#FebuwhumpDay12

[cupcakeslushie]

Febuwhump Day 12: Semi Conscious

When you’re about to pass out, and your boyfriends are arguing about the correct path back to the ship.

[linecrosser]

Febwhump 2024 - Day 12 - Semi-concious

Mobei jun forgot that humans don't cope well with prolonged exposure to very cold temperatures.

[simpforchuchu]

Stay Awake

Prompts: DAY 12 - semi-conscious @febuwhump Characters: Magoroku Yamaguchi x reader Fandom: High and Low Summary: Y/n coming back after a fight

A/n for prompts: Hello guys! This is my first time trying a prompt challenge. I hope you like the short fics I wrote. I will finish them by writing some of the requests I have. I love you 💜

Sorry for the grammer or spelling mistakes.English is not my main language so...

Thank you and love you 🥰

Warnings: mention of fights, blood, bruises

It hurts, it really hurts. Your eyes are blacking out because of the pain, but at least you have to make it to school. You wish you had listened to him, you wish you weren't so stubborn. He's going to be very angry with you, isn't he?

You tried to hold your stomach and ease the pain, but it wasn't working. It was difficult to breathe. You had no strength left in your legs.

At least you were very close to school. You could see Suzuran's garden gate. You would be safe when you saw him.

Magoroku was right, you weren't as strong as him. You didn't have to prove anything to him. He loved your smart side, not your punches.

But you were stupid. You were so arrogant. You thought you could beat them. They would probably make fun of you.

You closed your eyes tightly, willing the pain to fade away a little. But it wasn't working. When you opened your eyes, you could see your boyfriend running towards you, but you had no strength left to stay standing.

You were falling to the ground, you felt it, but someone was holding you. You knew very well who they were. Even if you didn't see his shirt, you could recognize him by his perfume. He was here for you.

You could hear shouts, the boy holding you tightly was screaming in worry.

You probably looked pretty bad, you knew your face was bruised and bloody. He must have been scared.

You could also hear Binzo's and your other friends' voices. Were you conscious? You weren't sure. It was hard to open your eyes, but someone's voice was very clear.

“Hey, hey y/n! Who did this to you?! We'll go to the hospital, okay? You will be fine!"

Magoroku Yamaguchi, the cold and calm man of the Raoh faction. You didn't like hearing him panicked like this.

"I am sorry…"

You weren't sure if they could hear your quiet voice. But a warm hand was caressing your hair.

“You're not the one who should apologize. I'll make them pay for this. Just stay awake okay?!”

You tried to nodd your head slowly, you didn't know if you could, but the warmth of the arms surrounding you made you feel a little better...

HnL taglist : @straysugzhpe @tiddly-winx  @ninamarie1994 @emperorsnero @koala-yuna @little-miss-naill

[kabie-whump]

♡ Febuwhump Day 12: Semi-Conscious ♡

@febuwhump

I already had the first 11 days of Febuwhump finished and queued by the time I got around to watching Hazbin Hotel but now (2/6) it’s all I can think about! Enjoy :)

Content: Alcohol, references to Angel-typical sexual abuse, references to snuff films, Huskerdust

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Angel Dust is slumped against Husk’s bar.

That’s where he always tends to end up, especially after a hard day in the studio like this one must have been considering the bruises on his neck and peeking out from under his clothes.

Angel doesn’t have to tell Husk his order anymore. It’s always one of two things: something fruity with more sugar than alcohol, or something just bordering on straight liquor. Tonight looks like a night for the second.

“Drink up, legs.”

Angel picks his head up with effort, taking Husk in with half-lidded eyes. His movements are slow and uncoordinated. He starts to reach for his drink, and Husk snatches it away.

“Hey!”

His voice is slurred.

“You’re already wasted,” Husk accuses.

“Gimme.”

Husk knocks back Angel’s drink. He’s not one to waste perfectly good booze.

Angel gives a weak middle finger before he lets his head thump onto the bar’s surface again with a groan.

“That bad, huh?”

Angel shrugs. “I don’t think it even counts as kinky anymore. At this rate the next one’s gonna be snuff.”

Husk tries to hide the way that idea makes his skin crawl. He knows it won’t happen. Valentino would never kill his biggest star. It would be a waste of resources, and there’s no one else out there like Angel Dust.

“One drink? Please?”

“Fine. Just one.”

It turns out, one drink was exactly how much Angel needed to end up near-comatose.

“Come on, legs,” Husk grunts as he tries to corral Angel’s many long limbs into his arms. The spider is light enough for him to carry, but he’s so unwieldy when his legs are almost as long as Husk’s whole body and his four arms hang limp when Husk tries to get him to hold on. “Work with me here.”

Angel giggles into Husk’s fur. He tries to wrap his arms around Husk’s shoulders but only succeeds at slapping him in the face.

It’s slow going, but Husk eventually manages to drag Angel upstairs and into his bedroom. He passes out the second his face hits the mattress, and Fat Nuggets doesn’t hesitate before curling up under his armpit.

Husk stares down at Angel with a deep sigh. This dumbass is going to be the death of him he’s sure.

He definitely doesn’t draw the covers carefully over Angel’s limp form and brush his hair out of his face before he leaves. That’s something people do when they care, and Husk doesn’t care.

Not even a little.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

( @quietly-by-myself )

[lightenupcowboy]

Summary: Leon randomly comes across Chris on a mission and soon realizes how good it is to have a friend when an injury catches up to him. Rating: T

[kybercrystals94]

Grounded (Part 2)

Read here on Ao3!

