Al Ghul wants information. Dick as Nightwing has that information. She doesn’t like what he has to say.

Day 26- All four boys are stuck in a pit with a countdown above them. One of them managed to get a message out, but as the timer gets closer to zero they wonder if they’ll get out.

Day 27- Bruce reflects on the life he had and what will become of the legacy he’d created

Day 28- Jason sees his first kill.

Day 29- Tim as Red Robin is killed again and again. He becomes something terrible.

[needfantasticstories]

Wind, Water, and Four 

(DAY 25: Waterboarding)

Summary:

In Four's era, Wind meets Jago's gang.

Notes:

HUGE thanks to @somerknights and @estelian-01 and @hotcheetohatredwastaken for BETA reading.

Wind wasn’t often afraid of water. He loved the high seas with its open horizon and kaleidoscope of blues and greens. Not much felt so refreshing as a kiss of saltwater spraying on his face during a hard day of sailing.

But right now, he looked at the simple bucket of water beside him with genuine fear. A towel dangled in the hands of a strange man who stood over Wind. He was tall with short facial hair over his lip and chin, and an obnoxious smirk. Judging by the crooked smile, he was probably just as cocky as Warrior, but certainly not as friendly as the Captain. The man’s grang of rouges sitting on crates around the room muttered in excitement.

“It’s a simple question, kid. You tell me where Link left that sword, and we’ll have no issue. But if you want to make it interesting, I don’t mind playing a few games before you talk.” The gang of low-lifes around him laughed. 

Wind glowered and tried not to let it show how he struggled in his restraints, feeling for the knots that pinned his arms to the short end of the wooden bench.  

“No? You want to play the game? Fine. Let’s get started!” The man threw the towel over Wind’s face. Wind quickly drew in a breath and held it. 

Starting from the top of his head and creeping down came the pressure of water saturating the towel. It trickled down over his nose, then too quickly over his mouth and chin, sealing the dense fabric against his skin. There was no way for air to get through it now, except the tiniest waterlogged straw-suck of air if he was lucky enough for the towel to be old and worn. It did not feel worn. He tried not to think too much about it and held still. He could stay calm. His previous record for holding his breath was two minutes, and his shortest escape was 30 seconds, after all. Nevermind the longer ones, but there wasn’t time to dwell on that.

He picked at the knots, first the left hand, as pressure built in his chest. A drip slid from the rag into his nostril, and he tried not to panic. Hold hold hold . He thought and his nimble fingers worked into the coarse rope. 

One almost free! His face felt hot with pressure. His lungs burned. His heart raced. 

A punch to his gut ruined everything.

He gasped, but only sucked fabric and water in, and he choked as water tickled down his airway. He tried to breathe in again, and coughed out, but nothing came back in except more water. His mind felt washed in white. He arched his back as his legs thrashed and his arms jerked but he couldn't get a single breath, only more and more water dripping and sucked in from his desperate attempts. His neck ached from straining his arms and shoulders, his throat hurt, and his face burned. He’d lost track of which way was up and down, mind spinning even in his blindness. 

His thrashing grew weaker and weaker. 

The rag lifted, and he gulped in the precious air, a spray of water sent into his lungs along with it. His chest heaved like a boat in a storm, up and down. He watched it himself, aching and relieved and afraid.  

“Wasn’t that fun?” The man leered down at him. “Want to play again, or will you tell me where he keeps the blade?”

“What blade?!” Wind gasped. Right hand right hand right hand . The dim wood-paneled room looked fuzzy, all the light glittering too brightly from the water still coating his eyelashes. “Which Link? There are tons of people named Link!”

“What? Kid, there’s only one in this town, and everyone knows him. That bratty son of the Captain, he’s such a show-off it’s hard to miss. And you know that, I bet. You’re traveling with him. I bet he’s pissed you off a few times, eh? Why not give him a little taste of his own medicine? We don’t even want him . Just a sword he took from some shrine in the middle of nowhere. we just want to put it back. We’re like those, uh, what do they call them?”

“Archeologists,” a man in a red bandana supplied. 

“That’s it! Archeologists. That’s us, you see? Interested in ancient things. He’s stolen an old thing, and we just want to put it back. So what is it? Keep playing our game, or will you tell us?”

The man was like Warrior in more ways than one. He had this gang under his thumb, and didn’t take disrespect. “You can take that glass bottle over there and shove i–”

Down came the cloth, but Wind timed his last breath well. He’d be able to focus for a few seconds. He worked his fingers just right when a kick to his stomach threw his fragile plan off track, once again. He gasped, and floundered on the wood bench.

They let him get another taste of fresh air for a brief moment. Right hand right hand right hand . He wished he was as ambidextrous as Twilight. He hooked one finger in the knot and pushed in, wiggling and worming to loosen the knot. 

But all too quickly, his limbs flopped as the white fog clouded his mind again. He felt a strange, almost happy weightlessness. Then the rag was gone, and he gagged on a mouthful of water, spitting it out violently. 

A grumble at his side. He coughed and looked up. His captor was glaring, water all over his cheap cravat and grimey vest. 

A woman nearby laughed. “Oh, Jago doesn’t take being disrespected, lad!” 

Wind gave an exhausted smile of his own, and looked to the man's hip for a promising flash of silver, and he found it.  

Wind lunged. One fist closed over the handle of Jago’s knife, the other he fist swung into the man’s belly. Jago’s smirk shattered as he doubled over. 

Wind sliced the ropes at his feet, grateful the blade proved sharp, cutting them free in only a few slices. 

The ragtag criminals shouted and lunged first for their leader, and then for him, but it was too late. He’d already rolled off the bench and under their feet. 

The door was barred, but he hauled up the crossbeam and shoved it back into the crowd closing in behind him. Those in front fell back under its weight, forcing those behind to dodge around the fallen. Wind ducked under a grasping hand and hurled the door open. Narrowly avoiding the tackle of two scraggly criminals, he danced between the thin groups in the evening crowd, heading for the widest and most crowded roads he could find.

They chased him, shrieks and angry shouts bursting behind him, until at last he skidded into the crowded market. Lamps reflected in a beautiful fountain that he had too little time to appreciate. There were covered stalls everywhere. He ran into an alley near one, then turned and slid under the table of a silk merchant. Footsteps followed into the alley, and gruff curses soon followed, but Wind didn’t wait. He crawled under table after table, and at the end he made a run for the inn. 

“Wind!” Four shouted in relief as he ran into the end where the others had been staying. Twilight and Sky whispered prayers of thanks.

“Where are the others?” Wind asked.

“They’re out looking for you! What happened?” Four demanded. “Why are you all wet?”

Wind huffed, and glared at the irritation in Four’s voice, but it was all hitting him now. He blinked the shine of his eyes away and demanded, “Who in the High Seas is Jago?”

