#Febuwhumpday5

[scribbles97]

Oh so painful even if it is only remembered snippets. So raw and powerful as well!

Anchor

For @Febuwhump's day 5: Not trusting reality

TW: POW, TW: torture

“I need all available units to head northeast and-,” Scott stopped.  

The tune was half-familiar, even in that toneless whistle. In fact, that was what made it familiar.  

“-and support Thunderbird Two-,” 

Chills ran down his entire body and his hands gave an involuntarily twitch. Glancing around, he scanned every face, but he couldn’t see who was whistling. 

But he’d never seen him whistle. Just heard him. It screamed through his memory louder than any alarm could. 

“Sir?” The harassed fire captain was watching him, waiting for his instructions. 

Scott shook himself. He took a half-second to feel the sun on his face and then turned his attention back to the man in front of him. 

“Support Thunderbird Two: follow my colleague’s directions, he’ll let you know where you’re needed. Keep two men... What is that sound?” 

It was barely audible. Heavy machine rumbled through the area. Thunderbird Two’s VTOL engines would’ve drowned out everything if Scott wasn’t so used to them. The water cannon Virgil was throwing on the stubbornly raging fires was almost deafening. 

But he could still hear it. 

That tuneless whistling; that jaunty tune that was always in complete contrast to where he was. 

“Sir?” 

He didn’t hear the captain this time. He could only hear that tune. He turned, stumbling away from Mobile Control, shoving people out of his way as he searched. Broad backs; wiry hair; a limp from some unknown injury... The signs were everywhere and nowhere at once. Every time he saw one hint, the sound would come from the other direction. 

He was surrounded by fire, yet Scott was shivering. He couldn’t stop it; his body was acting on instinct. The whistling was always a sign of what was to come, a warning of pain and humiliation he couldn’t prevent. He just had to see who was making the noise, just had to- 

Someone grabbed his arm. 

Hands snatched at him, finger-marked bruises overlapping the ones from the numerous times before. They pinned his arms, holding him while cord looped around his wrists... 

“No.” It was little more than a gasp as Scott tore free. He stumbled back, ignoring the shocked expression on the man in front of him.  

Violent shivers wracked his body now but he was hot, so hot... He tugged at the collar of his uniform. It was too tight, too restrictive, and he couldn’t breathe... Not with that damn whistling still ringing in his ears. His fingers scrabbled, trying to pull the material away... 

Laughter as he choked. Fighting the material wrapped around his throat, desperately forcing fingers between it and his neck as they twisted, pulling tighter, watching him flail, fighting for air... 

There were too many people here. Scott saw everything and nothing all at once. Everywhere he turned, he caught a glimpse of that face. It was always turning away from him; never enough to give him a proper look. 

And always, that whistling ringing in his ears. 

Scott shoved through the crowd. Startled cries fell on deaf ears, all he could hear was that tune. He was no longer the Field Commander of International Rescue. He was just a man desperate to escape the grasping hands, fighting not to be pulled back there... 

He broke free of the crowd, uncaring of the stares. He could hear a voice calling his name, a familiar, concerned voice coming through his comm-link. But he couldn’t respond. Couldn’t say John’s name. He’d never said his brothers’ names in that place, couldn’t invite them into that hell even if it was in his own mind. 

He ran. 

He didn’t know where. 

Didn’t care. 

His breathing came in short gasps, not in anyway connected to the spontaneous exercise. Smoke filled the air, the smell of acrid burning filling his nostrils, skin burning, agony ripping through his side, a scream tearing unbidden from his throat as the brand pressed against him, mocking laughter, shouted questions... 

No. He wasn’t burning. It was a faded scar, nothing more. 

Scott stopped running. He wasn’t sure how far he’d gone, but the crowds were behind him now. He could still hear it, though. That same tune, half-whistled, the same few refrains over and over again. 

That was good. 

It was when the music stopped that was the problem.  

When the bolt drew back and jeering faces filled the cell, selecting, taking him, taking one of his team... 

There were buildings in front of him. Some part of his mind clung to rational thought. He’d reached the outskirts of the town. The evacuated town: half the residents were helping fight the fires; the other half safely moved to friends and relatives to escape the inferno. He tried breathing deeply, but the smoke was as thick here. It made him cough... 

Gasping for air as the cloth was pulled from his face. Dripping wet hair falling into his eyes, ice-cold water running down his chest, stinging the cuts but soothing the burns. He choked, retched, fighting to remember the basic instinct of breathing... 

This wasn’t real. The wounds – physical and mental – had healed. His commander would never have sent him out here if he couldn’t handle it. His dad would keep him safe. 

Shaking hands lifted until palms rested on the rough stone in front of him. It scratched against his skin but the sharp sting was a relief. Bracing against the building, he let his head hang, focusing on his breathing. 

How many people had seen him run from Mobile Control? How many people now knew Scott Tracy’s truth: that he was broken, weak... 

Pathetic. 

Boots. Fists. A lead pipe. Rope burning his wrists as they suspended him from a hook in the ceiling, boots not able to get any purchase. There was a fire the other end of the room, the smoky air making it difficult to both see and breathe. He didn’t want to see, didn’t need to... He knew. He’d soon make the acquaintance of whatever was heating in those flames... 

Running footsteps. Stones giving way under heavy boots, curses as feet lost their grip. 

The heavy thud of steps coming down the corridor. It was worse when the thuds stopped. When they arrived. 

“Scott!” 