Read Part 1 here on Tumblr

Febuwhump 2024 | Day 12 | Prompt 12: Semi-Conscious

Rated: T | Words: 824 | Summary: Hunter refuses to leave an injured brother behind. [Character Focus: Hunter, Crosshair]

“Almost done, vod,” Hunter says, beginning to wrap Crosshair’s leg in gauze, striving to stabilize the fracture. While it’s an injury he knows about in theory, he’s never had to address it. What he wouldn’t give for Tech’s boundless knowledge right now.

As if Hunter’s words flip a switch, Crosshair suddenly falls completely still, rigid body going limp. Panicked relief overwhelms Hunter as he realizes that his brother is again unconscious. Hunter finishes dressing the injury, cursing under his breath at the red stain already blooming through the white bandages. He takes the knotted fabric Crosshair had been biting down on out of his mouth, tossing it aside.

The adrenaline that has kept Hunter upright since the accident evaporates, and he slumps forward, bracing himself with his elbows on his knees. Taking a few, steadying breaths, he works to regain his composure. It had hurt, seeing Crosshair in a state of sheer hysteria. Trying to talk him down from it while quelling his own sense of dread felt impossible; however, he’d managed it somehow.

And now he is alone again, trying to figure out how to get Crosshair to safety without further compromising the mission. The mission always comes first. An order drilled to the depths of their artificially bred core. And yet, Hunter found it an easy directive to step around when the need arose. Not often. They are elite soldiers, able to withstand more than the average clone trooper; however, not every cause and effect can be accounted for.

Like Crosshair being shot out of a tree and stricken with a compound fracture.

With another breath, Hunter sits up. He knows what he must do first.

Getting to his feet, Hunter makes sure that Crosshair is adequately hidden in the undergrowth from any enemy eyes or probes that might still be in the area. He checks Crosshair’s vitals one more time before he starts off for the place of the accident.

If he knows there’s one thing Crosshair would never forgive him for, it would be leaving his sniper rifle behind.

The tree Crosshair fell from is only a two minute, hurried pace from their cover. Granted, trying to carry an unconscious and injured brother the distance had taken a bit more time. He quickly finds Crosshair’s abandoned rifle and kit in the brush he’d shoved it into before circling back.

He returns to find Crosshair awake. He puts the weapon and pack down next to his own before going to Crosshair’s side. “How’re you feeling?”

Crosshair makes a face, as though the question disgusts him. “Guess,” he deadpans.

Hunter chuckles in spite of himself. At least Crosshair is coherent enough to be his waspish self. “I’m guessing you’ve been better?”

Crosshair huffs, but Hunter doesn’t miss the grimace of pain that flashes across the stoic’s face. They are both quiet for several long minutes, listening to the silence uninterrupted by war. If Crosshair weren't injured, it would be peaceful.

”You should go,” Crosshair says suddenly, weakly, shattering the illusion.

Hunter looks down at the sniper. “What?”

”You have to make the rendezvous point,” Crosshair says,voice thin.“You can come back for me.”

“No, I’m not leaving you here like this. End of discussion.”

Crosshair glares up at him, but the effect is dampened by his ashen face and the sheen of sweat across his brow. Hunter takes off his glove and presses the back of his hand to Crosshair’s forehead. “You have a fever.”

“There’s antibiotic hypo in my kit,” Crosshair mutters, averting his gaze to glare at something else behind Hunter.

Hunter goes to retrieve it, ignoring Crosshair when he says again, “You have to complete the mission.”

He brings back the hypo. “This it?”

Crosshair nods, and Hunter quickly injects it.

“I’ll be fine,” Crosshair insists. “There’s nothing else you can do for me until comms are back up and Tech can set up an extraction.”

“And what if the patrols come back through and find you? You can’t move. And you’re in no position to defend yourself,” Hunter argues.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“And I’m not!”

Another moment of stillness, but there is no peace in it now.

“I would leave you,” Crosshair murmurs, “if the roles were reversed.”

Hunter knows that’s not true and refuses to rise to the bait, to allow Crosshair to prod him into a heated reaction.

“We don’t leave our own behind,” Hunter says instead.

“You’d come back.”

“Why do you want me to leave you?”

“I don’t, but there isn’t any other choice.”

They finally meet one another’s eye, and Hunter sees the fear there, reflecting his own.

“There is,” Hunter says, reaching out and grasping Crosshair’s wrist. “I’m making it. I’m not leaving. I have faith that the boys will figure this out without us. Once comms are back up, we’ll get an extraction plan.”

Crosshair swallows, nods, and looks away.

They don’t leave their own behind.

END

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[mybeautifulbeautifuleternal]

Finnick’s thrashing woke you. Blinking up at the ceiling for a second, you gathered your thoughts before you turned to your husband. Thrashing might have been an overstatement — Finnick’s nightmares tended to leave him quietly wounded and your shared years in the Capital had taught you the power and protection of silence, so the two of you had a tendency to cry without sound or much movement.

But for your husband? The small aborted movements would be a full on seizure on anyone else.

Sighing deeply, you moved to the floor next to his side of the bed. You had been helping him wake from nightmares for years now, the two of you were each other's pillars of strength in the vipers den, and neither of you were comfortable with someone looming over them when awakening from a nightmare.

