#Febuwhump day 5

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 5: Not Trusting Reality (Sky & Four)

When I asked which boy you all would like to see a sick fic for almost everyone said Sky or Four. So I'm picking on both XD

Read on Ao3

CW for hallucinations, vomiting, and the general creepiness of the Silent Realm

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Sky stumbles forward along a road he cannot see. The sound of his own ragged breathing echoes in his ears. His throat prickles with pain. To inhale is agony, swallowing even more so. 

All day, flashes of fever have plagued him. But now he shudders so violently he fears his chattering teeth will snap off the tip of his tongue. 

Failing feet catch on what must be a raised root. His vision is too blurred to verify his guess. He tenses, catches himself moments before his knees give way. But he pays dearly for the swift save. 

His head has throbbed since last night. Now, that excruciating pound overcomes him. He breathes it, smells it, sees it. Blood pulses behind his eyes so fiercely he nearly cries from the force of it. A war drum shouting a warning. 

His stomach somersaults. Sky closes his eyes, forces a breath through clogged nostrils. 

Keep going. Keep walking.

One foot in front of the other. 

He cannot stop. Four will die if he does. 

The smithy lies pale and broken and motionless in his arms. If Sky did not know better he would think his spirit had already ascended to the Sacred Realm, leaving him to embrace a cold corpse. He does know better though.

…he does. 

He glances down again, catches sight of the slightest rise of Four’s small chest, the slightest fall. Just to make sure. 

Blood blossoms across his abdomen, autumn leaves lain gorily across a dusty path. 

Has he bled more since I checked last?

Sky frowns. The wound has been large since a wildly swinging, double-wielding stalfos dealt the blow. But to the question his fatigued mind poses, he lacks an answer. 

Little good it will do him either way. He offered the last of his potion to the smithy an eternity ago, and an eternity ago, the smithy had expelled its contents onto the soft earth. He has drifted in unconsciousness ever since.

Their only salvation now is to find the others.

Once more, Sky lifts his eyes to the heavens. The sunlight sears his irises. The clouds dance about a sea of cerulean. He swears that in their jovial gallivanting, they giggle giddily at his misfortune. 

He grits his teeth and walks forward. 

Hours drag by that may very well be minutes. Seconds feel like years. 

More roots rise to drag his feet from beneath him. Stray pebbles skitter out of his way. Damp piles of leaves turn the undersides of his boots slick. He slips, stops his fall with an outstretched hand pressed to a hefty oak. The tiny birds nestled in its branches loudly chastise his clumsiness. 

His throat grows drier. There is a fire within it now. It clashes with the ice in his heart, a battle of heat and cold that seeks to bring him to the ground. The earth dips and sways like the deck of the ship. He half expects great tentacles to erupt from it and grasp his body, hurl him into the sun where he will burn up into a million tiny flecks of ash. 

Sky shudders and his head screeches its protests at the motion. He moves and nausea roils so dreadfully in his gut that it takes his breath away. Footsteps whisper behind him. Voices murmur ahead. More than once, he breaks into a stumbling run, thinking that his brothers have finally come.

They never do.  

Something else arrives instead. 

It unfurls itself over the space like the massive crackling legs of a lounging skulltula. Sky looks up. His blood turns to ice.

The heavens no longer burn his aching eyes. Now, they are covered by a fog of filmy turquoise that smothers the glory of the sun. Drifting dots of pearly white pass him, suspended in the air. The soft chime of distant bells filters through the rush of pain and blood that has filled his ears thus far.

Sky stands frozen. His heart flutters madly in his chest. His head feels weightless, light. Too light to keep his leaden body afloat. 

To fall is a death sentence. To move is a plunge into an open grave. 

There are no blossoms of spirit nestled amongst the trees or the mossy ground they reside in. There is no salvation here.

Tears burn at the edges of his sight. They smear the various colors into one, messy hue of blue. 

Why? Why now?

“S-Sky?”

Four’s eyes flutter open. Kaleidoscope colors are unnaturally vibrant. Dark pupils are mismatched. Cracked, bloodied lips part as he gazes blearily at something just over Sky’s left shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” He murmurs, words bumping into one another in their effort to escape. “Is there another attack? I can help. I’ll fight.”

Sky shakes his head. Speech is something he dares not attempt now. The burn in his throat makes him ill.

But there is no fighting here. This is a battle they cannot win. 

There is only flight.

Keep going. Move forward. 

He drags in a wavering breath. He will not be late again. He will not sit here while Four suffocates on his own blood. He will not watch through hazy vision as his brother breathes his last.

Sky takes a step forward. The world screams. A clock ticks down, a siren blaring oncoming doom.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The pound of booted feet sets the ground quaking. Wildly, he searches for the gleam of silver-white armor, the glow of eyes, piercing and soulless. 

He sees no one and nothing. But still, feverish hues sting. Still, crimson drips like torrents of blood. And the seconds screech.

One, two, three, four…

Sky breaks into a run.

Four cries out at the jostling. The sound is weak, a mouse tread upon by an oblivious foot. 

“Sky…” He gasps the name. White knuckles fist in Sky’s tunic, in his sailcloth. “What?”

Again, Sky shakes his head.

His breath comes sharp, haggard, choking through a throat pulled tight. His body aches. His bones feel as though someone has reached deep within and snapped them one by one, set the marrow aflame. The beat of his heart fills his head near to bursting. Tears pool anew within the eyes he struggles to keep open. Shivers run rampant down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stand aloft. 

Panic blurs thoughts already scattered. 

I’m sorry.

He can’t see anything, feels nothing but terror. The shink of sharpening blades is near to his throat. Any moment now they will strike. 

Any moment…

His knees give way. With a shout of fear and pain, he goes down. Four tumbles from his arms with a cry and goes limp once more. Sky falls into the leaves and dirt, iron on his tongue, agony in his heart.

For a moment, he lies stunned. Then, the panic returns with vengeful fervor and he shoves himself up. The Master Sword slips from her sheath with a distant murmur. Trembling hands caked with blood and dirt hold her aloft.

He sees them now, the Guardians that come for him, for Four. In a group of seven they arrive, beasts looming out of the gathering mist. 

Already, he is failing. Failing the hero that he could not keep ahold of. Failing the brothers he has tried so hard to return to. Yet, still he will fight. 

He does not know whether Guardians fall to the sacred blade. He has never had the chance to see. All he has now is hope. And that can be a flimsy thing.

“Sky.” One of them puts out a hand, raises its blade. “Put down the sword. It’s just us.”

“You’re safe,” says another, with claymore raised high. “Please, Sky.”

Sky lists sideways, takes a clumsy swing. His palms burn. The blade collides with something metallic, glances off. He pulls back and stretches his arm upward. 

Lightning sears his hands. The sun devours him. Ice pierces his heart.

“Watch out!” Someone shouts as the projectile of pure light soars forth. 

The Guardians scatter. And in the next instant, something slams into him from the side. 

Sky hits the ground and sees stars. Arms wrap around him, tightening when he fights. A voice rumbles like thunder in the distance. 