“... Tracy. Captain. Serial number seven six, one eight nine, five six five.” 

“Can you hear me?” 

“Are you deaf? Answer the question!” 

“Are you okay?” 

“You think this hurts? You know nothing, boy.” 

A hand touched his back. Scott whirled, lashing out blindly. They’d come for him this time and he couldn’t, just couldn’t it again, the smoke was too thick, his throat too raw... 

He didn’t connect with anything but heard a startled yelp. It was one of the first sounds he recognised since hearing the tune. 

The music. The music had stopped. No. Not stopped. Stopping meant danger, pain, humiliation. He just couldn’t hear it. For some reason, there was a tiny part of him that clung to the difference. 

He strained his ears. He’d heard the bolt any second, the laughter. But all he could hear was... 

“... and components four through seven need replacing, but I need more 10mm screws and the bolts with the fixtures to get through that. Pod three has low foam levels but until that shipment from Tokyo comes in, we’re stuck using that other stuff which always blocks up the nozzles-” 

He blinked. 

“- but I’ve found a three-inch screwdriver clears them out fine.” 

“Are you reciting your maintenance list?” The words came without his permission. The ringing in his ears cleared as Virgil stopped his run-down of all the components found in the pods of Thunderbird Two. 

His brother grinned at him. 

“Thought it was more likely to catch your attention. The back-up was the top ten best classical pianists of all time, but figured that risked you running again.” 

He didn’t continue his bizarre topic of conversation. Instead, Virgil just looked at him. And Scott looked back. 

It was definitely his brother he saw. Through the haze of smoke, it wasn’t tools that he was painfully familiar with, but a face he knew as well as his own. One that didn’t bring pain, but comfort and reassurance. 

Virgil’s grin morphed into a serious expression as he watched Scott focus on him. He touched his comms. 

“I’ve got him, Thunderbird Five.”  

Scott took in a shaky breath. As the smoke again hit his lungs, a scar on his side flared in remembered pain. 

“Here.” 

He tried to pull away, but Virgil was too quick. Scott acquiesced and took the oxygen mask. It only took a few inhales before his mind cleared, like a breeze wafting away his clouded mind. He handed it back to Virgil, watching mutely as his brother returned it to the tank on his back. 

“You were in Two,” he finally said. For once, Virgil didn’t call him out on his powers of observation. 

“And you were in the past,” he said gently. Watching Scott closely for a reaction, he stretched out a hand and, when Scott didn’t flinch, gripped his arm reassuringly. It was grounding but Scott had been known to respond badly if it was too soon. 

That reminded him of his wild swing and he looked at his brother anxiously, but there was no bloody nose or black eye. Nor did his fist hurt. He'd missed. Thank god. 

“Thanks,” Scott said gruffly. Embarrassed. “For pulling me back.” 

“Always.” Virgil squeezed his arm, then let go. “What triggered it?” 

They’d been coming when he’d first come home. The smallest of innocent things plunged him straight back into the nightmare. But the mandatory counselling and every doctor’s favourite remedy – time – had slowly grounded him in the here and now. 

He hadn’t realised Virgil had been paying attention when he’d learnt coping mechanisms for stopping the past. He needed a voice, a lifeline, to cling to, and the more mundane the words, the better.  

He certainly hadn’t known that his brother still remembered the tricks. 

“The whistling,” Scott muttered.  

They started back towards the danger zone. As the number of people increased, Scott kept his gaze fixed on where they were going and, when it came into view, Mobile Control. He couldn’t face seeing their expressions. 

He didn’t look at Virgil but felt his brother’s gaze burn into the side of his head with pinpoint accuracy.  

“There was this tune,” Scott struggled to explain. “And a guard who-,” 

“It’s okay.” Virgil’s hand was back on his arm. “That’s enough.” 

The chances of him hearing it again were slim indeed, and how was he supposed to explain it without trying to whistle the tune himself if Virgil wanted specifics?  

They reached Mobile Control and Scott stared blankly at it. What had he been doing before this? Where were things up to with the rescue? 

“Thunderbird Five, de-active remote control of MC.” Virgil smiled gently as he nudged Scott into position. 

“F.A.B.” John’s voice came from the instruments in front of them. “Your last orders have been carried out, Captain, and relinquishing control back to you.” 

Scott smiled. They never called him that. But right now, it was what he needed. His hands settled on the panel in front of him and his mind focused on the alerts, comms and overall situation flashing at him. 

“F.A.B.” 

Scott looked at Virgil, and nodded.  

He was back in the here and now. This was his reality, not the hellhole that had destroyed his life for six months. 

He was back in the zone. 

He was back. 

[linecrosser]

Febuwhump 2k25 - Day 5 - Not Trusting Reality

Shang Qinghua is sure he is halucinating, his feverish brain making things up. There is no way His King is worried about him, craddling him, right???

[cupcakeslushie]

Febuwhump Day 5: Rope Burns

Not really a plot heavy story behind this one.

Raph just gets taken by….let’s say the Purple Dragons. His brothers come to save him pretty fast. It wasn’t that traumatic, he probably could’ve even gotten himself out, eventually. He’s fine.