Reaching up from your spot, you slowly grabbed Finnick’s hand in yours. It was a light hold, easily broken but also easily felt. Then you started to hum and sing. It was just little tunes — lullabies you remembered your mother singing to you as you were growing up, sea ditties that the fishermen of District Four had taught you, some pretty perverted bar songs you’d picked up in your ‘rebellious’ years. Anything that would bring Finnick away from the nightmares and to a better time.

When it looked like he was calming down, you leaned closer to him, still on the ground. “Can you hear me? Can you wake up, my Finnick?”

It took a few more rounds of singing and asking him to wake before you caught sight of his beautiful green eyes, still hazy with sleep and shining with tears. When he finally focused them on you, you brought his hand to your lips — gently placing butterfly soft kisses on the tips of his fingers.

“Back with me?” Your tone was pure questioning, not accusatory. Everyone had nightmares.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” Finnick’s voice was gravely but his words were kind as was his pull on your hand. He used his tightening grip to heave you up from the ground and back into his arms, rolling the two of you over until he was perched above you.

The moon was full and provided enough light that you could see each other perfectly well, so you saw when Finnick allowed his walls to crack again. He buried his face in your neck, laying out across you. You just restarted singing a slow song, running your fingers through his hair, and did your best to ignore the wet spot that was growing on your shoulder.

Everyone breaks at one point but you loved Finnick enough to be his shelter from the storm, the rock to hold him down from his spiraling thoughts, and the arms he could cry in without judgement.

@febuwhump

A/N — any blank blogs that follow me are going to be reported then blocked. Pick a different profile pic and get a witty header or something.

[em-writes-stuff]

Semi-conscious

day 12 of @febuwhump

hero and villain

504 words

warnings: collapsed building, cursing

part two

~

Hero puts his hands over his ears, trying to block out the ringing. He whimpers, curling into himself when it makes it worse. 

Dust falls in front of him, coating his clothes and the ground. He groans and tries to stand up. “Villain?” 

He waits for an answer, then calls out again, head pounding with the effort. “Villain? Where are you?” 

A pain in his ribs steals the importance of finding Villain and he winces. “What the fuck happened?” 

He pulls his shirt up and finds a red, angry bruise spreading over his torso. Pursing his lips, he pokes gently at the bruise and sighs in relief when he doesn’t feel any broken bones. He lets his shirt drop and starts to stand up, arm wrapped around his torso. 

“Villain?” He calls out again. “Come on, now isn’t the time for the silent treatment.” 

He starts to dig around in the debris, carefully shifting pieces to check underneath them. He lifts up a large slab of concrete and nearly drops it when he sees Villain. 

Her clothes are torn, revealing cuts and bruises on her skin. Her hair is in her face, obscuring it from Hero’s view. Her chest slowly rises and falls, batting away at the despair growing in Hero’s stomach. 

Using the last of his strength, Hero lifts the slab over his head and tosses it over Villain, sending it crashing on the other side of her. 

She startles, eyes barely opening. She mumbles something incoherent and turns her head away from the crash. Hero rushes to her side, ignoring the pain shooting from his ribs. “Hey, it’s alright. It’s just me.” 

She leans into his touch, muttering something. He brushes the hair out of her face and tries to calm her down, “You’re alright. We’ve just gotta find a way outta here, ok?” 

She nods weakly and raises her hand out to him. He takes it and pulls her over his shoulder, ignoring the way he can feel his ribs shifting in his chest. 

Her arms hang limp over his back, hitting his calves with every step, but they’re slowly making it to safety. 

“What happened?” Villain asks, voice barely audible over the ringing in Hero’s ears. 

Hero shakes his head and keeps running, “No idea. Kinda hoping you knew. Was anyone else home?” 

Villain makes a sound that might be considered a laugh, “Was anyone else home when I texted you to come meet up? Yeah, no. The kids are with their grandma and…Henchman hates your guts, if she found out you were coming over, she’d have been parked on the steps to kill you.” 

“I thought you were gonna tell her?” Hero says, his steps faltering a little. 

“Never the right time.” 

Hero pushes open the door and stands in the doorframe, taking in the sunlight hitting his face. He squints his eyes open and focuses on a familiar truck in the driveway. 

“Sidekick?” Hero mutters, helping Villain off his shoulder and onto her feet. “What’s he doing here?”

[side-shuffling-hyperfixations]

@febuwhump DAY 12: “Can You Hear Me?”

Peter pleads with Tony as he’s on the verge of death, fearful and unprepared to lose another father figure.

[inquisimer]

sometimes it feels like teeth

chippin away at @febuwhump with day 12: semi-conscious. A reunion in the alienage for Ariya & Cyrion, where she must face the fact that she cannot save them all.

read it on ao3 here

Female Tabris & Cyrion Tabris | Rated T | 1629 words | CW: mercy killing, blood & injury, illness, slave trade

-

No sooner had the slaver’s corpse hit the floor than Ariya was at the cage, shaking hands picking open the lock. The metal door sprang open and she pulled each of her captured family from the brink of despair. Some did look ill; before she could even speak, Alistair pulled poultices from their packs and set to work.

Thank you, she mouthed.

“Amore.” Zevran gestured to the back of the cage with his chin. A few figures remained and the bottom of Ariya’s stomach dropped out as she recognized the familiar dips and planes of her father’s silhouette. He was staring directly at her, mouth parted in disbelief.