A voice so familiar that it aches.

“Sky, Sky, it’s alright.” 

Blurred vision clears just enough that he can make out the glint of an armor plate, the distant faces of people he knows.

He sucks in air and feels like he is suffocating regardless. A sob rises in his throat.

This isn’t real. It can’t be. But, oh does he want it to be. He yearns for it in his very bones.

“W-Warriors?” Sky’s voice is little more than a croak and it is agony to allow it to break free. 

“Shh.” A hand cups the back of his head, gentle, firm. “I’m here. Don’t speak. We’ve got you.”

“Four…” Tears roll down his cheeks. Heavy eyelids lower at last to protect his stinging eyes. He clings to this phantom with strong arms and a warm embrace. He clings to this vision for fear that it will break. “Hurt…gotta save him. Couldn’t save him. Sorry. So sorry. Please.”

“It’s alright,” comes Warriors’ voice again. “He’ll be alright. You both will. You did well, Sky.”

He chokes on a cry. Sky hides his face in the tunic and sobs until he is certain his throat will simply shatter, his head explode. And when unconsciousness comes at last, it is heralded by the sugary soft embrace of a fairy’s touch, the sweet melody of a murmured song. 

If this is a dream, he thinks as darkness covers him like a silken duvet, he prays that he will never wake from it.

[serickswrites]

Rope

Part 2

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture (unspecified), catatonia, blood, scrapes, hurt/aftermath

Whumpee sat in the passenger seat where Caretaker had placed them. Sat and hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken. Hadn't done anything but breathe. And stare at the raw rope burns on their wrists.

"Hey, hey, it's ok, Whumpee," Caretaker said as they rummaged through their trunk to find the first aid kit. "It's ok. We'll fix you up, good as new. I promise."

Caretaker tried to sound happy, to sound relieved, that they had Whumpee back. But they were afraid they had arrived too late. They had found Whumpee bound to a chair in Whumper's compound. Their collar was bloody and their wrists were raw and actively bleeding around the rope binding them. But Whumpee didn't say a word. Didn't look at Caretaker. Didn't look at anything but stare at the ground in front of them.

"I'm here, Whumpee. I've got you," Caretaker murmured as they freed Whumpee and dragged them from the room.

But Whumpee didn't say anything. They stared at their hand as Caretaker pulled them along. What had Whumper done? "It's ok, Whumpee. I've got you. You're ok." Caretaker said as they pushed Whumpee to sit in the backseat.

Maybe Whumpee still needed time. Maybe once Caretaker got them home they would realize they were safe. Maybe then they would realize they were free. Maybe then they would talk again. Caretaker repeated these thoughts over and over as they got behind the driver's wheel and drove home. Whumpee just needed time. It had to be that.

[oros-ash3s]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⋆ Febuwhump 2025 ⋆˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Day 5 || “Not Trusting Reality”

He hadn’t meant to step inside the bookshop.

Peter rarely allowed himself inside human establishments. He couldn’t stand to be around other people – couldn’t stand to hear the laughter and chatter of humans, couldn’t stand to feel them brush up against him, sweaty and disgusting, couldn’t stand the absolute mess that the crowds brought on, burying the earth in their garbage.

And the city was full of them: just a cesspool of filth, run-over by humans. It made Peter sick.

So he didn’t visit often.

It wasn’t really like he could, anyway. He was a deserter. He had no place there anymore, not after what had happened. He didn’t belong, and especially not to them.

He didn’t belong anywhere. He was untethered, hopping from place to place, glancing behind his shoulder for every town he found himself wandering through. He had no home. As time wore on, he began to wonder if he ever really had one to begin with.

He wasn’t alone though. No, never alone. The dead always made sure to visit.

Their whispers along his neck never left, not even when the months had faded from the slight chill of spring into the unrelenting ruthlessness of winter and back into the damp, sunny days of March. The faint echoes of the wind, mirages flickering in the dark, flashes out of the corner of his eye. They were always there.

They had consumed him, taking over his thoughts, his mind, his body, until there was nothing left. Until he had nothing left.

Functioning was barely possible now. The whispering, their taunting, had overcome him. The man that stood now was not the good-natured, charming second-in-command of God’s Army. He was no longer the shining victorious soldier, triumphant. He was unrecognizable, his once confident and self-assured aura crumbling into nothing, reducing him into a shuddering, trembling mess.

The bloodlust was all he had left. The numbing bloodlust, never leaving his thoughts, always burning, a dull flame, in his chest. That, and the exhaustion.

God, the exhaustion.

He was so tired. Tired of the endless missions, tired of fighting for a cause that would never win, not in the end. Tired of the grief and the war and the all-consuming hate. The hate that never stopped, that never allowed him to rest. The hate that had driven his whole life up until now.

Maybe that was why he hadn’t gone for revenge like he usually would’ve, or why he hadn’t bothered to join the resistance, hadn’t bothered to rebel as the only home he had known for nearly twenty years crumbled to ashes.

He had been worn down by it all. The fighting, the bloodshed, the misery. It was too much to handle, too much to continue to live in.

He just wanted a fucking break.

That was why he ended up here, really. He usually wouldn’t have, he shouldn’t have, he vowed himself to not get up in any human matters – he wouldn’t make that mistake twice. But as his twentieth month on his own drug on, the nights so impossibly cold he had been sure that he wouldn’t still be around by morning, he had needed some sort of breather. A reprieve from the ever constant struggle that came from being on the run, pulled from place to place with no sense of direction, forever disoriented.

The city was on the smaller side, not like the ones where the streets were flooded with those foul animals, not a second of peace for the broken man’s roaring mind, silence not a concept to the hundreds of bustling citizens.

No, this place, it was on the nicer side. Barely anyone littering the sidewalks, only a slight rumble from the few cars that were braving their way through the ice and cold. Most of the shops lining the street were already closing down, lights flickering off as the night pitched the sky into a deep midnight blue.

Peter couldn’t remember how he got here. That seemed to be happening more often, too. Blanks in his memory, his mind slowly cracking away from him, too tired to continue.

Peter was shaking as he stumbled through the snow. His hands were frozen over, every inch of exposed skin burnt by the whipping wind coming in from all directions. His fingers had begun to turn blue. If he kept up at this rate, he’d be dead by the time morning came.

And it was with that thought that he found himself staggering inside the bookshop.

The place was small, hidden in the bend of the road. Most people would walk by it. The sign on the door was nothing fancy, the display on the window not too eye-catching or flashy. But it was nice. Homey.

As he stepped inside, a sudden warmth washed over him, soothing his many aches – and it wasn’t just because of the many heaters positioned inside the shop. The entire place, it was just so… calming. Winding bookshelves making their way through the room, filled to the brim with books of all sizes, the colours all washing over Peter, a welcome change from the barren wasteland of white he’d been accustomed to outside. The lights were dim, casting a faint yellow glow over everything, and there were several potted planters in the front, giving the shop a bit more life.

It felt like home.

The most shocking thing inside the shop, however, was not the wide variety of books and soft view that was easy on his tired eyes. The most shocking thing inside the shop was not an object or material good, not at all. No, it was a man, and a rather surprised man at that.