Sorry I missed yesterday, I was fighting a migraine, but hopefully that’ll be my only day skipped! :)

[checkeredflagggs]

Febuwhump Day 5: Not Trusting Reality

pairings: gen

summary: a story about y/n, Redbull’s new second driver, told in non-sequential order

a/n: I love febuwhump and have participated before for other fandoms but this is a first for me — attempting to compete it via smau only. Hopefully I can write a complete story eventually and I will be posting it on its own masterlist in the correct order to read but it’ll be written based on the febuwhump prompt list! @febuwhump

a/n2: based on the 2024 year; sorry checo but you got replaced earlier!

a/n3: this one is a direct sequel to day 6, so it will make more sense after tomorrow’s piece

Private Messages

The Grid, Professional

y/n and Charles

y/n and Oscar

y/n and Fernando

y/n and George

Bluesky

Taglist

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @mxm47max @voidvannie @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @yawn-zi @tallrock35 @elizamoe133

[chaoticdreamers-world]

day 05 - not trusting reality

"Go to sleep, Whumpee."

"They're coming for me. I know it."

"For one last time - nothing's coming! We've checked the perimeter, the cameras are off, and we've been patrolling for hours! You need to snap out of this delusion, Whumpee."

"Do you think I'm imagining things?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you think it."

Caretaker stayed silent.  

[serickswrites]

Reality

Warnings: captivity, torture, restraints, drugging, hallucinations, rescue

"Whumpee, Whumpee, I'm here!" Caretaker called out as they hurried to the figure chained to the bed. They couldn't be too late. They had to have made it in time.

Whumpee lay on their side, their back to Caretaker. "No....not real. It's not real," they muttered.

Caretaker breathed a sigh of relief. Whumpee was alive. And ok enough to speak. "It's real. I'm here, Whumpee. I'm here."

They touched Whumpee's back. Whumpee flinched and screeched with terror. "NOTREALNOTREALNOTREAL!"

"Whumpee, it's me! It's Caretaker. I'm here!" Caretaker shouted, trying to make themself heard above Whumpee's screams.

But no matter how much Caretaker shouted, Whumpee continued to scream. They screwed their eyes shut and rocked back and forth as they continued to scream. Caretaker's heart sunk as they realize Whumpee didn't believe they were really being rescued.

"It's ok. It's ok," they murmured as they rubbed circles on Whumpee's back. "I'll help you see. I'll help you see." Caretaker's mouth went dry as they saw the numerous pill bottles and syringes on the table by the bed. What had Whumper done to Whumpee to make Whumpee no longer trust reality? What had Whumper done?

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat

[whump-about-it]

Constant Pain

@febuwhump Day 5: Rope Burns.

CW: angst, description of injuries, dissociation.

"Whumpee, those are never going to heal if you don't stop touching them."

Whumpee startled out of their mindless stupor to find Caretaker leaning on the door frame watching them with an expression of concern. Their eyes were flickering between Whumpee's sallow face and their hands, which they had in their lap, each picking absently at the scabbed rope burns on the opposite wrists.

"Sorry," Whumpee murmured and moved their hands to either side of their legs. This wasn't the first time Caretaker had caught them picking at the scabs, or the first time they had cautioned them about re-opening the wounds. "They just..."

Whumpee let their voice trail off. They couldn't tell Caretaker the rope burns still hurt. They couldn't explain why they hurt so much. Whumpee had so many other injuries that reasonably should have bothered them more. They couldn't put weight on one of their legs. There was a six inch gash in the back of their head that had required being stapled. Their were bruises around their neck had made breathing so uncomfortable that they had developed a chest infection by the time they were rescued. The welts on their back hadn't healed yet, and they couldn't move to much for fear of ripping the multitude of stitches all over their body. Yet, despite all of that, the rope burns, the most innocuous of their injuries, hurt the most.

Actually, that all made sense to Whumpee. When they had been rescued, Caretaker had told them Whumper had held them for a little over month. But it had felt like a year. Every day had been different. New pain. New torture. New fear. Nothing had remained the same day to day. Nothing Whumpee could look forward to or dreed. Not even food or water. In that whole time the only constant had been the rope. Their hands had been tied the whole time.

The rope burns had been Whumpee's first injuries. Their oldest and deepest. And the ones that they had cried over the most, hopelessly trying to wriggle their way out of their bonds and watching blood trickle into their useless hands. Of course those wounds hurt the most. But how were they supposed to say that? How were they supposed to explain in?

Whumpee nearly jumped out of their skin when Caretaker brushed their uninjured knee. They were now kneeling in front of Whumpee, looking even more concerned than they had before. Whumpee hadn't noticed they were dissociating again.

"Is everything okay?" Caretaker asked gently.

"Yes." Whumpee lied. "They itch. My wrists. They itch and I keep forgetting not to touch them."

"I know."

They both knew Caretaker was lying too.

[dilf-din]

Who is in Control?

A Rebelcaptain fic for Febuwhump Day 5: Not trusting reality @febuwhump

Rating: M

WC: 3k

Warnings: medical trauma, body horror, buckets of angst with a happy ending

Read on AO3

Freezing durasteel wearing grooves into her wrists and ankles, rushing air vents that kept the room cold enough to see her breath, the fluorescent light that burned her retinas, shining day and night. These were things that Jyn thought surely she would get used to over the length of her captivity, but every time her head lulled too hard and shocked her back into consciousness, every time her arms ached like fire against her restraints, she was reintroduced to the subhuman conditions her captors had decided to subject her to without breaking their resolve. With soulless eyes and movements that bordered on robotic, they would swing open the heavy door and approach her writhing body. She squirmed with the small reserves of strength she had tried to ration, spitting venom and curses in their faces as they pushed long needles full of strange serums into her veins. They broke the skin in her arms while she yelled with a hoarse voice, flooding her body with burning heat. The fevers would overtake her until she was dripping sweat onto the floor, even in the arctic temperatures.