“Papa,” she breathed, and then she was at his side, running battered hands over him, checking for injuries, praying incoherently that she had not arrived too late. His arms came around her and squeezed.

“I’m fine, da’len, I’m fine,” her murmured. Tears choked his voice, but when she pulled back they were tears of joy that matched the bittersweet smile on his face. “You came back for us. My darling girl.”

“Of course I did. I’m sorry I—“ her guilt swallowed her apology, surrounded as she was by the echoes of those already gone. Was that Valendrian’s blood on the wall? Leah’s tooth in the corner? “I should have gotten here sooner.”

“That you came at all is a miracle.”

A noise behind him drew Cyrion from the bubble of reunion. He grimaced and held out a hand when Ariya looked beyond him.

“You probably shouldn’t—“

“It’s okay, papa,” she said softly. “Whatever it is, I’ve…seen worse.”

Cyrion’s face fell. He shifted aside so Ariya could see the reason he’d remained in the cage. One of the younger elves was propped in the corner, skin ashen and sallow. Her hair was brushed away from her face from gentle caresses to soothe her suffering.

“Oh, Gwen,” Ariya whispered. She knelt beside her father and took a clammy hand. Gwen’s hazy eyes slid in and out of focus, but her head lolled in the direction of Ariya’s voice.

“Ari?” she mumbled. “issat you?”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

“Gwendollyn was one of the first taken,” Cyrion said grimly. “I doubt she’d still be here if not for how sick she is.”

“Why is she so much sicker? The rest of you seem fine?” No sooner had she voiced the thought than the chilling realization that they might not actually be fine came to Ariya. But her father shook his head and gripped her leg reassuringly.

“We’re alright. Relatively. Gwen was—well—“ Cyrion drew aside Gwen’s dirty tunic, revealing a bandage that covered most of her abdomen. The blood that soaked it was dark—darker than it should be, even wounded like this, and the Blight in Ariya’s veins called out to this distant cousin of disease.

“Jumped in front of Mara’s little boy,” Gwen muttered, fingers fluttering vaguely over the wound. “Made a bad cough already worse and now we’re here.”

Ariya squeezed her hand. “For Tommy, of course. Oh, falon.”

“Just following your example.” Her lips twitched like they were trying to smile. “Since you were gone, someone else had to be the hero.”

“I don’t feel much like a hero today.”

Gwen’s brow dipped. “Of course you are. All these” —a cough wracked her wasting frame— “all of our family. You saved them—again.”

“I’m not so sure I did,” Ariya sighed. “The damage to the alienage…”

Cyrion winced.

“It will heal,” said Gwen, a faraway smile painted on her face. “Doesn’t it always?”

“Speaking of healing—“

“Amore—“ Zevran knocked against the cage, rattling the bars so they echoed in the now empty chamber. The last of the freed elves had left with Alistair and Morrigan as their guards back to safety. Piles of Tevinter corpses had been shoved aside and scraped of any valuable loot— including a beautiful dagger with snakes wrapped about the hilt, which glinted where Zevran spun it between his fingers.

“We need to be going,” he said, not unkindly. They’d traveled together enough that he recognized what Ariya had not yet acknowledged and there was sympathy in the smile he gave her. “The arl awaits our counsel and” —he tapped the documents tucked safely in his belt— “we have information that should be shared.”

“Of course.” To Ariya’s surprise, Cyrion stood readily, dusting his hands. Her confusion was only momentary, though, as he said, “Between the two of us we can probably move Gwen, I’d have done it myself if not for the condition of my knees.”

“Papa…” Ariya did not look at her father. Her eyes stuck on Gwen’s sallow face, tracing the bony edges of her weakened body, looking for something that defied what she knew to be true. But there was nothing. Ariya knew it, Zevran knew it, and, judging by the resignation in Gwen’s eyes, she did too. Only Cyrion still deluded himself.

Now Ariya had the unenviable task of giving words to dread and despair.

“She’s not just ill, papa,” Ariya said. “She’s…it’s a Blight sickness. Even if we took her back to the alienage, it would only be so she could die a painful death in lacking comfort.”

“What—but—we cannot leave her here! The cots in the alienage are rough, I know, but they are better than a cold floor and a cage. And if you intend to depart—well, I will not leave her to die alone.”

“Of course not.” Ariya’s hand rested on the hilt of her sheathed dagger, waiting. She still wasn’t looking at her father, but instead watching every half-conscious twitch of Gwen’s face. It seemed that she was slipping farther with every passing second, her eyes glazed and drifting, unseeing.

“How do you know for sure?” Cyrion demanded. “It could just be a rare disease—not that these Tevinters knew anything, but Alarith might have some potion, or know something!”

His fervor made Ariya wonder—Gwen had been a good friend, yes, though never so beloved by her father. But there had been a gap when Duncan took Ariya from the alienage; it seemed her father had filled it with another. She could not begrudge him that, but it still made her heart ache up into her throat.

“No.” She shook her head and finally met her father’s sputtering directly. “It is the Blight. I can sense it, now.”

I am not the daughter you remember went unspoken. There are things I can do now that you never wanted for me.

But this is how it is.

“I see. What do you propose, then?”

Ariya’s hand clenched around her dagger “It is unpleasant but…” she glanced down. “I’m sorry, Gwen, I’m so sorry. But a quick death is kinder, in the end.”

A long sigh deflated what little tension Gwen still held. Her head jerked in the semblance of a nod.