The door slammed open a second time, startling the other patrons who had already been staring at them in nosy interest. Warrior stood in the frame, tense as a bowstring, but when he saw Wind he sprung inside and grabbed the sailor by the shoulders. 

“Thank Farore. Time and I found those hooligans in the market. The knights are rounding them up.”

Four asked, far more gently, “Wind, what happened?”

“I’m fine!” He assured them both, though his coughing fit after made the others only look more worried. “It’s a long story. Can we get food first?”

[tired-of-being-nice]

not allowed to die (+ i love you)

febuwhump day 29!!!!!! we made it guys!!!! this is a combo of the actual prompt (not allowed to die) and an alt prompt (i love you), and oh boy, i've been planning it out for a LONG time >:D let's go!

content: some questionably healthy relationships, sickfic, fever specifically, mentions of death

Ray brings them towels, which Milo is disgustingly grateful for—it's a good thing Ray has so many favors to pay back, they have to keep reminding themself, or they'd owe her after all this.

But it's nice to no longer feel quite so much like a miserable wet cat, and they and Ray conduct in whispers a negotiation of the exact terms of this. Much of their relationship, really, has been built off of owed favors and transactions—it is precisely this that made Milo go to Ray first. They know that she will keep her end of a bargain and not try to find a way to screw them over with it, and in this way Ray is the closest thing Milo has to a friend.

The upshot of the negotiation is that Ray goes to get blankets and an Advil, and they bundle up Coren in the blankets and wake it up enough to convince it to take the Advil, and then they sit there for a long time. Ray actually gets out a book and starts reading. Coren dozes. Milo tries very, very hard not to doze off as well.

"I'm gonna go make myself something," Ray announces abruptly. "Should I make you something, too? Some soup?"

Milo would really, really like that, but they only have so many favors left, and they don't want it to swing the other way so they owe Ray. They shake their head.

Ray nods in understanding and goes over towards the kitchen. Milo sits. Glances over at Coren, cozy in its blanket nest. Looks down at their hands. Looks back to Coren.

Ah, fuck it. They peel back a few layers of blanket and tuck themself in next to Coren. It's still pretty out of it, but it doesn't seem to mind. It makes a pleased chirping noise and flops over on Milo.

Milo knows it's not exactly a good thing to do—it's actually probably really fucked up, they observe distantly, to use the shell of your former friend for heating. But fuck, they dragged it all the way here, and it was the kind of cold out that sinks into your bones and makes you think you'll never get warm again, and Coren always ran warm and with the fever they're even more so (and that's fucked up too, come on Milo they're literally sick and you're just– what are you doing) but it's too late, so there, Milo's done many bad things over the years and comparatively speaking this isn't much worse.

Coren is so warm. The warmth is slowly creeping back into Milo's skin, and their breathing is slow and even, and if Milo closes their eyes they can almost pretend they're back before any of this happened, that they're safe and warm on Coren's old couch and they're going to watch a movie.

(Not quite. Not exactly the same. Coren smells like blood and antiseptic, not like comfort and coffee, and it's so thin—god, don't they ever feed it over there? Milo hugs it closer, all the same. Close enough.)

"Coren," Milo whispers. "You in there? At all? Anything left?"

Coren doesn't respond.

"Coren," Milo says, now with a sense of urgency pressing at their throat, "please, even if you don't know me anymore, just– fuck, don't die on me, okay? You are not allowed to die on me. I'm forbidding it, it's forbidden. You will not die. Understand?"

Coren stirs a little, which startles Milo– they mean to actually wake it. "Mmm. Miley?"

Milo feels a jolt of shock run through their body. Coren hasn't called them that in years, are they dreaming or did it really just—

"Mileyyy," Coren repeats, sleepy grin spreading across its face. It bats a hand roughly in their direction. "What'dja say?"

Milo has to take a second to steady themself before they can respond. "Just– that– um. That you're not allowed to die."

"Oh," Coren says, blinking one eye slowly open and then closed again. "Mmokay. I'll do my best." It yawns, head lolling to the side. "I love youuu."

Milo feels like their insides have turned to ice. There's a faint humming in their ears, and they half-feel themself gently brush a strand of hair away from Coren's face.

"No you don't, Coren," Milo says gently. "That's just the fever talking. Go back to sleep, okay?"

Coren frowns. "But–"

"Shhh," Milo says, running their hands through its hair, and Coren sighs and relaxes into their touch, falling quickly back asleep.

Milo wishes they could do the same.

taglist: @whumpsoda!

[jinxedruby]

Febuwhump Day Eight: "Why won't it stop?"

Featuring Warriors and Sky

AO3

First part | <- Previous part | Next part -> (it's day ten, that's not a mistake, don't worry lol)

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

A horn blared, sending birds scattering into the air from trees.

“Again?” Legend cried, hauling himself to his feet and hefting his sword that he hadn’t even finished wiping the blood off of. Warriors held out a hand to help Sky up, Sky quickly downing yet another stamina potion.

“These attacks must be coordinated,” Time said as he turned to face the hill the horn had sounded from. He spread his stance once again, but Warriors could see the lines of tension etched into his face, the way the tip of his sword wavered as he raised it.

Monsters surged across the hill before anyone could respond to Time’s statement. The horde consisted primarily of bokoblins and lizalfos, a few moblin scattered throughout them. Wild and Twilight began launching arrows into the fray, just as they’d done with every other attack. They picked off several monsters, occasionally using bomb arrows to clear out some of the mass. Warriors stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Sky, spreading his stance and taking a steadying breath to calm his nerves. The others stood in their pairs as well, except for Time, Wind, and Four who remained grouped together. They’d all tried to remain in one group at first, but that strategy had quickly unraveled when the second wave of monsters came equipped with bombs and nearly took all the heroes out in one fell swoop.

“Captain!”

Warriors turned at Sky’s yell to see him facing in the opposite direction the monsters charged from. He spun around to see another group of monsters emerging from the woods behind them and his blood ran cold.

“Pincer!” he roared. He didn’t check to see if the others heard. “Sky, we have to head them off!”

“Got it!”

With a shout, he charged at the flanking monsters, Sky running alongside him. The two of them were at the rear of the group and the closest to the horde. It was smaller than the one attacking over the hill, but would be devastating all the same if they penned in the heroes. He and Sky had to deal with it. Even if every slam of his boot against the dirt sent jarring shocks up to his hips. Even if Sky’s breaths had barely recovered and Warriors could hear every ragged gasp that dragged through the chosen hero’s throat. They had to.

Warriors met the first bokoblin with his sword, running it through the monster’s throat and wrenching it away to dispatch the next in one movement. Sky twirled beside him, Master Sword a flashing blur of silver as he spun from one monster to the next. Warriors ducked under a moblin’s spear, slashing at its knees. A lizalfos lunged from his right before he could deliver the killing blow, forcing him to block with his shield. The moblin swung again and he dove into a roll. He sprang up and drove his sword through the unfortunate bokoblin he landed next to. Sky yelped but he couldn’t turn to look, he couldn’t, too much to focus on, too much of his attention already split. He parried and riposted a lizalfos’s blade, lunged back to avoid a bokoblin’s club, ripped his blade through the lizalfos. Something jabbed his back and he grunted, spinning to dispatch the offending monster. He yanked his shield up to catch the moblin’s spear, gasping as the jolt of the impact zipped all the way to his chest.