“What do you want from me?” Jyn tried to roar, but it came out as a mere croak.

The nurses didn’t even acknowledge her, just retreated across the steel floor, footsteps echoing in a metallic and lifeless way.

Jyn fought as hard as she could to hold on to reality, but the grip on her mind slipped time and time again. The fevers came with hallucinations. Though there was no furniture in the barren room, the edges and corners would warp into looming monsters. Packs of nurses armed with needles plunging them into every surface of her body. They pulled her teeth from their sockets, shaved her head and collected the stringy, greasy clumps of hair that fell wetly to the floor. She would scream until she was sure her throat would bleed.

Her arms were shackled outward, exposing her veins as easy access, and she was far enough from the wall that she couldn’t knock herself unconscious.

Jyn thrashed as her body hung limply. This went on for hours, or maybe days. There was no way to keep track of time in a windowless room. After the first ten or so days she thought, she simply stopped trying. The mental weight was too much as she felt herself slipping away from her body more with each injection.

When she could, she tried to dream of Cassian, but whatever drug they were pumping her full of was fucking with her memories. She had a hard time recalling his face or his voice. Often she could see him for a second before he distorted into something unnatural. The skin of his face would melt away to reveal the metal frame of a droid, limbs dripping with viscera and eyes glowing red. It would rip her limb from limb and she would feel every muscle fiber tear in half, every bone shatter and break. The pain was blinding. It ingrained itself into her psyche until she was too afraid to fall asleep altogether. Willing herself to stay awake until she was pulled under by total exhaustion and malnutrition.

They weren’t feeding her. She figured one of the things they injected intravenously were base nutrients to keep her from completely withering away, though she could feel herself sweating off weight quickly from the merciless fevers.

They moved her every few days or so to hose the urine from her legs and pull on a new set of stark white underclothes. They were stiff and scratchy, but at least they saved her the dignity of being naked.

Every limb was covered in varying hues of bruises from the fluids they were steadily swapping from her tender body. She was a mosaic of sickly yellow green streaks and deep purple patches. They hadn’t interrogated her. Jyn thought they must’ve been torturing her just for shits and giggles. From the uniforms, she could tell they weren’t empire, unless they were some new fucked up faction that had sprung up like the severed head of a hydra.

They wore masks over the lower half of their faces, and they never spoke, making them all sort of blur together in her mind. At the beginning, she tried to memorize the coming footfalls as if she could hatch some sort of escape plan, but any attempt to fight was pathetic at best. They didn’t underestimate her. She had had no chances to prove just how feral she could be when she was stripped down to her barest form.

Every morning, an orderly came in to draw what Jyn felt like could be classified as excessive amounts of blood. It took her a few days to deduce that they must be experimenting on her. But why her and why now? Any attempt to intimidate or grovel for answers was met with the same robotic stare.

Black out after black out, she was losing strength, and quickly. The familiar clang of the door being unbolted caused her to tense. Her muscles coiled tightly, screaming to be freed, but they had nowhere to go. Another injection of the cloudy chartreuse concoction. She was too tired to fight it as it slowly drained into her veins, thick like honey, gunking up every part of her body and mind.

“Fuck you,” she tried to cough out. Her throat was like sandpaper. She couldn’t remember the last time they gave her water. She was starting to forget what relief felt like. It was becoming increasingly obvious that she could die in here, but not quickly or with any mercy. She was beginning to fear they would keep her alive far past the point that she wanted to be. For the first time, she allowed herself to cry. Hot heavy tears careened down her face and to the floor to mix with her sweat and piss and god knows what else. She wailed as loudly as she could with a throat so raw, feeling utterly broken and sorry for herself. Jyn cried until she lost consciousness.

She was jolted awake some time later, not long enough to feel rested, but long enough to be almost certain a cloudy stretch of time had passed. Everything was hazy. It always was. There was a commotion outside her door, and then a burst of light, so bright it burned her pupils and she croaked, trying to turn her head away. Her muscles were aflame from the simple movement.

A team of people flooded in in their masks and white coats and quickly began to unbind her. She heard a familiar voice barking orders and glimpsed the noses of several blasters aimed at her captors.

Bracing herself to hit the ground hard, she collapsed into warmth and softness that felt so much like her distant memories of home instead. Her eyes fluttered from the exertion and her limbs were screaming as they moved independently for the first time in what felt like eons. More muffled voices hummed around her like a swarm of insects as the pull of unconsciousness weighed her down with a new ferocity. She felt gentle hands turn her over so she was no longer facing the floor, and what she saw made her scream.

Cassian. At least, she thought it was Cassian. Any moment from now, he would finish the job these assholes had started.

Jyn tried to scream and it came out ragged and pitched in a desperate, broken way, uncharacteristic of the force of nature she was known to be. She tried to scoot backwards, not wanting to live through another dismembering by the man she loved. In all her other dreams, she couldn’t fight back. This time would be different.

Adrenaline coursed through her bruised veins, and she felt herself humming to life, halfway at least. Jyn wobbled to her feet unsteadily like a fawn in spring, legs trembling and a half hearted pair of fists hovered in front of her.

Cassian rose and inched towards her with his hands out like she was a frightened animal.

“Jyn,” he said cautiously, eyebrows drawn together as he tried to calculate the damage to her body and psyche.