“Would you believe me if I said it was a relief?” she asked weakly. “I have felt it coming for days now. And—“

Her voice trailed off, eyes drifting around the room aimlessly before snapping back to Ariya. She blinked rapidly.

“If it is to be this way, I am glad it is you, falon.”

“I understand.” And she did, though she could not share the sentiment. Ariya pulled her dagger free. “You might not want to watch this,” she told her father.

“It’s okay, da’len,” Cyrion echoed. “Whatever you do…I’ve seen much worse, now.”

A pause, then Ariya nodded. She grasped the back of Gwen’s head, her fingers tangling a grip in the greasy strands of her short hair. In the depths of her foggy eyes, Ariya saw a world long lost: afternoons scampering about the alienage, swiping meat pies from window sills and climbing things that ought not be climbed. It hurt, so she squeezed her eyes tight, hot tears spilling over her cheeks.

One of Gwen’s clammy hands brushed over her knuckles, too weak for a proper grip.

“It’s alright,” she slurred, her awareness fading with every passing second. “See Deidre again. And rest. I want to rest.”

“You deserve to rest,” Ariya whispered, a steel to her heart as much as a pleading for her friend. She opened her eyes and brought the dagger to Gwen’s throat. It shook and steadying her hand was a useless endeavor.

“I am sorry, my friend,” she said. It was not as unfamiliar a pose as she would have hoped. But even after all this time—well, perhaps she should only start to worry if it did get easier. “May the Maker guide you safely in the Beyond.”

A smile spread across Gwen’s face just as Ariya slashed the dagger down. Blight-tinged blood sprayed from the mortal wound, but Ariya did not flinch. In a cold sort of horror, she realized she’d already offered the rag she carried to her father before any sort of anguish clenched her heart.

But such was the nature of war. It hardened even the softest soldiers—and Ariya had never been one of those.

She reached out and closed Gwen’s eyes. At her side, Cyrion sniffled, wiping his nose on her bloody, mucked up rag.

“We should go,” she said, a soft, gentleness to the request that she hadn’t bothered with for months.

“My little girl,” Cyrion said, so quietly she almost missed it. It wasn’t really for her anyway. “What happened to my little girl?”

Her heart clenched. I told you not to watch, she thought. I said you didn’t want to know.

But now he did. She tucked the bloody cloth into her pack and gestured for her father to go before her, so he would not have to look at her as they went.

There could be no turning back.

[sezja]

Febuwhump Day 12: Semi-Conscious Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV, Alternate Universe Characters/Ship: Sanson Smyth/Guydelot Thildonnet (pre-relationship), Coeli Qoet Triggers/Content warnings: n/a

In the cramped confines of the airship's engine room, he waits.

When should he leave, Guydelot wonders - now? He'd heard Sanson and Mogta talking only a moment ago, drifting away. Where are they, even? Somewhere in the Sea of Clouds, Moglin said; vague as all hells. It'd taken a miracle to get back to Gridania and sneak on board the Adders' airship; if the bloke guarding it hadn't owed Guydelot a favor or five, he never would've managed. It'd taken some quick thinking and even quicker talking: he was a member of this mission, after all; that's on record, and he knew Sanson'd be along shortly with the orders.

For all that, now that he's here...

What do I even say?

Sweat rolls down the back of his neck, and he doesn't think it's just the heat of the engine. It's not like him, this hesitation. Not like him, either, to linger like he had in Tailfeather. Normally, when he decides he's damned well done with a situation, he takes his leave - and he stays gone. He'd stormed away from Sanson fully intending to head back to Gridania and wash his hands of the whole mess; let the prissy little prig chase his Ballad of Oblivion to the ends of the world for all he cares.

Or so he'd thought. But he'd lingered, he'd hesitated, coming up with every reason to give it another day...

So what're you gonna say, then, he asks himself, hands curling into fists in frustration at his own hesitation. What is he waiting for? The perfect words? He's a bard; he knows damn well the right words aren't gonna just fall into his lap. And they sure as hells aren't gonna come to him here, are they?

He clambers outside at last, sucking in a breath at the frigid skybound air, a bracing contrast to the engine room. No need to wonder where Sanson'd gone: there's only one path. Guydelot walks slowly, thoughts still churning through his mind. What would Sanson say when he came strolling up?

Does he even dare hope Sanson is just as tormented over all of this as he is? Coeli sure seemed to think so, and then there's the journal burning a hole in Guydelot's satchel... notes on song, sure. And notes, pages of them, of all the things... all the things he wanted to tell Guydelot about, when they meet again.

And isn't that something?

Isn't that-

Fighting, he realizes, his archer's instincts finally winning out over his heart's twisting and turning. He's hearing the sounds of battle.

He's left it too late, he's waited too long.

Damn it all, and damn me, too, he thinks, drawing and stringing his bow; if he hurries, he can still be of some use against... against whatever it is they've found here; whatever beast guards Sanson's Ballad.

It's not a long run, but it's long enough.

He gets there in time to watch Coeli put a last desperate arrow into the red-feathered siren, before the viera crumples to the ground in exhaustion. The siren herself gets out one last ear-searing shriek before she bursts into a seething cloud of aether... which is then drawn back into an innocuous-looking stone monument, evidently from whence it came. Guydelot stands helpless, useless, bow in hand, observing the carnage.