Somewhere amidst the monster screeches, Sky gave a hacking cough. Warriors’ heart squeezed but he couldn’t risk a glance. Sky making noise meant he was alive, at the very least. Warriors clung to that thought as he darted around behind the burly moblin, plunging his sword into its back. He yanked his weapon free just as quickly, not wishing to make the same mistake as with the one in Time’s era and get another black eye. He jumped back as the monster spun around, briefly turning to behead a lizalfos as he did. He took a breath, gave his surroundings a cursory glance. The horde was thinning, he realized with a spark of triumph. He squashed the feeling as quickly as it came, ducking beneath the moblin’s spear. Not over, he reminded himself, slashing the moblin’s arm. He skipped to the side, dodging around a bokoblin, keeping an eye on the moblin for an opening.

A blade split the back of his knee open. He yelped, twisting to cut down the lizalfos that had snuck up behind him. He turned back just in time to see the moblin’s spear hurtling toward his chest. He barely managed to dodge in time, the spearhead scraping past his arm. Ignoring the burning of overexertion in his legs, he crouched low and leapt forward. The moblin hefted the spear to attack but Warriors reached it first, driving his sword under the monster’s ribs, angling it to reach beneath the chest plate. The moblin bellowed, stumbling back as he yanked his sword out. It crashed to the ground, falling still. He let out a huff, taking a moment to roll his cramping shoulders. He turned just in time to see a lizalfos whip Sky in the chest with its tail and send him flying.

Warriors gave a gasp with Sky’s name on his lips, too winded to yell. He charged forward, catching the lizalfos off guard as he stabbed it through the back. More monsters screeched from behind him but he ignored them in favor of running to Sky’s prone form. Other monsters noticed Sky’s predicament and zeroed in on him. Warriors put energy he didn’t realize he still had into sprinting even faster, desperately trying to reach Sky first.

A lizalfos beat him there.

It stood over Sky and raised its blade as the hero stirred weakly, trying and failing to lift his shield. The lizalfos swung and Warriors screamed. The monster’s head whipped around at the unearthly sound. Warriors reeled back and hurled his sword like a javelin. Against all odds, his throw struck true, the blade stabbing the lizalfos clean through the head. It crumpled to the ground just as Warriors reached it and Sky. He gripped the hilt of his sword with cramping fingers, ripping it from the monster and sparing a glance at Sky just to make sure he was alive. Blood trailed from Sky’s nose, the bright red stark against his pale white face, eyes half-lidded. He looked horrible, but alive.

Warriors stood a few paces ahead of him just as a bokoblin reached them. He absorbed an attack with his shield, running the monster through just in time to block a lizalfos. A slow whine built in his ears but he ignored it, he had to ignore it. He dodged the lizalfos’s tail, caught a flash of red in his peripheral and took a wide step to the side to intercept a bokoblin trying to sneak past him. He killed it, repositioned in front of Sky, blocked the lizalfos. He stumbled back under the blow, breath running ragged in his throat, He dodged again, squinting as the sun suddenly seemed too bright, too hot, sweat clutching at his collar. Ignore it, had to ignore it. He parried the lizalfos’s blade and struck it through the middle, overextending. Thankfully, his attack killed the monster and he had just enough time to recover his footing before two more bokoblins reached him. With a roar that sounded stronger than he felt, he spun around, slashing both monsters at once and sending them flying with twin screeches. His sword shook in his hand as his eyes darted about, searching for the next attack. When he didn’t see any monsters close enough to launch an assault in the next thirty seconds, he turned toward Sky.

“Sky,” he rasped, reaching down to shake the chosen hero’s shoulder. Sky groaned, throat whistling. His eyelids fluttered, unfocused gaze landing somewhere near Warriors’ face. His eyes slid shut and Warriors shook him again, harder. “Come on, we have to move!”

“Just…” Sky wheezed, voice crackly and hushed. “Just need… a minute…”

Warriors shook him even harder. “We don’t have a minute!”

Sky didn’t respond, going still under Warriors’ hand.

“Link!” Warriors cried, air burning in his throat. Sky didn’t even twitch. Warriors let out a gasping curse, glancing up. A few straggling monsters milled about, having miraculously not noticed the two heroes yet. He looked toward where the rest of the group fought the main horde, too far away and too preoccupied to help. Warriors let out a cry of frustration before hastily sheathing his sword and setting his shield on his back. He ran around Sky, ignoring the way his legs shook, the way his sweat seeped into the gash on the back of his knee, making it burn. He grabbed Sky under the armpits and dragged him backwards into the trees, boots slipping on the grass and threatening to make him fall. Sky groaned softly, though it came out as more of a whine, an unhealthy-sounding whistle accompanying it. Warriors dragged him until they were deep enough in the trees that they couldn’t be easily spotted. He released Sky and stumbled back with the leftover momentum, just barely keeping himself from toppling over. He staggered toward Sky, realized the chosen hero didn’t have his sword or shield, realized they both lay in the open where he had initially fallen. Warriors gnashed another cry of frustration between his teeth, hobbling toward the equipment as fast as he could. He grabbed them both, immediately lost his grip, and tried again. As he stood back up, hand securely wrapped around the sword’s hilt, a familiar surge of power thrummed through him. His steps faltered as he looked down at the weapon, belatedly realizing exactly what it was that he held. The Master Sword seemed to hum in his hand and for a long, long moment, he stared at it. He remembered how powerful he felt with her during the war, how she sung with each attack.

He remembered how he nearly lost himself to her power.

He tore his gaze from the blade, returning to Sky’s side. He set the shield down and grabbed Sky’s hand, closing his fingers around the hilt of the sword.

“Fi…” Sky mumbled, eyes flickering open for a moment as his grip tightened.

“What do you need, Sky?” Warriors said, ignoring how his words slurred together. He started to kneel beside Sky but stopped halfway, forcing himself to straighten again. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get back up. “Health potion? Stamina potion?”

“Sleep,” Sky whispered, throat whistling with each breath. He coughed weakly, stringy phlegm sticking to his chapped lips and mixing with the blood from his nose.

“Not an option,” Warriors snapped. He was too exhausted to berate himself for his tone. “We’re only safe for a few minutes at most and I can’t defend you forever. So, tell me what you need.”

For a long moment, Sky didn’t answer. Warriors prepared to shake him when Sky finally wheezed, “Both.”