“Don’t come any closer,” she rasped.

The rest of the room was fuzzy, and her head swam from the exertion of holding herself upright, but she refused to let herself be bent to anyone else’s will any longer.

Cassian took another half step towards her, then another.

Jyn rolled her neck to try to stretch out the tension that ran to the tip of her spine.

“I’m warning you,” she tried to sound as menacing as her desert-dry vocal cords could muster.

Cassian paused and contemplated her words before ultimately deciding to inch one step closer.

Jyn leapt and swung at him with a surprising amount of force. Cassian stood firm as a wall as she beat against his chest and jaw. Swing after swing as tears and snot poured down her face. Cassian didn’t flinch, didn’t budge. Bruises started to swell on his cheeks and blood poured from his nose as he let her unleash the fear inside of her that had curdled into rage. Over his shoulder, he heard Melshi call an order, but Cassian held out his hand to let the rest of the team know not to approach.

Jyn swung at him for a few minutes until her strength gave out completely. She sank to her knees wailing silently, before she fell forward and caught herself on stinging palms, completely spent.

One more needle broke the skin in her neck. A quick pinch and rush of cool, and she felt herself fall into blackness quickly.

Cassian shed his jacket and wrapped it around her near bare frame before scooping her up tenderly and walking towards the exit. His right eye was swelling shut, and he stopped to wipe the blood pouring from his nose with the back of his hand before continuing.

“Captain?” Melshi asked tentatively.

“Let’s get out of here,” Cassian said curtly, not inviting any questions into whatever had transpired in front of his team. He marched through the hall stone faced.

Another team of rebel officers was busy cuffing her captors and seizing things around the lab as evidence. Cassian walked by bacta tanks full of unrecognizable creatures, stitched together in gruesome ways. Some parts were clearly human. Cassian tasted bile in his throat as he wondered what would have become of the girl in his arms had they not gotten there sooner. He glanced down at her limp form, and even with her eyes closed, he could see that they had drained so much from her in a few short weeks. Only time would tell if she would ever be the same.

The ride back was silent as Cassian slumped against a wall, blood caked on his swelling face and in his beard. His eyes were more hollow than usual as he adjusted his elbow on the edge of a crate and leaned back, not relenting his grip on Jyn who slept noiselessly in the safety of his arms. The way her chest rose and fell was almost mechanical. Her heart beat slowly but steadily. Her eyes didn’t move or flutter at all, and he silently thanked the maker that she seemed to be in a dreamless sleep.

The comfort of having her broken form against his chest was fleeting. Guilt like talons had already begun to rend his flesh, ripping away all the good things they had built together. By the time they landed, the ramp hit the floor of the hangar with the finality of a death sentence. His feet carried him to the medbay on autopilot, and when he passed her into the soft bed that awaited her, he was certain in his heart that she would never forgive him for the things she had faced in his absence. He began to envy Jyn’s numbness, and for that too, he drowned in guilt.

——

2 weeks later

At first, Cassian spent every second by her bed, draping extra blankets over her when the chills of detox shook her now feeble frame. Dropping water onto her parched tongue with a syringe and clasping her hand riddled with tubes and wires in his own. For her sake, they kept her sedated and monitored her blood to track the concentration of the mystery drug in her system. They hadn’t been able to deduce much about it aside from it being a hallucinogen. It was clearly experimental.

As they flushed it out of her with time and liquids, and her labs showed the levels had dropped considerably, the medical team began discussing weaning her off of the sedative to slowly ease her into the wake up process.

Cassian was nervous. He replayed her rescue in his mind a thousand times over— enough to convince himself that her fear that day was also thinly veiled hatred. That she blamed him for her capture, and that every blow she landed was meant to make him feel a fraction of what she had endured. And each time he re-lived it, he took the same docile posture and allowed her to unleash that weight on him. He would do it every day if it would earn her forgiveness.

He paced the hall of the waiting room with clenched hands at his side as he struggled against the invisible fist at his throat. It had been several weeks since he had been able to take a full and proper breath. The tension was wound tight through his shoulders, and had certainly been exacerbated by sleeping slumped over in the small chair by her bed. A small price to pay, he reminded himself grimly when the pain started to dictate his thinking.

A nurse beckoned for him at the doorway, pulling him out of his trance.

“She’s awake,” he announced with a small smile.

Cassian took a step back, “I think I’ll just wait for her to adjust for a bit.”

“She’s asking for you,” the nurse softened his face even more.

Cassian tried to swallow down the lump lodged in his throat before following the nurse back to Jyn’s room. He entered alone, knocking first so as not to startle her.

Jyn gave him a weak smile. Some of the brightness had returned to her eyes, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, she seemed genuinely happy to see him.

“How are you feeling?” Cassian asked cautiously.

“Like shit,” Jyn replied flatly. The scratch in her voice sent her into a small coughing fit that drew Cassian closer with concern.

She winced and screwed her eyes shut, adjusting her shoulders against the pressure of the central line going straight into her chest. The bruising on her arms had prevented them from starting a traditional IV.

“Do you need some water?”

Jyn nodded, eyes fluttering open to fully take in Cassian as he drew closer.

He poured water from a plastic blue pitcher into a cup of the same color and held it to her lips for her to take a long draw.

“Thank you,” she murmured softly.