Coeli's wounds don't look bad: she's simply been sapped of all energy by the siren's... song. She opens her blue eyes long enough to notice him, but lacks even the stamina to look surprised - if indeed she is. Her gaze leaves him, traveling toward something lying in the tall grass: something yellow. Something yellow and very, very red.

The bow falls from Guydelot's hands as he runs, unthinking.

Sanson.

He'd taken the brunt of the battle himself; of course he had. His lance is red with the creature's blood, but for every blow he landed, it seems he must've taken three - Sanson Smyth is a mess, and no mistake. Guydelot sinks to the ground beside him, fearing the worst. Part of him flinches away from the idea of even checking for a pulse - if he leaves now, if he runs away again, he can tell himself pretty lies about how the last time he'd seen Sanson, the man had been alive and well...

And maybe if I'd been fast enough, he still would be.

Gritting his teeth, he yanks off a glove and rests his hand on Sanson's throat.

Only for the man himself to flinch under Guydelot's touch.

"G..." Those too-blue eyes flutter open. Barely. Confusion mingles with pain. "Guydelot...? What are you...?"

It goes through him like a knife, and all Guydelot can think about is the thousand times his commanders have reprimanded him as a good-for-nothing, a layabout; a sorry waste of a talented archer. All talent, no discipline; that's Guydelot the Spent! Never where he needed to be! Always had somewhere better to be; always had something better to be doing than following godsdamned orders! And now here he was, the perfect chance to prove to himself - to Sanson - that he was worth a damn, and-

"You... you came," Sanson breathes, wonderment in his eyes, teetering on the edge of consciousness. "I... th-thought.."

He forces himself to speak. He's got nothing better to do. "Too late. I'm sorry, Sanson; I thought I'd..." What? Help? He hadn't known what he meant to say or do. He still doesn't.

He watches Sanson drift. There's a rustle in the grass: Coeli, inching closer. She's learned some healing tricks; thank the Matron for small miracles.

An absence occurs to him. "Mogta?"

She glances at him as she works, weaving aether into mending Sanson's many wounds. "Sanson tried to send us both away," she says, quietly. "Mogta is flying to the encampment of the Vanu Vanu, to seek aid."

He nods, subdued but relieved; he'd feared, for a moment, that his reluctance had cost the moogle bard his life.

It may yet cost Sanson his.

He tried to send them both away, he thinks, heart sinking like a stone: fighting the creature alone would've been suicide, and Sanson's seasoned enough to know it. Why? Why throw away his life on a futile battle, when there was nothing to be gained by-

"It... it never existed."

Sanson's voice again, hazy. Barely conscious at all, speaking as though in a dream. On an impulse he doesn't want to examine too closely, Guydelot takes one of the man's hands. Sanson's eyelids flutter, and his fingers twitch in Guydelot's.

"It was all just... some story, mistold or mis... misremembered," Sanson mumbles, despair in his voice. "An entire tribe... of moogles... she... and the Ballad..."

"Sanson," Guydelot says, uncertain. "You ought to rest. Let Coeli patch you up. We can talk later."

"No," Sanson says, abruptly, squeezing his hand. "No. I need... I was wrong, Guydelot, I was wrong about... about everything-"

"Well, you can be as wrong as you like after you're healed up-"

"I was wrong about you-"

Gods, I can't do this now, Sanson; don't do this to me now! "You're full of holes and barely awake, Sanson the Stiff," he snaps. "There's not a thing you can say now that won't keep for a bell or two. It's waited this long."

Whether the rebuke exhausts him or his wounds claim him, it serves to drop Sanson fully into unconsciousness, which Guydelot's willing to count as a miracle and a reprieve. He takes a shuddering breath, and with only one or two false starts, manages to begin singing a song to augment Coeli's healing: Sanson needs all the help he can get.

He pretends not to feel Coeli's too-knowing gaze on him as he sings.

[scratchandplaster]

FEBUWHUMP DAY 12 - Semi-conscious

CW: conditioning, parental Whumper, amnesia, emotional manipulation

Previous | [Masterlist] | Next

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

.

..

...

"...easy to return here whenever I..."

"My words...you know how to..."

"...slowly coming back to the waking world."

Someone was speaking to him, though Ben was still far too gone to register it.

"Eight. Feeling the tranquility join you from within, always following my voice."

Not yet, he wanted to stay in the pleasant darkness.

"Nine. Coming back to me now, and ten: Wake up!"

With a snap, Bens eyes plopped open, searching confused for the origin of this command. There he was again: Dad, rubbing up and down his spine to help him stir back to the present. The warm smile Ben all too gladly returned only helped to hold on to it.

"Well then, how are we feeling?"

Blinking a few times made the fog in his head partially vanish, but the airy, sticky presence at the back of his head never budged. Yet Ben didn't just feel okay, he felt great! Like a heavy burden was lifted from his chest.

Not strong enough to use his voice again, he simply hugged his dad as tight as he could. Oh, Ben missed him so-so much, it was killing him. Shepard, too, was freed of the heavy pressure inside his heart, never stopping the calming pets that kept his son's mind warm and pliable.

"Ben, do you have any questions about what we discussed?"

Questions? What did they talk about? Maybe Ben spaced out again, like he always did if his wits weren't required... Well, it couldn't have been very dicey if his thoughts already jumped to another topic.

"No, thanks."

Dad's smirk told him that this was somehow the right answer: "Perfect. Dinner will be ready soon, so let's get you to freshen up a bit."