Peter stopped dead in his tracks.

He was slouched over in a chair, desk set up right near the front, the perfect spot to greet any new customers or shivering stragglers coming in from the blizzard outside. There was an orderly pile of books set out in front of him, a few miscellaneous items placed beside the cash register on the corner of the desk. He had a paperback in his hands, though his attention wasn’t on it. He seemed to be just as surprised as Peter, gaze locked onto the man stopped before him, green and hazel eyes meeting brown.

Peter could have sworn he was staring into the face of his dead best friend. For a split-second, his eyes convinced him he was. The man in front of him was not that much different, an illusion of the man he had known. Although his face was longer, his nose hooked, hair lighter in colour and wavy.

He didn’t have half the thought to even notice how the man’s face was marred, burn scars stretching across the left side of his face, his hands black as ebony and clawed. He didn’t think about the shadows that clung to his figure, cracks forming along the scarred pale akin. He couldn’t think about any of it, not when he was staring at the boy that he had heard so much about, had seen the photograph of in nearly every room inside that damned apartment.

Peter’s vision blurred with tears.

It was… it was….

“Alastair?” Peter’s breath caught in his throat, words choked out with an unfamiliar sort of hesitance, his voice hoarse from going so long without use. The two men were in a standstill, gawking wide-eyed at each other, frozen in time itself.

“Are you… real?”

masterlist || next

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Credits go to @ohagiwrites as she helped come up with this storyline and Peter Rangi and Alastair belong to her ੈ✩‧₊˚

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

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[notquitehuman-creations]

// eyestrain

@febuwhump day 5(not trusting reality) and 'i depend on you' wombo combo

[chaotic-orphan]

Febuwhump: day five

Prompt: Rope burns — @febuwhump

Tw: intimate whumper, blood, rope burns, helpless Whumpee, vomiting (mentioned/described), violence, creepy whumper, scary Whumper

This was all that came to mind when I thought of this prompt! It was fun

*~*~*~*~*~*

Whumpee was carried through the lavish halls of the ostentatious mansion. Whumpee couldn’t really take in the extravagant detail except for the red carpets blurring by on the ground because their head was too heavy to lift. Coarse rope bit into their wrists, the skin raw around their wrists from where they struggled.

Now they were quite happy to let their body hang like dead weight in the arms of two very strong looking henchmen who were more than capable to carry Whumpee to wherever they were going. Whumpee couldn’t really remember where exactly, though they’re sure they were told. The details became fuzzy after the particularly nasty henchman slammed Whumpee’s head into the wall.

Whumpee blinked and immediately wished they hadn’t. When they opened their eyes again the world swam in a blur of colours and a warm feeling crawled up their throat.

“Fellas, if we could make a detour to a toilet…” Whumpee said then gagged. “Or the nearest potted plant at your earliest convenience.”

“I will break your fucking jaw if you speak again,” Nasty henchman said.

“Suit yourself,” said Whumpee. They made sure to aim at Nasty henchman’s shoes when they spewed their lunch over the nice floor. Henchman let out a cry of disgust and Whumpee was suddenly thrown to the ground, taking the brunt of the impact on their shoulder with a grunt.

Whumpee chuckled as they rolled onto their back, and groaned again when they put weight on their hands their arms sore from the sudden movement.

“You fucking piece of shit!” Nasty henchman bellowed, storming over to Whumpee who grinned up at Henchman. The taste of vomit still on their tongue slightly spoiling the moment, but not enough to take the smile off their face. Nasty henchman sent a swift, brutal kick to Whumpee’s jaw that sent them sprawling again with a groan.

He would have gone again too if Nice henchman hadn’t got in the way, putting a hand on Nasty’s chest and said something quietly to them that Whumpee couldn’t really hear. Whumpee blinked, groaning at the ceiling as their hands started tingling. It was detailed with beautiful carvings made out of some glamorous stone that Whumpee didn’t know the name of. Whumpee tightened their hands into fists trying to speed up the process, but it was taking too long and their hand stung more than tingled now.

Nice turned back to Whumpee and reached them in two short strides. Whumpee planted their foot on the ground trying, and failing, to push themselves backwards away from them. Nice reached down all the same and grabbed Whumpee under the arm, yanking them up with one strong pull.

Nice grabbed Whumpee’s chin and tilted it up and down, side to side. “Can you hear me, Whumpee? Henchman didn’t beat you up too bad did he?”

“Awfully bold of you to stand so close after I just threw up,” Whumpee replied.

Nice smirked, then turned Whumpee and pushed them forward. “Yep. You’re fine. Walk.”

Whumpee took a step and their knee buckled, their leg folding under them. Nice caught them before they fell but that was as far as their kindness extended.

“You can walk, come on.”

“I much preferred being dragged.”

“Well if you much prefer being alive you should be happy that I sent other Henchman away.”

Whumpee hissed as their numb legs were forced to wake up with every movement. “Can we wait until I get feeling back at least?”

“Nope,” said Nice, though Whumpee was starting to think they should rename them in their head. “You wasted too much time struggling, and then vomiting, and the boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Mmm,” Whumpee hummed, glancing over their shoulder at Not-so-nice. “Who is your mysterious boss anyways?”

Not-so-nice smiled and said, “spoilers.”

They abruptly stopped at a large set of dark wooden doors, Whumpee felt a need to say mahogany but that was only because they didn’t know any other dark wood types. There was a hint of red running through it, very dark and beautiful.

“The craftsmanship of this house is amazing,” Whumpee muttered. Not-so-nice chuckled behind Whumpee and reached in front of them, grabbing the golden handle and pushing the door open.

Not-so-nice pushed Whumpee through the door until they were inside enough that they could close the door properly. While he did, Whumpee glanced around, trying to spot the boss but their vision was still a little spotty when their eyes moved too fast and the room was huge.

It looked as official as the Oval Office except with more class and style. Arched windows ran vertically along the back wall that was shaped like a triptych, allowing a view of the gardens that took a more haunting quality to them in the moonlight. It was all shapes and blurs, the stars like splotches in the midnight blue sky.

Not-so-nice pushed Whumpee into the room, along the red carpet that went from the door to the giant, dark-wooden desk that Whumpee guess would have weighed more than two-hundred-pounds and vaguely wondered how the floor could hold the weight of it.

“You were right,” said Not-so-nice to the room. Whumpee blinked, trying to wipe their eyes with their shoulder and failing miserably. “They were snooping.”

“I don’t snoop,” said Whumpee, off-handedly. “I’m not a snooper. I am a perceiver of hidden information.”

“A spy,” said Not-so-nice, still pushing Whumpee forward. God how long was this room?!

“Not… mmm. No, I don’t like that either. More like—”

“A curious mind,” another voice offered. Whumpee and Not-so-nice henchmen stopped before the desk where Not-so-nice let Whumpee go and stepped back. Whumpee turned their head to the source of the voice.