Her hand caught his cheek, causing him to tense under the feel of her. With a firm thumb, she rotated his cheek to observe the yellow and green bruise still painted across the bridge of his nose and under his eyes. His right eye showed evidence of a burst blood vessel where a streak of bright red colored what should be white.

“Maker, what happened to you?”

“Like you look any better,” he tried to joke, dodging the question.

Her mouth fell into a tight line, and she drew her hand back to herself. Fatigue clung to her even from small movements like that still, and she exhaled carefully so as not to make anything else burn unnecessarily. Cassian could see the wheels turning in her head as her eyebrows drew together.

He stepped back from the bed a bit nervously.

“They said you can probably try walking tomorrow, just for a minute.” He desperately wanted to change the subject.

“Was it me?”

Cassian hesitated.

Jyn’s eyes bore into his, coated with tears that threatened to spill at the answer she seemed to already know.

“Was it me?” She punctuated each word firmly.

“Yes, but,” Cassian began.

Jyn swallowed and shut her eyes as a tear tracked down her cheek.

“You weren’t in your right mind. We still don’t have any idea what you went through,” he tried desperately to soothe her.

“I thought it was a dream,” she barely whispered.

Cassian paused and tilted his head.

“Nearly every night I was there, I— I had these dreams of you,” she stammered, swallowing hard again. “You tried to kill me and I,” she stopped as another tear fell. “I’m so sorry. I thought it was real.”

Cassian stood in limbo, anchored to the floor unable to decide if he should run to her or out of the room. He tried to read the expression on her face as she started the first steps of processing her captivity.

“Are you afraid of me now?” He finally asked, breaking the silence.

Jyn looked at him a long time. The way he stood submissive, almost afraid, apologetic. He wasn’t the man from her nightmares, but rather the evidence of the gentle life she had created for herself. He was kisses in the morning light and tender hands cauterizing wounds. The smell of fresh laundry and sweat and adventure.

Not only his heart, but his whole body looked like it might crack in two for the fear of rejection. He would never forgive them for poisoning her mind against him.

But instead, she said one single word.

“No.”

And he knew they would see the other side of this together.

[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

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

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

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

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[aftepes]

Day 5. Not Trusting Reality. Because the Castle has never been real.

Trevor had been dead some three hundred years when he saw him again, rising up out of the ashen earth of the training grounds where the monsters of the castle came to fight and train. An echo of the man he had loved, once. But it wasn’t Trevor. It couldn’t be Trevor. This place couldn’t give him Trevor. It used to give him everything. Anything he wanted. Why wouldn’t it give him Trevor? And Sypha, emerging from that same place, the dark earth, like ash, like sand. As beautiful as the day he lost her. The castle, like when he was a child, it gave him what he wanted. The people he loved, coming back to him. It couldn’t be real. No. He couldn’t just have them back after three hundred years. The castle wouldn’t give him this. It used to. It used to give him all his needs. 

Why wouldn’t it give him this?

Grant, wiry and quick and always ready to help, always eager to make a change. The castle gave him all three of them, his companions. The first people who loved him for who he was. He had watched them die, and here they were. Here they were, living, breathing. 

Aiming their weapons for him, in his moment of weakness, lashing out. And he took their blows, he took their hatred. After all, they killed vampires. And what was he but the son of their sworn enemy? They should have done this from the beginning. Should have ended the bloodline. He would let them. He would let them hurt him, kill him. To end this cycle.

No.

No the castle was already here. The castle made them to defend itself. Not for him. To stop him.

He drew his sword.

[linecrosser]

Febwhump 2024 - Day 5 - Rope Burns

back in the early days when MBJ only trusted SQH as far as the rope stretched...

[whumpinthepot]

@febuwhump 2025. Day 5. Not trusting reality.

—

Whumper gives whumpee a heavy dose of psychedelic drugs before setting them free out into public. Whumper has a few friends planted around the area to further confuse whumpee when they try to ask for help, gaslighting whumpee into not knowing whats real or who to trust. Whumper keeps a close eye on them while they try to navigate the area without much luck as the drugs become more potent in their system. When whumpee is at their limit whumper interviens and brings them back.

[lovelizards]

"Oh my, you look quite dashing all sweaty and afraid..."

The young woman who employed him, Juliette, appeared in the dark doorway of the study that Petr was working in. Pale like a ghost, with dark hair hanging around her shoulders - she would have been a frightening sight for anyone.

Anyone except him.

"This is what you're doing on Valentines day, darling?"

Petr barely glanced up from his work, even when she flicked the overhead lights off. He reached to click his desk lamp on, and continued.

"Sounds like you're in a good mood," he mumbled, "who have you killed now?"

He heard soft footsteps that faded into silence, and a moment later her pale, spidery fingers gently brushed over his shoulder.

Petr flinched so violently at her touch that he dropped his pen, splattering ink over the letter he'd been writing. She was so light on her feet he hadn't even heard her get close.

She brushed her lips against his ear.

"Do you really want to know?"

With a groan of impatience, he sat back in his seat, and pressed a knuckle to his forehead.

Juliette smoothed her hand down the front of his shirt, and leaned her chin on his shoulder. On the opposite side of his head, she held up two glasses, and what looked like a small bottle of liquor.

"You smell like blood," he sighed, then added, "this kind of...thing isn't great for our professional -"

Juliette cut him off with a cold hand on his chin, her thumb brushing against his lips. Her nails were lacquered blood red.

Petr sighed heavily, but did not resist as she circled around him, her long and wild hair falling in tangles near his face. It smelled like wildflowers.