Though Ben had no idea nor clue about what was happening to him, he trusted his dad to guide him. Shepard always knew what to do.

During the past few hours spent together, the sun had begun to set again. The dim twilight didn't really help in getting rid of the fuzziness adorning the world around the edges - focussing felt impossibly hard.

Only as a damp wash cloth wiped through Ben's weary face, his mind began to clear up further, yesterday's worries nothing more than a bad dream.

Cleaning up the crumbs of sleep from Reuben's eyes let Shepard reminisce of how it used to be between him and his sons, just the three of them hand in hand. Since then, everything had just become more complicated. Maybe too complicated, seeing how the boys saw themselves as abandoned and unloved enough to leave one after another. A mistake he had to correct.

After getting the debris off Ben, Shepard picked up a wooden brush to comb through his untamed hair. As far as his dad could tell, Ben enjoyed the endless attention, nearly whining when it stopped.

"It's chilly outside," Shepard whispered and eyed Ben's unusual outfit; too much polyester for his taste, "I don't want you to get a cold, so I made a little something."

Rummaging around behind himself, Shepard pulled out a cardigan and unfolded it to let Ben be the judge of it: it was brand new, mustard-yellow yarn loosely knit into itself. Ben found it beautiful, especially the little cherries stitched on it.

Cherries…just like Sam gave him. Ben hoped they wouldn't join them for dinner too, and cursed himself for it instantly. A cracked ego was no reason to be rude.

"I tried a new pattern. You still grow like a weed, so I had to tweak the measurements a bit," Dad explained and helped him into it, beaming with joy.

Ben, fuzzy and floaty, was also handed a shiny bar of chocolate from a trunk besides them.

"What's that?"

"The present you bought for us," Shepard responded confused, arranging Ben's hairdo into a neat side parting.

"Uhm-"

"At the store? You said you wanted to hand it out at dinner. Shawn couldn't sit still because of all the anticipation."

"Oh, sure." Dinner - there was a stray memory about a gift, though escorted by the faint impression that something was off. This fugue state Shepard recognized only grudgingly.

"You don't have to share, it's yours. You're free to decide."

"No-no, it’s okay. I'm just a bit lost." A clear understatement, dear Ben would forget his own head if it wasn't screwed on. Biting his lip, he had a question for him after all: "Dad, I-I want to know beforehand: how - what will be my punishment?"

Shepard's face twisted painfully: "Punishment? Punish - no! We are so thankful that you came back to us, none of us would ever punish you for that."

Reuben doubted his candor again, as if Shepard didn't just spend hours educating him otherwise. Soft words were not enough this time, it seemed, as Ben kept on dodging his shocked gaze: "Luke said you'd hate me for leaving."

"Oh sweetheart, come on," Shepard sighed and gently took his hand, "I'll show you the truth."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Febuwhump 2024 Masterlist]

@febuwhump

[comfort-questing]

12. "semi-conscious"

hard to tell how long it had been dark for; rather a while, they thought. hours, days maybe even. one thing was sure, they were in a wagon now, and going over an awful road, each jolt of the wheels across a rut shocking through their achy body.

cold. it was so cold, even though they could feel the scratchy weight of a woolen blanket wrapped around them. they shivered, and the warmth that their head rested on suddenly shifted, a hand finding their hair.

"Seru?" That was Essie, above them.

"ye-es?" their voice was rusty, mouth dry and throat sandpapery.

"we're on the road again."

that they'd derived. they would have said something about the mentioned road, if they'd had the strength - but they were devoting all their energy to trying to get their eyes open.

"your fever's up, too. can you drink something? Ral's worried you'll get dehydrated at this rate."

for an instant they could see Essie's face, creased with worry, silhouetted against the soft cloudy sky, before the weight of their eyelids won. they barely felt the hard metal of the canteen on their lips, and the flat lukewarm water was more sense than taste on their tongue.

the wagon bumped again, water splashing, Essie wiping their chin dry. her fingers rubbed through their hair dimly, gently.

"Seru, can you try...?"

the others' voices were a distant murmur, less real than the lurching of the wagon wheels, the trembly chills running along their limbs. they let the exhaustion pull them backward, into the dark embrace of not-sleep.

"...a little, anyway, not half enough." Essie speaking, above them, to someone else. then, "... out again, I think..."

out. yes. somewhere very far indeed, it felt like.

they'd come back later, when they could.

[flowersfromwind]

Febuwhump - Day 12

Day 12: Semi-conscious

When Tetra became captain, no one really knew how things were going to work out. Everyone respected her and followed her commands, but there was uncertainty in the air. However, that changed when the first accident happened: During a rough storm, Niko got knocked off balance by the movement of the boat and hit his head on the ground. He laid there until he came to his senses and got up in a quick movement, determined to continue with his work. No one was with him at the time and he didn't think much of it. Apart from minor stumbles and bumps after that, everything seemed fine and the event became a memory. But a few hours later, he began to feel the consequences. The first thing he noticed was a severe headache out of nowhere, which made it difficult to concentrate, and then he seemed more tired than usual. When Tetra called him to clear the deck, he took the biggest jump of his life, startled by how loud the captain's voice sounded in his ears. She also had to repeat the order a few times, because he was slow to understand. This all led to one result: while clearing the deck, Niko fainted. All the pirates were startled by the thud of his unconscious body falling and went to check. Tetra arrived quickly and took charge of the situation. When Niko woke up, he was so out of it that he didn't even notice the people around him. Someone asked if he could hear them, but he couldn't answer. His eyes slowly traveled across the sky until they met those of the captain. He focused on them, blinking in confusion as his vision recognized only blurs of color. Tetra did her best to check how serious the situation was and that there were no additional injuries from the fall. She also had to order some of the on-lookers, who had left their positions to see what had happened, to get back to work. And when she confirmed that nothing else had happened, she asked Nudge to help her carry Niko to the beds. It was only when Niko was better assessed and received medical help that the girl relaxed. And so did the crew, because now they were sure they could count on the captain.