A man stood in a white dress shirt tucked into tailored trousers that wrapped tight around his waist, the bottoms tucked into a pair of boots. He looked like a prince from a story book and Whumpee frowned. Something prickled in the back of their mind telling them that they should probably know this man.

This beautiful man. Too beautiful. His face looked as if it was sculpted from marble, as pale as the stone itself. He had shoulder length dark hair that looked a bit too perfect to be natural.

Whumpee should know this man, why won’t their brain just work damn it. Whumpee cursed the violent henchmen in their brain for hitting their head too many times.

“Sure,” said Whumpee. “A curious mind.”

“They’re impressed with the architecture of your house,” said Not-so-nice henchmen. Whumpee whipped their head over their shoulder, glaring at the henchmen for divulging their comments so freely.

“Are they really?” the handsome man asked drawing Whumpee’s attention back to him. He finally looked up from his book at Whumpee and he took Whumpee’s breath away. Prince was the right name for him.

Whumpee felt their heart flutter in their chest, and fought the blush rising from the realisation of how attracted they were to this man.

Wait… did Henchmen say your house to the handsome man? Then that meant… Whumpee’s eyes widened in realisation. That meant that this beautiful man was the host of this lavish party, in this ostentatious house, with the beautifully carved ceilings and imported wood that Whumpee didn’t know the name of.

Whumpee’s heart started beating for another reason now. Dark eyes settled on Whumpee’s face, taking in every detail and cataloguing every piece of damage on it. Prince turned their body towards Whumpee and stepped over to them with graceful, precise steps. Whumpee moved a foot behind them to step back, but Prince reached them before Whumpee could back away.

Prince reached up and cupped Whumpee’s face in their cool hands. He moved Whumpee’s face to right, tilting their head to their light to get a proper look at them.

“Mmm, Violent henchman did some damage to you, didn’t he?” Prince asked, pressing their thumb into a bruise on Whumpee’s cheek. Whumpee sucked in a breath and tried to step back but Prince didn’t let them. His black eyes seemed to be bottomless, dragging Whumpee further and further into them. Whumpee had a sudden realisation that being the center of this man’s attention was not somewhere they wanted to be.

“They struggled a lot when we caught them, sir.”

“They also made sure the rope was tight enough to cut off my circulation,” Whumpee said, their words biting. The ghost of a smile flashed over Prince’s beautiful face. “Be a dear and loosen them for me, would you?”

Prince ignored them and let go of their face. He stepped around Whumpee and nodded at Not-so-nice Henchmen. Whumpee turned with him, not wanting to let him out of their sight.

“Thank you Henchmen, would you mind guarding the door for me? My guest and I need to have a little chat.”

The words felt like a knife in the chest, puncturing Whumpee’s lung. They didn’t want Henchmen to leave… even though they weren’t exactly nice they weren’t as violent as other henchmen and at least they didn’t give off a terrifying aura that Prince did.

Whumpee caught Henchmen’s eyes, begging them silently not to leave. Henchmen nodded, inclined his head to Prince as he said “yes sir,” and turned to go.

“Wait!”

Henchman turned to face Prince, eyebrows raised into half arches. Prince turned to face Whumpee, all eyes in the room on them. Whumpee blinked.

Did they say wait?

“Uh…” Whumpee said, reaching for something. Their mouth moving much faster than their brain, as usual. If it would keep up now then it would be ideal. “I like you a lot more, Henchman. I think you should stay and we should chat, and Prince, you can go! Then everyone’s happy.”

Henchman and Prince shared a look then looked back at Whumpee. They both spoke at the same time.

“You like me more?” Henchman asked, at the same time Prince said, “did you just call me Prince?”

Whumpee blinked at them both.

“On second thoughts, how about we all stay and chat? Wouldn’t that be more fun? So then there’ll be no more awkward pauses or whatever…”

Prince smiled at Henchman. “Thank you henchman, you can go.”

Whumpee swallowed as Henchman nodded again. Then he turned his back and walked towards the door. Whumpee lurched forward only to be caught by their wrists by Prince who yanked them backwards.

Whumpee let out a gasp of pain, the ropes rubbing raw against the thin skin around Whumpee’s wrists screaming at them to stop moving, to freeze every struggle.

Whumpee was abruptly spun by their wrists to which Whumpee cried out. They stomped a foot backwards, hoping to land a solid kick on Prince. Instead a hand went to Whumpee’s neck and shoved them down until Whumpee’s cheek met the wooden table top.

Whumpee struggled, trying to yank themselves free, or kick back at Prince, but Prince put his leg between Whumpee’s and stepped closer leaving Whumpee’s legs useless. Whumpee grunted with the effort before seizing their struggles altogether, letting out a huff of a breath onto the cool wood.

Whumpee flinched when Prince’s thumb started to draw soothing, slow circles over the nape of Whumpee’s neck. It felt wrong— too intimate, too uncomfortable and there was nothing Whumpee could do but go stiff. They wanted to struggle but their arms were aching, so they just swallowed the lump in their throat. No words would even come to them because they didn’t have the first clue about how to handle this situation.

Mercifully, they heard the door to the office shut and Prince stepped away from Whumpee, breaking all contact from them. Whumpee didn’t move for a minute, their heart racing frantically in their chest. Maybe, they thought, if they stayed still Prince would leave them alone.

“Please,” said Prince from the other side of the desk. Whumpee straightened, half to hide their flinch and half to keep as much distance between themself and Prince as they could. Whumpee caught Prince’s brown eyes, so dark they were basically two pots of ink and stepped back away from the table when Prince smiled at them. “Sit down.”

Whumpee stared at Prince who had already sat down, reclining comfortably in his throne like chair. “I’m happier standing.”

“Did I ask you to do as you pleased?”

“How about you untie me and then I’ll sit down?”

Prince let out a mirthful chuckle, hands lifting in a shrug, gesturing to the air. “You really think you’re in a position to negotiate?”

Whumpee swallowed but didn’t reply. Prince cocked a brow at them and shrugged, placing two hands on the table and standing.

“Alright, if you want to stand we can stand,” said Prince and moved to walk around the table to Whumpee.

Whumpee didn’t think. “Actually, now that you say it my feet are tired, sitting would be wonderful.”

Prince smiled a knowing smile. “Wonderful,” and he sat down again. Whumpee did too, wincing at the awkward angle they had to hold their arms at in the chair.

Prince clasped his hands together on the desk and Whumpee frowned. “You’re bleeding,” they said. Prince’s brows raised in surprise and followed Whumpee’s line of sight to his hands.

He grinned at Whumpee and said, “oh no. That’s not my blood. You’re bleeding. Too much struggling I’d wager, the ropes must have cut into you.”

“Well the sooner we chat, the sooner you can let me go,” said Whumpee with a forced smile, leaning back in the chair onto their hands and biting the inside of their cheek to stop themself from grunting at the sharp sting from their wrists. “Go ahead, I’m all ears.”

“Why were you away from the party?”

“Oh, you know,” Whumpee said with a half-shrug and cursed themselves for doing it. “These parties are such a great way to meet new people, hit it off, sneak off to another room for a quick chat away from all the loud mus—”

“Henchman said that you were alone when they found you.”