He must have been at least twenty years her senior, and he'd worked with all kinds of killers, torturers, and madmen - but he'd never met a more infuriating or unpredictable woman.

She slid into his lap, sultry and beautiful.

Her dress was red, skin-tight, and backless. The kind of thing she only ever wore to absolutely drive him wild.

"You work, I pay you," she murmured, setting the glasses and liquor down on top of his ruined letter, "does it matter what our relationship is?"

He glanced down at her but her expression - as always - was indiscernible to him beyond the calm and pleasant smile of ruby lips, and a cruel shine in honey-brown eyes.

"Oh," Petr said, "are we in a relationship again?"

"I suppose, if you like."

"Well, yes, but -"

"It's Valentines day," Juliette interrupted, her tone a complaint, "no more work! Let's have a drink!"

Damn the woman. It was impossible to have a conversation with her.

Since the day he'd been hired he had been inexplicably drawn to her - though, he thought, no more than any other old butch might be attracted to a young and beautiful femme - and the two of them had shared an on-again off-again spark of an affair.

But he knew better than to romanticize what they shared.

At best, it was a passing fling with the violent sociopath who employed him. At worst…he shuddered to think.

The things she was capable of doing to other human beings was enough to keep him awake at night.

"Yes, it is Valentines Day," he said, looking down at her with a brow raised, "but unfortunately, here in the real world, we still have to work."

Her smile was made rather eerie in the low light of the study, and her slender face was lit dramatically, causing shadows to obscure parts of her face.

He sighed again, and glanced past her to the alcohol she'd brought. Lit from behind, it was easy to see that there was something floating inside the caramel coloured bottle.

He picked it up and squinted. It was some kind of snake, with a scorpion in its mouth. The sight of it made him shudder.

"Dare I ask where you would even find such a thing?"

But she didn't answer, just gave him an enigmatic smile, took the bottle from him, and opened it.

She poured the glasses half-full, and the two of them exchanged a glance, a long, knowing look before taking a drink.

Petr immediately choked on it.

It was bitter, and sour like vinegar, yet with the familiar sting of liquor and a sickly-sweet taste of honey that made him gag. He made a face and wiped his lips on his handkerchief.

Juliette drank hers easily, watching him with intense golden eyes.

"What is this?" He groaned.

"Fermented cobra wine," she said, finishing off her glass and then setting it down, "they say it's a very strong aphrodisiac."

"It's disgusting."

"It's an acquired taste."

"Well, so are you."

Juliette's previously cheeky smile leveled to something closer to subtle sensuality; something calm, and yet, he knew, on the verge of great violence.

Her slender fingers went to his tie.

She wrapped the remaining length of it around her hand and gave a tug to his neck, pulling him down to her, their lips inches apart.

Petr cleared his throat.

"I should - get back to work -" He muttered.

Juliette's thumb pressed into the knot of his tie, and slid it hard against his windpipe. She shook her head and let a long breath pass her lips.

"No more work." she murmured, pulling herself up to straddle his hips, "boss's orders."

Petr's breathing came heavily, he stretched his neck in an attempt to adjust the noose, then wrestled her hand away - taking a moment to get a couple breaths of air.

But despite that, Petr found himself growing more and more dizzy.

Juliette moved from his lap, and sat herself on the edge of the desk, pouring another drink - while Petr started panicking.

He leaned back in his seat, head spinning. In the swimming darkness around them, he swore he saw something moving. He blinked, and it was gone again.

The light blared, harsh and burnt out against his suddenly sensitive eyes. He heard rushing water, felt the pressure of it in his ears. He flinched at the feel of spiders on his arms, was something touching him? No, nothing was there.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue was heavy. He could only manage incoherent mumbles.

"You're not dying," Juliette said casually over the rim of her glass.

She finished her drink slowly as he fell further and further into the effects of whatever drug she'd fed him, then she took his hand and brushed her thumb over his wrist.

His body gave a stiff convulsion at her touch - a touch which he mistook, at first, as something comforting. When he saw her glancing at the clock on the desk, he realized she was only taking his pulse.

"You -" he panted, "-you -"

His wide eyes, flickering around the room in horror, fell again on the bottle of wine which was now almost empty.

The snake and scorpion lay in a sodden pile at the bottom.

Juliette barely glanced at it, and then went back to attending to him. She took off his cuff-links, then rolled his sleeves up over his strained muscles.

"Don't be juvenile," she sighed, "It wasn't in the wine, it was painted on the rim of your glass."

Petr took shuddering, deep breaths, shaking his head.

Thick tendrils of darkness were inching in towards him, just outside of the small sphere of light being cast by the lamp.

Beads of sweat rolled down his neck, they felt like scratching nails of a monster - and he tried to recoil from the direction he thought they were coming from, but when he looked, there was nothing there.

"It's a paralytic - or, it's supposed to be," Juliette explained, her voice thoughtful and low, "but the stronger I make the hallucinations, the weaker the paralyzing effect is, and vice versa. I haven't been able to find the perfect balance yet."

She took the handkerchief from his breast pocket, and dabbed at his forehead and neck - which glistened with perspiration. "Though it seems to put you in such a state of shock, you're unable to move anyway. Hm."

"Stop -" he breathed, "make it st -"

He shook his head again, teeth clenched and jaw set.

He could barely speak, barely breathe.  

All around him the shadows and ghosts drew in closer, raking at him - he heard whispering, laughing voices, the screams of Juliette's victims haunting him there in the darkness.