[such-a-random-rambler]

Febuwhump - Day 12

John realises he’s drifting in and out only because the scenery is passing in fits and starts: a slide show with some missing or a book with many pages turned at once. He turns his head slowly, still managing to stir a fork of lightning through his brain reaching for his comm. Clumsy fingers press the wrong button three times or more before he gets it right. He blinks, losing another few minutes marked only by the desperate shouting of whoever is at the other end of the call. He mumbles his location, words slurred and thick in his mouth. 

[whumpinthepot]

@febuwhump 2024

Day 12: Semi-conscious

Clarence’s name is Silly Sally in this series.

Content: pet whump, carewhumper, calling someone master, pet names, descriptions of fainting/feeling faint, non human whumpee (they’re a small imp), chronic illness, munchousen by proxy

—

It was the first day in weeks that Sally hadn’t felt ill to their stomach with nausea, or had a throbbing headache, or felt dizzy and weak. Today they actually felt good, and they yearned to have some fun. The first thing Sally wanted to do was use their floating magic to fly around the house freely since they were usually too sick to fly higher than three feet safely.

The first thing they did was find the widest space in the living room where they could do flips and somersaults in midair. Looping upwards and flipping upright with their long hair falling over their face. The tickle of hair brushing Sally’s nose erupted a laugh from them, and they floated higher towards the ceiling, feeling the heat shift with the gravitational pull.

When they flipped upside down again the blood rushed to their head, and stars speckled in their vision. Their body lurched toward the ground but they caught themself with their magic. It started to sputter like a car running low on fuel, and Sally realized how high they really were from the ground. Much higher than a human's reach.

“M-Master?!” Sally cried for Bob for help as a rush of dizziness overcame them and the walls started to spin. They tried to stay afloat, but they couldn't tell up from down as they started to plummet.

Bob sprang into the room right as Sally was about to hit the floor, and they landed in his powerful arms. The force of the landing rattled Sally’s brain, and they cried while trying to grab their Master’s shirt, unsure of the direction they were facing as their vision started to white out. They almost rolled right out of his grip but he stopped it. “Whoa there, darling, I got you. You’re okay. Shh.”

“M-Master…? I- I I can’t see… I don’t feel so good…” they whimpered, burying their face in the crook of his elbow. They were so close to passing out, their limbs went numb. Sally’s heart throbbed against their chest, tightening into a painful panic.

They could barely hear their Master’s voice when he spoke. “Honey, you know you can’t fly around so fast. Your blood pressure can’t take it, you know it makes you faint. What were you thinking, darling?”

Sally kept whimpering, their words too slurred to respond. They had only wanted to have fun earlier. They didn’t think the sickness would affect them today when they were feeling so much better moments before.

“You’re safe, Sally. I’m with you,” Bob assured them softly. Sally shuddered, gripping at Bob’s shirt sleeve and curling into a ball. They squeezed their eyes shut. If they couldn’t see they could at least pretend it was because they were covering their face. They tried to breathe and focus on the warmth of Bob’s padded chest, with his beard brushing against their horns. They just needed to breathe and wait for the dizzy spell to pass.

Sally started to black out for an unknown amount of time before they could hear Bob talking to them, bringing them back into semi-consciousness. He was getting up with them; they could feel their weight being shifted, then the rocking motion of him walking with their tiny body squished against his chest. They opened their eyes to try to see and were instantly blinded by the ceiling light. They groaned as another dizzy spell spun over them, with their head swiveling back and forth.

When they were placed into Bob’s bed, their nerves jumped away from their skin like they were being tossed off a bridge. They jolted, but felt the pillow and grabbed at it, letting their head fall against it. Bob draped the blanket over them and swaddled them into it so they would feel more secure.

Sally blinked a few times once they felt their body pushing against the cushioning sheets, stalling the feeling that they were about to fall to the floor. They saw their Master looking down on them, his eyes kind underneath his mane of orange hair.

“I don’t want you flying around anymore today, pumpkin. It's too risky with your health. You know that. You could have gotten really hurt again… You’re too clumsy, silly.”

“I– I’m sorry, master…” Sally’s voice tightened and broke off against the lump in their throat, “I– I I won’t, I promise, sir. I promise.” They started to shake, and their tail slipped out to touch Bob’s leg. “I don’t feel so good…”

“I know, sweetheart. You’ll feel better soon, and if you rest until supper we can go for a walk in the park. Does that sound nice?”

The thought gave Sally something to pass the time, and they sighed. “Y-Yes please, Sir… I am sorry for inconveniencing you again. I– I promise to make it up to you…”

“I know you will, sweetheart.” Bob rubbed Sally’s round belly. “Now rest.”

—

Febuwhump tag list: @ilasknives @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @blackrosesandwhump @frogkingdom

A special thanks to @blackrosesandwhump and @alittlewhump for helping with editing and proof reading. Thank you so much <3