Warriors plunged a stiff hand into his pouch, fishing out a red potion. It slipped from his fingers, thudding to the grass. He stooped to pick it up, nearly fell over as he did. He uncorked it and lifted Sky’s head, pressing the rim to the Skyloftian’s lips. The whine in his ears grew in volume and he forcibly shoved it to the back of his mind along with the cramped muscles and injured leg and black spots in his vision and numbness in his fingers. He had to ignore it. Sky drank the potion slowly, spluttering a few times as he choked it down, but he eventually drained it. Warriors released his head, Sky letting it fall back against the grass with a weary sigh. Warriors knew he didn’t have any stamina potions so he reached over Sky to search through his pouch. The whining in his ears grew in pitch, humming incessantly no matter how much he tried to ignore it. He blinked hard, squinting as he struggled to convince his eyes to remain focused, the contents of Sky’s pouch becoming a mess of colors and textures. A muffled voice that sounded like Sky called to him but it suddenly took all his strength just to remain upright. He swayed in place for a moment, hands pausing in their search as he crouched over Sky. Ignore it.

His knees gave out and he collapsed.

He opened his eyes after what felt like only a moment but Sky definitely hadn’t been shouting like that when he went down. Hands pushed against his shoulder, shaking him back and forth. He groaned to show he was awake and the shaking stopped, but the hands remained on him.

“Captain-“ Sky broke off into a cough that sounded better than from before he’d taken the potion, but still not great. “Are you okay?”

As Sky spoke, something vibrated against Warriors’ shoulder and he realized that he had fallen directly onto Sky, chest pressing down against Sky’s midsection and no doubt making it even harder for the hero to breathe.

“M’fine,” he slurred, trying to push himself up off of Sky. His arms shook violently, shoulders aching as if he was trying to do pushups with three moblins sitting on top of him. He let out a gasp, crumpling back onto Sky once more. Sky coughed, Warriors knocking the wind out of him as he landed directly onto Sky’s diaphragm.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, the incessant whine building in his ears again.

“Captain!” Sky yelled and Warriors pried his eyelids apart.

“What?” He didn’t remember closing his eyes.

He could tell Sky was speaking with the way Sky’s midsection rose and fell beneath his chest, but he couldn’t really understand what the words were. He mumbled a noncommittal response, vision dimming.

“Captain Link, you will take a potion now, that’s an order!”

Warriors jerked at the tone, eyes widening. Right. Right, they were in the middle of a battle, he had to focus. With a deep breath, he braced his hands against the ground and shoved, pushing himself off of Sky. He managed to get to his knees before lightheadedness hit him like a club and he tipped over backwards, flopping onto his back. He heard Sky suck in a breath that turned into a cough, but at least the cough had more strength to it.

“The potion, Captain,” Sky grunted. He entered Warriors’ vision as he sat up and hauled himself over to sit beside Warriors.

“Sorry, sir,” Warriors responded without thinking.

Sky’s expression softened. He dug through his pouch. Warriors heard glass clinking inside of it. Halfway through pulling out a potion, Sky froze, head snapping up to stare wide-eyed through the trees. Warriors rolled his head to the side but didn’t see anything. He looked back at Sky to see the chosen hero slowly lowering himself to the ground beside Warriors. He met the captain’s gaze and brought a finger to his lips before turning his attention back toward the surrounding forest. Warriors tried to look there as well, but he couldn’t quite convince his muscles to obey him. He stared through bleary eyes at the leaves overhead, the sunlight glimmering through the green and dappling the ground. His eyes began to drift shut before he remembered they were in the middle of a battle, he couldn’t rest yet. He narrowed his eyes in an attempt to keep them from falling closed, drawing deliberate breaths through his teeth. Sky remained so still beside him that Warriors thought for a moment he’d fallen asleep, but he still felt Sky twitch with a muffled cough every so often. The whine he’d managed to forget about returned in force along with further blurring of his eyesight. The whine grew so loud he almost didn’t hear the voice carry through the trees.

“Captain! Sky!”

He nearly passed out from relief right then and there.

Sky let out a laugh that sounded closer to a sob, pushing himself up to one elbow and lifting a hand. “Here! We’re here!”

Time came crashing through the trees a moment later, followed closely by the others. He let out a breath when he saw Warriors and Sky, hurrying over to them. He stumbled to his knees behind Warriors, lifting the captain’s head into his lap. The motion gave Warriors vertigo, but the comfort he received at Time’s presence made it infinitely worth it. The world pulsed around him as he nearly fainted again, but he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to hold on.

“Everyone… okay?” he rasped, blinking up at Time as the old man looked down at him. Time let out a huff, upside-down face breaking into a relieved smile.

“Everyone’s fine, Captain.” He said something else, but Warriors didn’t process it.

“Sky needs… stamina potion,” he said. He tried lifting a hand to gesture to Sky but his limb wouldn’t obey him.

“I’ve got a few elixirs left,” someone, Wild, probably, said from his right.

A few more snippets of conversation darted back and forth over Warriors. The green of the leaves above him bled into the blue of the sky, the brightness of the sun washing out to a dull intensity. Time’s legs shifted beneath his head, the old man resting a hand on his shoulder and briefly bringing him back to awareness.

“It… ‘s it o’er?” Warriors slurred.

“It’s over,” Time said from above him. “I need you to take a stamina potion now, okay?”

Warriors’ brow furrowed. “Sky… Sky needs a potion.”

“He already took one, Captain, it’s your turn.”

“Oh.” Warriors blinked, gaze fixed on Time’s blond bangs that hung on either side of the man’s face, red and blue markings blurring into the rest of his skin. “Is it o’er?”

Time’s face twisted. “Yes. I need you to drink this before you can rest, okay?” All at once, he held a potion in his hand, dangling it over Warriors before tugging the cork out with a pop. Warriors stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“Take the potion, Captain.” Cool glass pressed to his lips.

The whine grew louder in his ears. His eyelids dragged closed as a thin stream of Wild’s stamina elixir trickled onto his tongue. The thin stream turned to a steady flow and he swallowed mostly out of shock, eyes fluttering open again. The effect of the elixir hit him near instantaneously. As energy seeped back into his muscles, he drank faster, the bitter elixir swirling down his throat. By the time the last of the elixir dripped into his mouth, the whine in his ears faded into background noise, colors separating out properly in his vision once again. He blinked, dragging in a breath, gaze focusing onto Time’s stricken face.

“Don’t give me that look as if I almost died,” Warriors said, voice hoarse.

Time huffed a laugh, expression molding into a much softer one. “Forgive me for being concerned.”

Warriors slowly sat up with Time’s assistance, abdominal muscles cramping with the movement. The stamina elixir may have kept him from passing out, but he didn’t feel fully rejuvenated by any means. He glanced around as Time guided him to lean back against his shoulder, taking a mental headcount.

“Sky,” he said as his gaze landed on the chosen hero. Blood still coated Sky’s upper lip, but his face no longer held the same pallor as when he went down. “You okay?”