Whumpee forced a smile on their face. “Yes. Well if you’re trying not to make it obvious what you’re doing you let one person go back to the party first and I was to follow after. Just as I was making to leave your delightful henchmen found me and beat me and tied me up and now I’m here.”

Prince’s smile took on something else, a twinge of something darker. He didn’t believe Whumpee.

“An innocent mistake?” Prince asked. There it was again. That tone that sent Whumpee’s fight or flight into overdrive, that told them they should get out of here as fast as they can.

“Yes, yes. A giant misunderstanding,” Whumpee replied. “So you see this is not how I wanted my night to go at all and I really would love to get—”

Prince interrupted Whumpee again. “I think you’re lying to me.”

“Well, difference of opinion. I was there, you were not. I know my intentions, you do not.”

Prince stood from his chair and Whumpee shrunk back in their seat. “I— I think I would very much like to leave now.” Prince didn’t react in any way, he just walked around his table and leaned against it in front of Whumpee with that dark shadow over his smiling face.

“Would you like to know what I think you were doing?”

“Not particularly,” Whumpee said with a shrug before they could stop themselves. They couldn’t suppress the flinch when Prince slammed a hand out to rest on the back of Whumpee’s chair, right beside their head as he bent lower so their faces were only inches apart.

“I think you’re way in over your head,” Prince said, voice dipping lower. It prickled something primal in the back of Whumpee’s mind that screamed at them to run. His voice sent a shiver down their spine. Prince brought up his other hand, pushing Whumpee’s hair back from their forehead. He trailed his finger down the curves and contours of Whumpee’s skull. “I want you to know, that these parties can last for hours and hours into the early morning, darling. The music in full swing, far, far away from my personal chambers and home.”

Whumpee’s eyes widened at the threat, turning their head away not wanting to look into his dangerous eyes. They tried to push themselves further into the chair to get away from Prince, but he grabbed Whumpee by the chin and tilted their head back to face him, a strange smile on his lips.

“What I’m saying is,” the Prince continued in that low voice. Then he paused and tilted his head. “What is your name?”

Whumpee didn’t trust their voice to speak, which suited them just fine because they didn’t want to reveal their name to this guy anyways. Prince’s grip tightened on Whumpee’s chin and Whumpee bristled, pulling uselessly at the ropes tying their wrists together, willing them to come apart.

“Your name,” Prince said again, his voice far more authoritative, or else went unsaid.

“W- Whumpee,” Whumpee whispered, then licked their lips to get some moisture back into their dry mouth, hating how much their hands were shaking behind them.

“Hmm, Whumpee. What I’m saying is, Whumpee,” the Prince said, his eyes following his hand that went down to Whumpee’s throat instead of their chin. He squeezed it a little in warning, but it was enough for Whumpee to freeze in their seat. “Nobody is going to hear you scream. While there’s a party happening outside, we can have our own private party in here, can’t we?”

Whumpee shook their head, but quickly stopped when Prince cut off their air supply. “No. No. Please. I wasn’t doing anything, I swear!”

Prince’s eyes flashed up to Whumpee’s and held them captive there, locking them into his shark like gaze. His smile felt like a cut to Whumpee’s lungs, cutting off air supply.

“I guess we’ll just have to make sure, won’t we?”

[kabie-whump]

‪‪♡‬ Febuwhump 2025 Day 5: Not Trusting Reality ‪‪♡‬

This is a topic that (canon) Ventis really struggled with after he got sober, so I couldn't resist the urge to whump him about it.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Even after surviving through the nightspill withdrawals, the hallucinations never really went away like he'd hoped they would. Ventis has Onthyes, of course, to let him know what’s real and what’s not, but it gets frustrating, knowing that the answer could be anyone’s guess.

Waterfalls traveling upwards until they dissipate into clouds? Real. Shadows moving and gesturing on their own? Not real. Trees whispering secrets Ventis is sure he hasn’t told anyone? Real. Distant piano music with no discernable source? Not real.

And Ventis is well aware that Onthyes doesn’t mind telling him every time he doubts something. But it’s getting annoying, needing to rely on his friend to tell him what’s real.

So, Ventis stops asking.

He tells himself that it’s just an experiment - just for a little while. He won’t rely on Onthyes to tell him what’s real. He’ll trust his own instincts. Sure, after all this time, he must have developed some kind of sense for it, right?

The test goes well enough at first. The sky turns a deep shade of violet and the clouds begin to spiral like whirlpools, but Ventis doesn’t react. A fox with far too many eyes stops short in the middle of the path and stares at him, and he confidently walks through it. Flowers sing an eerie song as they pass, and although Ventis’s skin crawls he refuses to ask Onthyes if he hears it too.

Then, he sees the bridge.

It’s a simple wooden thing, grown over with vines and flowers but otherwise intact, arching over a narrow ravine. Onthyes has busied himself with his pack, not paying attention as Ventis approaches the bridge.

Ventis looks at it. Tilts his head. Watches a butterfly land on the wooden surface.

It must be real, right?

Steeling himself, Ventis commits to his answer. He steps onto the bridge-

“Ventis, wait!”

And he falls, yelping as his foot passes through nothing. He barely has time to process the awful, stomach dropping sensation of falling before he collides with a rock, pain exploding through his ribs. He rolls off of it, hits a gnarled tree root back-first, then finally skids to a stop at the bottom.

“Ventis!”

He can hear Onthyes picking his way down the ravine carefully as he curls into himself, groaning. Every breath burns through his ribs, every movement making pain radiate out from his spine.

“Don’t move! I’m coming!”

Ventis squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his forehead into the damp ground below. His breath shudders painfully.

He should've asked.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

@febuwhump

[comfort-questing]

5. "not trusting reality"

they wake, and the lights are out, and the drippings and creakings of old stone echo around them. their body is heavy on the damp floor as the wounds in their back throb in time with their shivering.

someone is pulling at their clothes and prodding the healing marks, murmuring to another out of sight.

it doesn't do to be caught tending to the prisoners. they're in danger, whoever's helping them. they flinch, pulling away.

"mm - fine. let - me rest. they'll see you - "

"you're safe now," the voices tell them, "we got you out, remember?"

they've dreamed this before, the candlelight that startles them as they turn their head. they've dreamed so many times. cruel for their mind to send them this dream again, the gentle hands and the familiar faces as the others kneel by them. this isn't waking, this is dreaming still.

"go - away. it's not - you're not - you're not real - "

the chains weigh their limbs down, cold metal biting into their wrists. no, only rough wool itchy against their fever-sensitive skin. blankets... why are there blankets? a new trick, no doubt.

"shh," the others say, beyond their closed eyes. "we're almost done, then you can sleep again."

the sear of the lash across their back, and the throbbing of pain that echoes up to meet it. why are their hands bound again -

"stop moving, please, we're trying to change the bandages, all right?"

they open their eyes to the candlelight again, and know with a sinking heart that it's still a dream, it's still a dream -

but this time they hope they can keep dreaming, even if only for a moment longer.