Even her face, back-lit by the desk lamp, blurred in and out of focus. One moment she was smiling, and the next moment her face was pale and blank, with no eyes nor mouth at all.

Was she still there in the room with him? Was it actually her hand touching him? Was it lipstick on her mouth, or blood? He couldn't trust his eyes.

Juliette leaned in towards him, and tilted his chin with a gentle hand. His gasps for breath had become wheezing pants, and he was lightheaded all over again.

"Oh my, you look quite dashing all sweaty and afraid," she murmured.

"Please -" Petr wheezed, "please - I don't want to-"

"You're not dying," she said again, and then pressed a light kiss to his cracking, dry lips, "and it wasn't a heavy dose."

This assurance did little for him; Petr still strained against himself, terrified, barely breathing, and Juliette watched.

She sat on the edge of the desk, waiting out the rest of his episode in silence. At one point she picked up the bottle, and took a drink directly from it.

For a moment it looked like she was kissing the snake.

He shuddered, but weakly. Slowly, eventually, as the hallucinations faded away into the room, his panic began to subside

Petr blinked away tears that had bubbled up without warning. He was too tired to even be angry at a casual Juliette, who gave him an innocent, pretty smile.

"I quit," he mumbled, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

"No you don't," Juliette laughed, "Water?"

"Please."

By the time she returned to the room with a glass of water and a cool cloth for his face, Petr had moved from the desk to the love seat near the window.

He took a long drink of water as Juliette took a seat next to him. His head was only just clearing, but Petr was tired.

So tired.

Too tired…

His head lolled, and his vision went blurry.

"What - what did you -?" he groaned.

Juliette caught his head and shoulders as he fell against her, and gently guided him to lie down in her lap. She brushed damp hair from his eyes, and smoothed her thumb over his lips.

"You should learn to never accept drinks from me, my darling," she murmured.

"Why...did you…?" Petr mumbled, barely conscious.

Juliette hummed in thought, but gave no answer.

What a maddening woman.

He closed his eyes, and let the drowsiness take him.

[Day 5 // Not Trusting Reality]

[sylibane]

Febuwhump Day 5: Not Trusting Realty

Text from the case board under the cut:

You're losing your grip on reality. (note: A detective should trust the evidence.)

(note: Logan is alive!) You can't -- remem -- your d (note: LOGAN IS ALIVE!)

You should just give up.

You should be better than this.

You let Casey become a monster.

You missed so much about the Cult.

You let Scratch get the Clicker. (note: You almost gave it to him anyway!)

You shouldn't have trusted the pages. (note: THIS IS NONSENSE) (note: It was a lead!)

You just wanted to be a "hero". (note: You left your family for this?!)

You trusted a monster.

This was your home.

Logan died here. (note: She's alive!) (note: You're lying to yourself)

It was your fault. (note: It didn't happen!)

It will always be your fault. (note: I can stop this!)

People know you here.

They know the truth. (note: Who's right, you or everyone else?)

You just want to believe them. (note: Logan is alive!)

Even Casey knows it.

Why don't you believe him? (note: The story's affecting him too!)

[aquinnix]

Febuwhump Day 5 - Not Trusting Reality

It was just the fog. It was getting to him. BigB just needed a bit more sleep, that was all. It was the stress, of course it was getting a little harder to tell which shadows were real. Just adrenaline, natural paranoia, perfectly warranted. 

Nothing to worry about. 

It was just the dry air, making his skin rough like this. He was getting used to the darkness that hung over this place, that’s why it was easier to see, that was the source of this glow. The stiffness in his limbs was nothing, just exhaustion. 

Everything was fine. 

All of this was just an illusion, panicked in the dark, perfectly explainable with a bit of reason. Nothing worth thinking about for more than a second. 

BigB had plenty of experience with illusions. 

He knew how to use them to his advantage. 

He knew how unsettling false reality could be to those who couldn’t see the paint and scaffolding. He knew how to sink into those quick breaths, how to lean into that fear. He knew how to use it as a shield. 

Because he could see the paint, still half wet. 

He could see past that instinct to survive, past those quick conclusions, past that attempt to cope. To be honest, he was surprised he seemed to be the only one. But if everyone else saw bark where there was just dryness, then why would he break that illusion? 

Afterall, no one wanted to mess with the monster in the woods. 

BigB didn’t mind being that monster. 

Because he knew that he wasn’t. He knew that it wasn’t real. He knew it was just an act. 

It wasn’t his fault they got lost in such a small place. 

He should be proud of himself, this was his best trick yet. It was so good that sometimes, when he would see his reflection in the water, even he could see this glowing eye that the others spoke of. 

But of course, he knew it was just an illusion. 

BigB knew the truth. 

He had gotten so good at pretending that he could feel when someone was looking at him, he could feel those eyes like they were stabbing into him. And he didn’t even have to think about stiffening up, it happened automatically now. He was giving Ren a run for his money. 

And if he had a hard time moving under gaze, that was just the act, so believable it had been ingrained into his mind. 

It was just the ripples in the water making all those crooked shapes. 

Just a trick. 

He was in control. 

If there was one thing he could trust in this wild world, it was that, it was himself. 

Surely he was trustworthy. 

[three-bunnies-in-a-trenchcoat]

of another time

Fandom: In Stars and Time

Summary: Loop wakes up back in their original timeline and body, but- that's too good to be true, right?

Day 5: not trusting reality

@febuwhump