“Thanks to you,” Sky replied in a raspy voice with a smile.

Warriors nodded, head falling back against Time’s shoulder. He glanced around once more, just to reassure himself that everyone was accounted for. “Everyone’s alright? It’s over?”

“Yes, Captain,” Time replied, squeezing Warriors’ shoulder. “It’s over.”

[comfort-questing]

4. "obedience"

"we won't be long," she said, her eyes on the distant hills where they melted into mist and cloud.

"don't tell me it's not dangerous," they said, from under the edge of the blanket they were sharing across their shoulders. "going out beyond the fort line always is..."

"yes," she said, simply, and huddled closer, against the fine spitting rain from above. the uneven stone of the wall beside them made partial shelter from the wind, but the warmth of another body was worth far more than that, and for more reasons. "but you know, that's what we're here for, after all."

they sighed. "but come back to me," they said, into her hair, drawing her closer. "come back to me, all right?"

"I will."

-

two weeks later, the autumn rains had deepened, filling the low creekbeds among the scrublands to overflowing; the last of the leaves on the wind-twisted trees had withered or fallen, brown among the grasses.

they weren't the only one waiting, nervous and jumpy as the days went on. fourteen days, fifteen, more. but in the end the shout did go up from the folk on watch, and the trailing line of packhorses and scouts winding their way through the foggy valley drew nearer.

there'd been trouble. even before the gates opened that was clear to be seen, their pace slow on the march homewards, folk leaning on their comrades or riding with assistance on the backs of the horses, the quiet in the front courtyard turned to sudden tense activity, hurrying to help the injured, to take count of the missing, to hear reports of whatever had gone wrong.

they couldn't find her. they couldn't find her, their eyes going from place to place frantically across the chaos; and then suddenly they did, a familiar flash of auburn hair, of a faded green hood slipping back as a limp body was handed down from one of the riders.

they were there in a moment, by her side, taking over at the head of the stretcher she was laid on. her eyes were closed, the bloodless pallor of her face contrasting horribly with the red-stained bandages wrapping her arm and shoulder.

"wake up," they begged her, on the way to the infirmary. "wake up." but she didn't answer. not then.

-

not till later did she answer - hours later, in the dim hours between day and night, blinking open heavy-lidded eyes in a face drawn with pain. her eyes found their face above her, her fingers tightening on theirs atop the blankets.

"you woke up," they said, numbly, "you came back - "

"of course I did," she murmured, "you told me to, didn't you."

[smilesrobotlover]

Febuwhump- I still don’t know what I’m doing but screw perfectionism

Based after the prompt day 8: panic!

Spirit has a bad time!!!

Silent Fear

Consciousness began to return to Spirit, his senses coming back to him as he slowly opened his eyes, confused at what he was seeing at first. It took a moment for him to realize that it was lava he was looking down upon, and the heat immediately assaulted him. He groaned in discomfort and the ache in his arms were registered next. His arms were tied in thick ropes, him being hung by his hands tied behind his back. He looked down at the lava again, panic beginning to rise in him. He blinked hard, trying to remember what happened before, but he truly couldn’t remember what could’ve gotten him into this situation. They were in Warrior’s time was what he remembered, but they weren’t in a battle, they were in a peaceful town. Spirit was simply walking along the trail when he felt a sharp pain in his head, then nothing. He groaned again, his headache being added to the list of pain he was feeling at this moment. He looked around and saw a ledge he was at level with, covered in mysterious people staring back at him.

“So you’re finally awake?” One of them stepped forward, his arms crossed across his chest.

Spirit squinted, but all of their faces were shadowed, so he couldn’t see their features.

“You were out for a while,” he continued, “I was getting worried about you.”

Spirit scowled at him, he didn’t know what he wanted, but he sure as heck wasn’t going to give it to him. The man only chuckled though.

“I wouldn’t have that attitude if I were you boy,” the man gestured to the lava Spirit was hanging over. Spirit looked at the lava below him and the panic returned to him. That would be a terrible death, and he was several feet from experiencing it.

The man stepped a bit closer, grabbing the rope that kept him from falling to his death, which was slung over a hook on the ceiling. Spirit gulped and stared him down, trying to seem brave.

“Let’s just get right into it, ok? We’re looking for someone, but he’s hard to get a hold of. So you’re gonna tell us where he is.”

Spirit frowned. Who could these strangers possibly be after? And how would Spirit know anything? He wasn’t with anyone when he got kidnapped.

“We saw you traveling with him earlier, the hero of Hyrule. His name is Link, and he owes us something.”

Spirit frowned. He was still in Warrior’s world right? He must be the one they’re after. But Spirit didn’t know where he was specifically, he didn’t even know the name of the town they were in before he was taken. They quite literally picked the worst person to interrogate.

“Now…” the man gripped the rope and grinned, “tell us where he is. Now.”

Spirit sucked in a panicked breath, trying to think of a way out of this. Even if he wanted to give up Warriors (which he wouldn’t, obviously), he couldn’t say anything. Spirit is mute, and he only communicates by writing in his notepad. While he knows a little bit of sign language, he hasn’t had time to learn it. Either way, he couldn’t talk to them. His hands and arms were tied, and there was no way for him to communicate this to them.

“Perhaps I didn’t make this clear…”

Spirit’s stomach dropped and he screamed when the rope let loose, plunging him towards the lava. He let out a grunt when he was stopped just a few feet away from his almost fiery grave. His heart was beating a thousand miles per minute, the situation feeling a lot more real to him now. He winced at his possibly bruised chest and sore arms as the rope began to raise him up to his captor’s level again.

“You understand now boy? Tell us where that hero is or else you’ll meet your end right here.”

Spirit was panting for breath that was sucked out of him earlier. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t sign for them to stop, he couldn’t tell them that he didn’t know where Warriors was, he couldn’t do anything. All he could do was kick his legs in desperation. He screamed again when the rope was let loose again, and he landed much closer to the lava.

He let out a cry of pain when he was pulled back harshly to the ceiling, the man holding him hostage beginning to lose patience.

“Tell us where the hero is, NOW!”

Spirit looked in his direction, tears leaking out of his eyes. He opened his mouth but of course, he wasn’t able to beg them to stop. The man reached for the rope again and Spirit was dropped to the lava once again, this time, his feet brushing against the hot magma. He yelped and patted it down with his other foot, biting back a cry for his burnt toes. He was pulled back up, the repetitive motions making him sick to his stomach.

“Stubborn aren’t you?” The man leaned forward, seemingly studying Spirit, before pulling out a knife, putting it to the rope. “Well, your mistake.”

Spirit gasped as the man raised his knife ready to swing down on the rope that kept Spirit alive. Was this how he was going to die? He was only thirteen, he didn’t want to die! He let out a cry as the knife came swinging down, preparing himself for the pain he would soon have to endure.

“ENOUGH!”