[leaperfr0g]

Febuwhump Day 5, On The Run [ALT Prompt]

@febuwhump

Master List

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

Side Note,

I wish we got to see the events of the whole day it happened. Like it would have been so cool to have like a 10 minute cutscene or even better, a flash back playable scene!! Like you play a Link as you try to get to the castle only to realise that the castle is gone, so is the town so you have to take Zelda and run!

That would have been so cool! It's one of the resons I like Age of Calamity, I know it isn't exactly canon with BotW and it clashes with some lore but still! I liked that we got more champions content and the fact we got to see the lead up to the Calamity's return in more detail, canon or not!

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Febuwhump Day 5: Rope Burns

Content warning: none

The sun was high in the sky, beating down on the earth unforgivingly, heating each grain of sand to an unforgiving degree. It was sweltering, without a hint of civilization for miles. There was nothing but a dirt road in front of Whumper, the sound of hooves stopping through the dust beneath them, and the unrelenting sun above. And the sound of ragged breaths behind them. 

Whumper huffed, licking at the sweat collecting on their lip. They pulled their hat low and, one hand firmly on the horse’s reins, turned to look at their newest catch. 

Whumpee was walking behind the horse, brace brisk despite the exhaustion written on their features. They had no other choice; their hands were bound before them, the rope’s other end leashing them to the saddle. They’d be coming along regardless of if they cooperated or not. The dirt clinging to their skin, the bloody nose left to dry unwhipped on their face, showed exactly what standing still would earn them. 

They’d been walking for hours now, and the strain was clearly wearing on them. Whumpee’s once defiant glare had turned glassy, lethargic. They looked like a starved, overworked dog, mouth open in a half pant, dragged along by an unrelenting master. Even from their place on the horse, Whumper could see where Whumpee’s wrists had been rubbed raw, and bloody from where the rope had irritated the skin. 

If the sheriff ever asked, Whumper would swear up and down they only dragged prisoners along for purely practical reasons. To avoid putting either themselves or their horse in danger, to keep prisoners too exhausted to be a threat. But in the privacy of their mind, Whumper wouldn’t deny that they mainly did it for the entertainment. The life of a bounty hunter wasn’t all shootouts and excitement after all. 

Whumper smirked. 

“Ya hangin’ on back there?”

Whumpee flinched as they were addressed, expression souring as their defiant glare returned. They opened their mouth to speak, but only a dry, hacking cough left their lips. Whumpee stumbled, barely righting themselves in time.

“G-go to hell,” they finally stuttered out, voice weak. 

“I’ve had plenty of folks tell me that, but none of ‘em ever managed to send me,” Whumper chuckled. “Now don’t you worry none. I’m sure the sheriff’s got a nice, cozy cell with your name on it. You’ll have plenty of time to rest there.”

Whumpee opened their mouth to retort, a scowl on their face. At that very moment, Whumper urged their horse forward. The horse hastened its pace, jerking Whumpee forward. Without their hands to protect them, they fell face first into the hard dirt, pulling a startled gasp from their cracked lips. The horse kept moving, pulling a squeal of pain as Whumpee as they were dragged across the hard, burning road. Whumpee struggled to regain their footing, scrambling to right themselves against the force pulling them unrelentingly forward. 

“Watch your step now,” Whumper called, turning back to the road with a grin. 

[chrysochroma]

fall for it

@febuwhump day 5: not trusting reality

TW: trust issues, paranoia

Read on Ao3

Maddie finds out who the Phantom really is. Danny can’t trust her reaction.

Danny curled into himself, putting everything he had into making himself as small as possible. 

“Danny?” His mother called. “It’s okay, you can come out.”

Danny stayed frozen, not daring to move even an inch. 

She continued. “Danny, we love you no matter what, we promise.”

She was lying, he knew it. She was lying, as the second he revealed himself she would shoot him with some ghost-trapping gun and then rip him apart for research like she always wanted to. 

“Danny? Danny, please.”

He wasn’t falling for it. There’s no way he would let himself fall for it again.

[damejudyhench]

Sometimes when he was in the dungeon he would tell himself it was a bad dream, that he would wake up and go to the great hall and they would all be there. He would tell himself so hard that he could almost smell his father’s coffee, taste the butter and the malted bread.

Percy is hit by a strange spell and begins to relive the horrible experiences of his youth. Can the rest of the team convince him of what’s real, or will his mind be trapped forever in the laboratory beneath Whitestone Castle?

@febuwhump

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 5: Human Weapon (Hyrule)

Ao3

CW for vomiting, blood and injury, and references to captivity

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

Hyrule runs.

The ground is slick and slippery beneath his feet. Mud splashes up, sullying his boots and trousers. Rain pelts his head, burning his eyes, blurring his vision, sticking his clothing to his skin. It draws at the blood that seeps from his wounds, diluting it, trying to wash it away.

But no sooner has it managed, more bubbles up. It oozes out of him, constant, traitorous. A danger to everyone and everything he has fought so hard to protect.

He slips and falls, sprawling in the chilled mud with a grunt of pain and surprise. He only allows himself a moment to lie there, panting, trying to ignore the scream of his aching body. And then he’s up again, tearing past trees and through shrubbery, ears ringing with the eerie laughter that echoes around him. 

“Come here, little hero. We won’t hurt you.” 

“Where’s that cursed brat? Doesn’t he know how vital he is to the plan?”

“Hurry! He can’t have gotten far!”

Another burst of paper and magic. They are growing closer. Hyrule pushes his legs to go faster. 

His breath comes in ragged half-sobs that scream through his throat. Panic slices at his very soul. The ground itself seems to rise and roll beneath his feet. The sight of it reminds him of the Wind’s Great Sea during a thunderstorm — all furious, churning foam and gray-green waves that leap up to the sky. 

The sky still weeps and the trees bend beneath the weight of its grief. It courses into his eyes, turns his hair sopping, runs into his mouth and nose. Even the river is overwhelmed by it. It begins to breach its banks, belching filthy water into Hyrule’s boots.

He stumbles once more, feet flying out behind him, carried by the treacherous tides of the forest. His knees hit the ground and agony streaks up his thigh. He bites down hard on his lip to keep from screaming. 

They can’t hear him, they can’t catch him again.  

Desperately, Hyrule reaches for his magic, dragging it through his veins. It screeches in agony as it follows his call. There is so much within him, waiting to be let loose, begging to be. It has been building these past days, caged behind a wall he cannot tear down. But all that comes is a strained trickle, hardly enough to heal his wounds.

If anything, the attempt makes matters worse. The cuff on his left wrist sears into his skin, fiery and fierce. Even the rain cannot wash away the scene of burnt flesh. 

With a choked cry, he retreats. His power slides from his grasp, as slippery as a serpent and as helpless as a mouse caught in a trap.  Pitching sideways, he retches. Blood and bile splatter into the puddles that he has collapsed into. 

More laughter. The sound of it turns his stomach more than any pain.

“I hear you, little hero. You can’t hide forever.”

Come on. Hyrule grits his teeth, rising on trembling limbs. He is so, so tired. But now is not the time to stop.