The man stopped and turned around, stepping away from Spirit’s blurry vision. He squinted to see what was going on, but couldn’t see anything past his tears. He heard his captors talking amongst themselves, and some of them started yelling, but it got quiet after a while. Spirit tried to take a deep breath to calm himself down, but he was still breathing rather quickly and his heart was thudding painfully against his chest. He groaned at his sword arms and chest, not knowing if he was going to be ok or not. He was so close to straight up dying that it made him want to puke. What would Zelda say? What would she do? The thought of her mourning over him killed him on the inside. He needed to find a way out of here.

He gasped again as the rope shook, but he noticed that they weren’t threatening to drop him, they were taking him down.

He was carried onto the ledge, which was only lit by the lava, but it was enough to finally see who these men were. When he was set on the ground, he started to observe the people around him, but his heart dropped. He’s been in Warrior’s world long enough to recognize that these were Hylian soldiers. They wore the uniforms the soldiers would wear, and some still had their helmets on. Why were Hylian soldiers trying to kill him? And what do they want with Warriors? One man stood over him, one arm around him so he could sit up. He surprisingly had a soft expression when he looked at Spirit, but it quickly melted away to anger.

“You’ve been torturing a child?” The man asked angrily, turning to another one, who had a noticeable scar across his cheek.

The other man scoffed and crossed his arms.

“We haven’t been torturing him, we’ve just been interrogating him! Big difference!”

Spirit recognized Scar-face’s voice as the man who was threatening to drop him into the lava, and he immediately glared at him.

“You were dangling him over lava! What is wrong with you?”

“We needed one of Link’s companions to tell us where he is! Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yes, but I didn’t want you to torture and threaten a child!” The softer looking man’s voice raised at the end of his sentence, holding onto Spirit tighter. Scar-face huffed and turned around as Soft-guy turned to Spirit. “What is your name, kid?”

Spirit pursed his lips and frowned, looking at his tied up hands. He looked back up at Soft-guy, and his eyes widened in realization.

“How do you communicate? Is it sign language?”

Spirit shook his head. He really needed to learn that.

“Do you write things down?”

Spirit nodded, and Soft-guy nodded back. He started to untie his hands, which gave his sore arms some relief.

“Woah, woah! What are you doing?” Scar-face yelled.

“I’m untying his hands.”

“But why?”

“Because he’s a mute! We won't get any information out of him with him tied up like this!”

“But-but he’ll fight back!”

“I’m leaving his arms tied, you imbecile.” Soft-guy pulled out a stick and pointed at the ground, signaling for Spirit to write in the dirt. Spirit grabbed the stick and his stomach did a flip. They probably don’t even know how to read his language.

“What is your name?”

Spirit chewed on his lip and looked up at Soft-guy nervously. He might as well try and see if these people understand him. He wrote down his name “Link” into the ground and looked up at everyone’s confused faces.

“What language is that?” Scar-face sneered, staring at the name written into the dirt.

Soft-guy gave a frustrated sigh and took the stick away from Spirit. The young engineer figured that this would be the case. Only Windy could read his language, it made communication with everyone else very difficult, which was why he wanted to learn sign language. Soft-guy nodded at the men around him and they lifted him up, tying his hands behind his back again.

“You kidnapped someone who can’t even communicate with us, good job,” Soft-guy remarked sarcastically to scar-face, “We’ll just use him as bait. The hero has a soft spot for children anyways.”

Scar-face grumbled and grabbed hold of Spirit’s tied forearm harshly, which caused him to hiss in pain.

“Hey.”

Scar-face turned around and glared at Soft-guy.

“You don’t hurt him, understand?”

Scar-face rolled his eyes and kept dragging Spirit behind him. He looked at Soft-guy in desperation, trying to stop, but Scar-face pulled harshly, hurting his arms even more. Soft-guy may not be any better than Scar-face, but Spirit didn’t want to be left alone with him. He tried to cry out but Soft-guy turned away, leaving him alone with Scar-face. Spirit sighed and stopped resisting, hoping that he could escape before Warriors got dragged into this mess.

[triforce-of-mischief]

Febuwhump Day 7: Suffering in Silence

Notes: This is my first time writing rottmnt, with a healthy dose of projection. It fits the prompt, so have some angst.

****

Was it possible to be a third wheel in a group of four people? Donnie wondered. He supposed he couldn’t be the fourth wheel, because that would mean that everything was perfectly functional.

Which… he wasn’t sure if it was.

He spent much of his time alone in his lab, building invention after invention in an attempt to make his and their lives easier. They appreciated his abilities, microdosing him on the approval that he sought out so desperately.

The rest of his time not spent asleep was occupied by hanging out with his brothers. Their entire lives spent only with each other and Splinter (and, eventually, with April), they had their qualms but were, overall, quite the tight-knit family.

And yet, and yet.

Some days, Donnie still felt like an outcast among his own brothers. For all that he kept his own secrets in his lab, he felt like they were hiding more from him. He would walk into a conversation only to be met with shushing between the other three and a topic change like nothing had happened.

They hinted that he had asked to be excluded, but try as he might, he couldn’t recall a single instance of this happening.

He would be talking about nothing and everything with Raph or Leo or Mikey, and they would offhandedly mention something that he had never had privy to. An inside joke that they assumed he already knew. Something he had to pretend to be an expert on while hiding how hurt he was that sometimes he was seemingly just forgotten.

One of his brothers would give the impression that Donnie had been spending enough quality time with them, then let it slip that he had missed out on hours of talking, gaming, bonding… because what, they assumed that he didn’t enjoy their company?

Or was it the opposite?

He acted like nothing was wrong. He smiled at jokes he didn’t have a hint of context to. He made an effort to talk to them individually, because he knew that he would be spoken over as soon as another walked in. He pretended that he wasn’t bothered by the fact that he didn’t seem to be anybody’s favorite. For every brother he spoke to, they would mention another more than if they were actually there.

It wasn’t like he could talk to anybody about it. Sooner rather than later, the word would spread throughout the lair and then Donnie would have to deal with more emotions.

Instead, he turned his music up, ducked his head into his shell, and told himself that he did not feel horribly alone.

[butshedidnotknow]

Ready To Fall

For @febuwhump 2024 Day 1: Helpless

Summary: Neil Josten returned to the Foxes in a body bag, and all of the proof Andrew has of foul play is a mysterious countdown on Neil's phone, ending the day he died. Andrew takes it badly.

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

One man stood alone on the edge of the rooftop, a silhouette against an already-dark sky. It was beginning to rain, gently now, but soon it would turn to a storm powerful enough to crush all of them and wash the entirety of South Carolina away with it. Despite that, the lone glow of a cigarette hung from the man’s lips, still ever so lonely. Nearly invisible against the night was the bottle of vodka that dangled from his fingers. 

“Ninety nine percent,” he muttered, staring at the parking lot down below. And then he laughed, sharp and harsh and as cutting as any of the blades that he kept pressed against his skin. “You hear that, bastard?” he shouted against the wind to no avail; it was beginning to pick up, and carried his words away with it. “Ninety fucking nine percent and I didn’t even get to kill you for it!”

Abram was dead, and they didn’t even know how. Oh, they had been given a body, and everything about it—about the familiar face, muddled and broken and bruised—had pointed to “Neil” being hit by a car in the parking lot, probably trying to escape the riots that had broken out after their game. But Andrew would never buy that, and no matter how much the other Foxes gave lip to the story, he knew that they refused to, either. It was more than a coincidence, more than an accident. The scars, the endless antagonizing of Riko and his Ravens, all of the secrets that Neil had never traded with him in their game—

Andrew dropped his cigarette off the roof and stared at it, watching its dim glow flicker out. From his pocket, he drew out a phone—old, a flip phone, far outdated, but still functional, and now without any owner for it. He gripped it tightly, almost trying to break it, and drew back his arm to throw it right next to that cigarette, now stifled by the rain.

At the last moment Andrew stopped and dropped the phone at his feet instead. There wasn’t much left of Neil: his exy gear, unused brown contact lenses, pages and pages of math work that Andrew couldn’t stand to look at, and his phone. 

He raised the bottle to his lips, took a very long drink, long enough that he was beginning to question what he was doing on the roof like this, with limbs so heavy and a pulse that threatened to leave his veins in shreds. His own scars throbbed, both old and still fresh from the riot. 

Abram is dead.

Is your spine the spine of the righteous?

If he knew who had done this, if he had any way of reaching out, Andrew would have torn them to pieces and not hesitated another second to get back at them for what they’d done to Neil. But there was nothing more to it than this: whoever it had been, they were the Ravens, or something to do with them, and with Neil gone, Andrew’s attention was wholly dedicated to Kevin. 

Andrew stared at the phone at his feet, and raised a foot to crush it beneath his boot.

Before he could, it rang once. 

Andrew stopped. He stared at it. Put his foot back on the ground. There was no one who would text Neil, not now that he was dead. The only numbers that the man had saved had belonged to the Foxes, and to whoever had sent that countdown. 

The countdown is over now, Abram, and you’re not here to see how mad I am. Do you know how much I want to kill you for that? You let them get to you first. You made me break a promise.

Not one, but two. Two promises: he’d hurt Kevin, and he’d failed to protect Neil. One of those he may be able to properly apologize for, in due time. The other—his breath was ragged and something stabbed through the side of his ribs as he thought it for the hundredth time—the other he was helpless to do anything about, no matter how hard he was to try.

Neil—Abram—Josten was dead.

And now someone was texting him.

Andrew bent down, picked up the phone on the ground, flicked it open. They still needed to cancel the phone plan. It had gotten lost in the string of things in the past week—there was so much to do that a cell phone was ranked at the bottom of the list. 

Except.

Except there was a text from a blocked number—a different one than the countdown—and when Andrew opened it, all it contained was a single word:

Wait.

And dread filled his stomach in the same way it had when Neil’s hand was yanked from him in the riot. 

He sent a reply, rash though he knew it was:

Who is this?

But there was no reply, and when he attempted to phone the mystery number back, he reached a message informing him that the number was out of service and he should hang up and try again.

Andrew buried a sob beneath a mouthful of vodka and a cigarette inhaled so quickly he felt nauseous. Who could he begin to ask for answers? A burner phone like this would be no use in trying to track down any further information, regardless of who had sent that text.

Another drink. Standing and taking tottering steps towards the door, more shakily than he would ever let himself be in front of anyone else again. 

He could not be helpless again. Not after all that he had lost.

[sezja]

Febuwhump Day 10: Difficulty Breathing Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Characters/Ship: Sanson Smyth/Guydelot Thildonnet Triggers/Content warnings: n/a

Part One, Part Two

There isn't any sense in it, Sanson fumes, frowning at the half-complete report as though it were personally responsible for his frustration. No sense at all. Why would he just-

Three days! Three entire days!

Going out of his way to vanish rather than suffer being assigned any duties regarding the Ala Mhigan delegation was something Sanson would have expected from Guydelot when they first met - but it seems wildly irresponsible of him now, and uncharacteristically cruel to Sanson in the bargain. The Order seems determined to burden him with the bulk of the delegation's security, running him ragged ensuring their route from Gyr Abania is fully guarded, their rooms in the city itself are fully secure, their escorts properly vetted and trusted...

What a time for Guydelot, his trusted lieutenant, to make himself so thoroughly scarce!

And it isn't enough for him to simply hide during the day; no, their bed has been conspicuously empty every night, with Sanson left to wonder what he's done to offer offense this time. He tries to recall if Guydelot had been moody or ill-tempered before he'd set out for his usual evening stroll three days ago...

No, he'd been smiling, Sanson recalls; smiling and teasing about the amount of work Sanson was burying himself in - he'd been on his way to a lengthy meeting about the Ala Mhigan delegation, he remembers, and lamented privately that he couldn't accompany his bard for the evening. Nor did he know when he would be getting home.

He'd been surprised to find the house dark when he did finally return home - no Guydelot to be found. Nor had he returned when the morning came, an unwelcome sunrise greeting Sanson after a long, sleepless night.

Why?

Belatedly, reluctantly, Sanson's mind winds itself down a darker path.

What if...

What if something had happened to Guydelot?

But that's preposterous, he thinks, shaking his head. Guydelot always went armed; he knows the Shroud too well to risk being caught without his bow and harp. And a bard of his skill - why, they've not yet faced a threat his bard couldn't handle, and usually more deftly than Sanson himself. If his silver tongue couldn't get him out of a tight spot, then surely his skill at arms could. Sanson's entire approach to their work in the field has come to rely heavily on the knowledge that Guydelot can take care of himself.

So why, then, does he feel a sudden brush of foreboding?

He stares at the report before him, unseeing. Has Guydelot been a touch jumpy of late? Sanson had been too preoccupied to ask about it, presuming if something was troubling the bard, surely he'd say something. Surely.

Or... Matron save him; what if Guydelot had said something, and Sanson had been too busy thinking about work to hear it?

His throat feels tight; his chest aches.

Guydelot...

He stands, pushing himself sharply out of his chair; he needs to move, needs to think. He settles for pacing, back and forth across the narrow confines of his office. Perhaps... perhaps he ought to send word to Jehantel - if Guydelot had set out on some journey to escape from drudgery, he'd have surely left word with Jehantel! But then, he'd have surely left a note, too...

Perhaps that's it; perhaps Guydelot has left him a note, and he's simply overlooked it.

No, but Guydelot knows him too well; he'd know precisely where to leave it-

Sanson plucks his journal from its place on his desk, anxiously flipping through the pages, desperate to find some clue tucked between the pages. His breathing comes hard now, as though every breath must be hard-won, a battle for every second.