If his brothers were here, perhaps, he could afford to rest for a moment. They are halfway across Hyrule, however. He cannot even be certain that they’ve noticed his absence yet.

He coughs up another mouthful of blood. Crimson-tinged fingertips slip in the mud. The very environment battles against him. The greenery surrounding him swims and swirls sickeningly. Cackles echo from all sides.

Get up. Fight. Don’t ever let them catch you.

He manages to get his legs beneath him, groaning at the exertion it takes to do so. And then he’s up again, stumbling forward as the soil moves in reverse. He struggles to remain conscious; struggles to stay alert to his surroundings even as they blur into blobs of subdued color.  

A sudden burst of red erupts before his eyes. The deadly shink of unsheathed metal pierces his ears. 

“Going somewhere?” A Yiga assassin croons.

Hyrule scrambles backward, terror turning his extremities numb. But several more assassins explode into existence. They surround him and close in, windcleavers and vicious sickles gleaming in the eerie grayish-green light.

“I don’t know why you’re running,” one of them hisses, cocking his head. The white of his mask is almost translucent from the torrential downpour. If Hyrule squints, he can see the outline of his features – a large nose, wide eyes, and a mouth framed by thin lips. Human. Natural. But in this moment, they hardly look so. 

“Don’t you want to help us?”

Another throws back her head as she laughs. “It’s such a noble thing, isn’t it? To give your life for the Demon King.”

Hyrule sends them all the most severe glare he can muster.

“I won’t,” he grits out and his voice is hardly audible over the thundering rain and his pounding heart. “I won’t let you use me. I won’t…won’t let you bring him back.”

More cackling, cruel and harsh. He hates the sound of it with every bone in his body. 

“Oh, little hero – ”

One of the assassins steps closer. Through his mask, Hyrule can see that he is grinning.

“ –  what made you think you have a choice?”

His weapon howls like the wind it commands, as he raises it high above his head. The other Yiga back away, giving room for the blow that will incapacitate the hero once more.

They’ll drag him back once he’s unconscious, no doubt. He won’t even need to wake up for the ritual. All they need, after all, is his blood. 

He tries to evade, slipping and sliding in the slop. But the sword comes down faster than he can run. A blast of wind hits him, sharp as a dagger in his ribs. And the world goes upside down.

He hits the ground with a splash, lungs heaving for the breath that has been stolen from them, limbs spread-eagled and oddly shaped. There is a fire in his chest, flames in his veins. His muscles feel as though claws of iron have clamped around them, turning them tight and leaden.

But he tries anyway, to move, to fight. Desperate, he reaches inside and draws at his magic once more.

Please, he begs as it screeches and screams, held back by his bonds, help me.

He only needs one spell to take them all out. Just one.

And still, his magic struggles against him. Still, the cuff sears into him, branding its raised edges into his pale skin.  

Cackles swell around him. Shapes bob around, harsh crimson against a blurred backdrop of green. Hands pull him up, as he chokes, blood bubbling from limp lips.

He’s slipping, he realizes, dully, in the part of his mind still capable of thought, and with him, his magic. 

They’re going to win. They’re going to bring Ganondorf back from the dead so he can raze Hyrule, so he can bathe the world to darkness.

Hyrule blinks, slowly, lazily. 

They can’t win. He won’t…

The world explodes. His eyes drag closed. His magic cries out, gives one last buck, and breaks free from his clawing fingers. Someone screams his name. 

And darkness claims him.

[azucar-skull]

@febuwhump day 5, "Rope Burns"

Check out Feral Casey AU, releasing this spring!

Day 4 << Day 6 >>

.

.

.

Human/Yokai technology is amazing!

They have doors, not made of teeth, but metal or wood. Control panels, not made of nerves, but wires and circuitry.

But they also have vines, not made of Kraang flesh, but some kind of thick straw.

It's called...rop? Roop? Ro-pé? Roh-pah-eh?

They are very versatile. They tie things, hold stuff together. They make nets and tether. They can hoist, they can drag, they can close up a bag

...

They're not fun to swing down though.

.

.

.

I gotta remember this is meant to be whump so here is Casey getting an ouchie lol.

Also I guess I'm not making oneshots now but poetry. I don't even know how poetry works, I'm just going with a vibe. Cjdjdjdkf

[sissytobitch10seconds]

Febuwhump 5: Part of the Job

Fandom: Grishaverse: Six of Crows Summary: Jesper comes back after nearly a week without being seen. Warnings: Injuries, kidnapping, and heavy mental angst Word Count: 2,182 Ship(s): One-sided polycrows

Archive link!

The streets were always damp at this time of year. Jesper quickly reminded himself that ‘this time of year’ actually meant all year. Implying that there was a time when the streets were actually dry was something that the tourism board did to try and bring in more people during the Summer months when the squalls would hit and soak them only momentarily instead of for hours.

Jesper wished that he could be so lucky.

He staggered through the dark backstreets of the Barrel so that he could be left alone. If he was walking in front of the tourists then they would turn their curious eyes towards him, which would result in some of the other gangs noticing him. He didn’t need them paying so much attention to his body when he already felt more disconnected from it than he had in his entire life. He didn’t even register that he was walking even though he could feel the press of his bare feet to the ground below him and the cold seeping throughout the rest of his bones.

The dark, dampness of the streets around him was almost a comfort after everything that he had just been through. He hadn’t been able to see anything in the room that the other gang had kept him in, but he knew that it was one of the ones with less money because of the creeping, damp sludge that had dribbled down his back every time that he had neared one of the walls. Walking back into the light when he had first emerged from the basement after having his fill of being kidnapped was something that he would never forget. The space, fresh air, and light had almost drowned him when he had discovered it all at once. Slipping back into the dark shadows that he had spent the last full week in was something of a comfort, so that he could wade back into the comforting warmth of light slow enough to actually adjust to it.

His entire body ached the longer that he walked. He knew that he hadn’t slept in almost thirty six hours and he hadn’t had a single stimulant to keep him up, only the adrenaline of the attack. His wrists and ankles burned painfully with every twitch that the muscles made, his back throbbed every time that his hips tilted with a step forward, and his stomach gnawed at itself in its desire for water and food. He had nothing to satiate the need for warmth so that he could rid his body of the chill of night. He had nothing to eat or drink so that he could soothe his starving insides. He had no balm or medical knowledge with which to fix the myriad of injuries that littered his once glorious body.

He would find them all eventually, he knew that he would. No one in the Slat would bother with him when he came back, no one had even noticed that he was gone. He was sure that they hadn’t because he was no one to them. He may have been someone that was dragged along to the Ice Court heist, but he didn’t have the skills that Inej, Wylan, and Nina did. He wasn’t even a scary body to have behind them when they were doing a deal like Matthias. He was a nothing and a no one, proficient with guns and bad at cards.

The ache of remembering what had been done to him mentally as well as physically was enough to make him want to collapse. The one thing about Jesper that everyone seemed to forget, though, was that he was a stubborn asshole. He never gave up when there was something that he wanted just within his sight but without of his grasp. That was why he had longed after four people in a relationship and one son of a Mercher that had never even looked in his direction.

Jesper was unwanted and yet he was too stubborn to die. He had taken the beating of a lifetime that made it impossible for him to walk without limping. He had dealt with a rival gang screaming at him to let him know that he wasn’t even useful as a hostage, that their note had gone unanswered for the time that they had kept him. He had dealt with that and so much more because it would take an act of the gods and ancestors combined to bring him down.

He lifted his foot and then let it fall down to the pavement again. Each step felt like the hardest thing that he had ever done, yet he persevered. If he was going to die then it was going to be because of something far cooler than being kidnapped by a bunch of lowbrow thugs.

The moment that the Slat came into view felt like the best moment in his entire life. He stumbled over to the warmth and light that was emitting from the windows and slumped against the wall. His breath came out in short pants as he tried to stem the pain that was echoing through his body. He was exhausted and in pain, but they hadn’t managed to do any damage severe enough to be truly concerning. It was nothing that a nap and some first aid wouldn’t be able to fix.

He set his mind to what he had to do next and then stepped through the doors. A couple of people were gathered in the living room area off to the side of the main entrance, but he didn’t even turn his head to look at them. There would be no point to trying to get the attention of another person when no one had even bothered to look for him. As foolish as they were for kidnapping him instead of someone better, the gang was right. Jesper was nothing to anyone important, even to the people that he loved with his entire heart.

He stumbled to the staircase and then nearly collapsed down onto his bruised knees. The wounds around his ankles ached something fierce, to the point where he could almost begin to feel the blisters there burst. Jesper grasped the banister with both of his hands so he could keep himself stable and then let his eyes fall shut. He took a deep breath in through his mouth and let it out through his nose so that he didn’t make a massive sound.

The first time that he had come back to the Slat when he was injured, he had let every hurt whimper and scream of pain leak through his lips and into the open air. He had woken up half of the house and it had resulted in people being mad at him for the better part of a week.

Given what he had just had to endure, he wasn’t sure that he would be able to put up with that again. So he focused on raising one foot onto the step and then pushing himself up the staircase. He was so glad that Kaz had left the banister on the stairs for Inej to slide down as he walked, he wasn’t sure that he would be able to stand on his own without it. He was relying more and more heavily on the wooden beam with each step that he took, each foot that he got closer to his own room.

The hallway that led to his bedroom was blissfully empty. He didn’t need to be faced with the reality of everyone’s surprise when they noticed that he was back. He was sure that no one had missed him or even noted his absence, not when it had taken them far less time to notice where Inej was being kept. When she had been taken after the Ice Court heist, the thing that had taken the longest was the plan to break her out safely instead of the actual search. Jesper wasn’t being kept anywhere as conspicuous so he should have been found much faster, if anyone had been looking.

“No one cares,” he muttered to himself as he walked down the hall. His shoulder banged into one of the doors as he stepped wrong and then nearly tumbled down to the ground. He managed to catch himself on the handle of a door, which resulted in it opening. Jesper couldn’t bring himself to care about the person that he had just disturbed when he was so close to the comfort of a room that he was familiar with. 

He took another step and then finally found the door that had lead to the only kind of respite he ever got when he was in the Barrel for so long. He reached towards the handle and then wrenched it open with a fluid movement. He walked inside in the least graceful movement that he had ever made in his life and then collapsed down to the ground.

Something about being somewhere cold and dry was so much better than being somewhere cold and wet. He could feel the material of his shirt clinging to his skin now that it was pressed against him, damp from the rain and the sweat leaking from every pore on his body. He could feel the aching from the rope burns on his ankles and wrists even more now that he wasn’t moving, like they had waited until some semblance of stangance to remind him that they were still very much there and very painful.

He whimpered and rolled onto his side when the wet material of his shirt began to catch on the scabs that covered his back, which he had unfortunately given to himself. He hadn’t realized that falling back against the slimy walls of the basement where he was being kept would result in him being that injured, but it had. He just wanted all of his pain to end, for someone to come looking for him.

Slowly, he placed his hand on the table that he had turned into a storage shelf and then wrenched himself into a standing position. His hands were shaking with how cold he was as he removed his belt so that he could get his clothing off. Most of the buttons on his shirt landed on the floor with a loud clatter that he couldn’t even be bothered to pay attention to. “Fuck,” he breathed when the wounds on his body were finally open to the world around him.

Jesper reached for the pitcher of water that he kept near the window of his room. He knew that he should have gotten something fresh, that the water had been there for several days, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about that either. It was cleaner than the canal and warmer than the rain, which was the only thing that mattered.

He doused the rag in the water and then began to scrub it over his body. He paid no attention to the pain that it brought him to clean the wounds on his wrists and ankles, trying to make sure that every bit of infection was removed before it could hurt him further. 

As soon as he was clean, at least somewhat, he dumped the rag down onto the table and began to search for the bandages that he kept for an instance such as this. Usually he came back to the Slat with an injury because he had gotten in an argument with someone about his gambling, whether that be from the bouncer or another player. He had never been this hurt before, but he certainly couldn’t go and ask someone else to help him.

He had to deal with this on his own. He was a nuisance to those around them and he was sure that the people he loved were going to regret the fact that he had come back. But he wouldn’t let that be the end of him, not when he could keep loving them from afar.

He sat heavily on the edge of his bed and pulled on a pair of smalls so that he wouldn’t catch a chill as quickly as he would have if he were naked. He then grabbed the rag again and began to clean the wounds one last time before he wrapped a bandage around his left wrist, then the right. He moved down to his ankles and did the same. He was hoping that the tightness of the fabric would pop some of the blisters that had formed within the burns and encourage their healing.

He left the bruises and scabs on his back alone as he collapsed down onto his bed and let his eyes slowly fall closed. He was so tired, so hungry and thirsty. He would venture down to the kitchen to find something remedy the latter two after he had slept.

Just as the dream world began to take him away from the pain that his life was filled with, he heard Inej’s sweet voice ask, “Jesper?”

[fanfictasia]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Bad Batch (Cartoon) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Hunter & Omega (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), Omega & Wrecker (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), CT-21-0408 | CT-1409 | Echo & Hunter & Omega & Tech & Wrecker (Star Wars: The Bad Batch) Characters: Clone Trooper Hunter (Star Wars), Omega (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), Clone Trooper Wrecker (Star Wars), CT-21-0408 | CT-1409 | Echo, Clone Trooper Tech (Star Wars) Additional Tags: POV Omega (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), Canon Compliant, Missing Scene, Omega Needs a Hug (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), Family, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Febuwhump, Febuwhump 2024, Prompt: Rope Burns

Summary:

Omega's brothers attend to her injuries after Fennec nearly kidnaps her.

Read on:

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14324573/1/Febuwhump-Day-5-Rope-Burns

https://www.wattpad.com/1420167781-the-bad-batch-one-shot-collection-febuwhump-day-5

[notquitehuman-creations]

//

"rope burns"

@febuwhump day 5 - rope burns