No note tumbles out of the pages, and he finds no message scribbled by his lover in the margins. Nothing. Guydelot left no note.

He sets the journal down, dejected, his heart slamming against his ribs.

You're being paranoid, Sanson scolds himself, resting his hands on the desk, on either side of his journal. Jumping at shadows! Like as not he'll walk in this very moment, ready to tease you for fretting over nothing.

He waits, holding his breath.

One heartbeat. Two.

The door remains stubbornly, horribly closed.

He breaths out a shuddering, painful sigh. Fear crowds in, shoving practicality and reason aside.

Guydelot, he thinks, beginning to fear the worst. Guydelot, where are you?

[secret-bug-pain-blog]

@febuwhump Day 8 - ALT PROMPT - Lightning Strike

"With brutal strength and extreme resilience, this type of Lynel somehow surpasses Silver Lynels in sheer power. It is said they are actually Silver Lynels who mysteriously transformed after being struck by lightning. If you see one, get away as fast as you can."

-Sheikah Slate Bestiary, Breath Of The Wild.

Back again. Slightly late. In our defense we were In Transit. This is from the universe of Flesh, Bone, Blood, Magic, if a bit... far forward. If you see any inconsistencies: don't worry about it, the plotting for this has been going somewhat slow, and it'll probably be explained in future ficlets. It's fine.

The cublet leaped.

Kasa's breath caught in her throat- had the shapeshifter gone mad? It knew how difficult of a fight that a Lynel could be - she had taught it herself, spar by spar against its unending energy. She might not have cared for its antics, but that didn't mean she wanted to know if it could die.

Its talons grasped at Squall's sides as its limbs warped, spawning joints to keep up with his movements as a dragonbone copy of a Moblin's long-blade stabbed at his back once, twice, thrice-

-and the cub-thing was thrown to the ground as Squall twisted, wolf-muzzles still forming from its sides as it tried to tear at at his sides on the way down.

He pointed his many-blade spear at it, its flesh still warping and twisting as it tried to form wolf-heads to snarl at him. She could see the water evaporate off of his pelt as he reared up, preparing to finish the shapeshifter off-

Kasa roared, thundering into him and catching his spear shaft in her blade. The nameless thing scrabbled out from between her hooves as she reared up, kicking at Squall's underbelly with her thriplegs. She could feel the fur on her back began to raise, an electric sense of power swelling from something behind her.

She had to end this quickly. Otherwise, she feared, she wouldn't finish it at all.

The dragon was coming.

Her fur stood on end. Sparks flew from her weapon, stinging against her pelt. She could taste ozone on her tongue as the green-scaled dragon began to crest the path, lightning arcing over its scales.

Squall gave her a smug look, stepping away from the edge, and she planted her hooves, readying herself to charge. Lyr made an undignified choking noise, tossing their sparking weapon to the side behind her, but she stood strong. The dragon's lightning had not jumped to her blade while the cublet was playing with the great wyrm. She trusted that it would be the same here.

She could feel her fur stand on end as she raised her sword, fire coming to her throat as the sparks reached a climax, the dragon turning its great head towards her-

It burned.

Were you to ask Kasa a few days ago what the worst pain in the world is, she would have laughed and told you it was the impact of becoming a silver-mane. The change from black-pelt to silver-pelt was long and painful, as any silver-pelt could tell you, Lynel or not - the days of pain and transformation, the feeling of pure Malice seeping into your flesh and bone, the agonizing sensation of your very soul being tempered in rivers of Kingsflesh.

It was slow, raw, corrosive. It sunk into the very last cracks of your being like pouring molten copper into an ant's nest, leaving deep purple stripes in its wake as it carved out vessels for strength. It stretched you to your very limit to accomodate the mark left, and even once the enhanced strength it offered had settled in, it left you feeling burnt and hollow for weeks afterwards.

To be blessed by Malice's King was a heavy burden to bear, and the days of suffering of her own transformation were still fresh enough in her mind that she could bring them to mind as sharp as the day it had happened.

And this was worse.

The blinding light of the bolt hit her blade, ripping through her body in an instant as if she were being set on fire. The world turned to white, blinding nothing, every nerve and shred of magic she had lit up in a single second. If she screamed, she couldn't hear it. If she dropped the blade, she couldn't tell. The world was pain, and everything that wasn't horrible, unrelenting agony was whited out as every scrap and shard of her burned.

For an instant, time didn't matter. An eternity stretched out into a second, trillions of years of agonizing, burning pain pressed into a second of time. Her pelt lit up, divine lightning burning through every part of her essence. In an instant, divine power was scorched into the deepest depths of her being, electric and brilliant, playing on every whisker and strand of fur, etched into every strand of muscle, conducted through every ounce of her body, through her blade and back again.

A second. An hour. An unending, agonizing eternity.

Kasa staggered, but she didn't fall. Her blade fell to her side, its metal turned to something bright, shining, malachite blue-green. Her body sparked, leftover electricity discharging from millions of trillions of nerve endings.

The fire in her breast burned, nearly thrice as hot as it had been. She felt no pain.

Her fur, steaming in the still-falling snow, gleamed bright, burning gold.

Kasa looked Squall in the eyes, and she roared.

(Thriplegs: The middle set of a Lynel's limbs; the leading hooves.)

[snowpoet123]

Spirit Award

Febuwhump 2024

Day07: suffering in silence

Fandom: All for the Game

Short Summary: The Fox dorm was quiet on that day. What happened on that particular day didn't matter, but the day it was the anniversary of mattered. or Kevin allows himself to miss his mom for only one week out the fifty-two the year has to offer.

[Link leads to AO3]

[majorproblems77]

Be me - Want to write, have the motivation to write

Has too many projects to finish

I wanna finish unravelling, im so close, but also febuwhump starts tomorrow and I've only got like 4 done.

[navysealt4t]

giggles like a lil evil guy

[fletcherwilbury]

@febuwhump Day 19: "Please don't..."

Warning for Pain, exhaustion, child abuse, physical abuse, verbal abuse, bullying, overworking, parentification, emotional breakdown

[doyouevermakeasound]

Febuwhump Prompt Day 28: “You’re safe now.” CW: Implied past torture

That familiar musky scent filled their senses as caretaker's arms wrapped around them, overwhelming them.  They smelled like home and that was enough to make whumpee begin sobbing.  The dam had broken and there was nothing to keep back the flow of water as they leaned into caretaker’s hold.  

“Shh, shhh… you’re safe now.  I’ve got you.”  Caretaker also began adding their own tears to the mix.  “We’re going home now.”

Whumpee clung to caretaker as if they were their lifeline and, in a way, they were.  They had been the light at the end of the tunnel, someone for whumpee to focus on as they endured torture after torture and now they were finally here.  

They couldn’t believe it and they waited for the cruel trick to end but it never came.  They were actually going home.  They were safe. 

@ febuwhump