#Whumpay2021

[sonoftatooine]

Whumpay 2021

DAY 25: AMNESIA

Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala.

Warnings:  Brainwashing, implied/referenced torture

Summary: Sequel to Day 19 (Winter Soldier AU). Captured by the Rebellion after his failure to kill the Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi, Darth Vader, Imperial enforcer and Sith apprentice to Emperor Palpatine, is visited in his cell by Padmé Amidala, the woman claiming to be his wife.

***

“How are you feeling, Anakin?”

Darth Vader did not move from where he lay, staring blankly up at the ceiling above his cot in the high security cell that the Rebels had placed him in after his failure to eliminate the Jedi, Obi-Wan Kenobi, some weeks ago. She asked him that each time she visited—Padmé Amidala, one of the founders of the Rebellion, and the woman who claimed to be his wife. Everyday, she came to see him, though he could never be quite sure of when her visit would be. She was quite late today—the droids that attended him had already given him his evening meal and his nightly dose of Force suppressants, and he had just reached the stage of feeling vaguely woozy from the renewed sensation of being cut off from his power when he heard the hiss of his cell door opening and closing, and the soft voice that had seemed ever so slightly familiar to him even as he heard it for the first time speaking in soothing, gentle tones. Here. The same as ever.

“I didn't think you were coming today” he said in lieu of an answer. His voice was hoarse and cracked from tiredness—a far cry from the intimidating bass that his mask's vocoder afforded him. It had been slashed in two by Kenobi's saber before he had been brought here. Kenobi, whose smug self assurance had turned to abject horror the moment he had seen his face. Kenobi, who had pleaded with him to remember him as he had tried to get his hands round his throat upon waking up in an unfamiliar cell surrounded by enemies—

“I'm sorry,” Amidala said. There was a rustle of fabric as she moved closer, coming to perch beside him on the cot. “There was some urgent business that I had to attend to. But I'm here now.”

Yes, Vader thought. You are. He turned his head to look at her—though she barely came up to his shoulder when they were both standing, lying prone as he was, she seemed to fairly tower over him. His instinct should be to flinch away, he thought, to keep his distance from his jailer, trapped in this cell as he was. But somehow, it wasn't. There was something, something— Besides, he had neither the will nor the energy to lift a finger, let alone anything else.

That was it. Yes, that was it.

“Are you alright?,” Amidala asked with a frown. “You don't look well.”

Alright? If he had been asked that before his capture by the Rebellion, he thought he could have said what that meant. Alright was a day that he hadn't made his master angry, hadn't brought any punishments on himself—no lightning, no choking, no dark cell. But now, here, everything was getting muddled up in his mind. He couldn't think like this, not when he was cut off from the Force and had no way of knowing lie from truth. She was close—so close—and he wished he could sense her intentions as he could with everybody except his m— No, so that he could escape this place and return to Lord Sidious with the leaders of the Rebellion in tow. That was what he wanted. It was.

And if he hadn't tried as hard as he might have done to escape, well, that was just because the Force suppressants were making him feel strange and it was hard to concentrate or— His eyelids drooped, heavy with exhaustion. He couldn't think about this right now.

“Tired” he replied, then froze. He hadn't intended to say that. Don't admit weakness. Sith don't have weakness. But there was something about Amidala that made him want to trust her, and he was far too exhausted and empty to fight against the urge.

“Did you not sleep well last night?” Amidala asked. Her hand twitched oddly at her side, as if she had instinctively started to reach for him and aborted the action before she could. She looked very sad, but she always looked sad.

“I don't sleep well” she admitted. He'd never slept well, for as long as he could remember. Nightmares plagued him—of his master's punishments, of his missions, and other, more elusive things that left him shaking and crying with terror but could never recall beyond vague impressions of deep darkness and red light and a vicious cackling in his ears once he woke. It was the latter that had haunted him last night, chasing him back into wakefulness whenever his eyelids so much as drooped shut. In the end, he had decided to forgo rest entirely, bundling himself up in the warm robe that Amidala had brought him, and waited for morning to come.

“You never did before, either,” Amidala said. “The war...”

She trailed off, suddenly distinctly misty-eyed. The war. He knew that she meant the Clone War. They told him he had fought in it as a General. A Jedi General. Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker. He had met the man who had claimed to be his captain, briefly. Rex. And the woman who had supposedly been his padawan—Ahsoka Tano. She had cried when she'd seen him, even as she held him back from attacking her.

“I don't remember the war,” he murmured. He knew, vaguely, that he shouldn't be telling her all of this—if she was lying, revealing anything about his situation was only giving her further fodder for her deception, and that wasn't even taking into considering the general principle of not revealing information that could be used against you to your enemies. But there was something, that strong urge in his mind that he could neither identify nor understand, that was telling him he should be honest with her, should trust her. That it was both good and right to do so. Well, Lord Sidious had always said he was far too trusting, that it would be his downfall if his master were not there to prevent it. “My master told me I fought in it.”

He saw her flinch at the word “master”, biting down so hard on her lip he thought she might make it bleed. She looked as if she were about to cry. Of course, he knew what she thought of his master (she was wrong, naturally; his master had done everything for him, she was wrong, she had to be wrong), what she claimed he had done to him. If she was lying, he thought, she must be an excellent actor.

“Is that...all he told you?” She sounded like she was trying to stay calm, but he could hear the tremor in her voice.

“He didn't tell me much about...before,” Vader replied flatly. He had asked, sometimes, but his master didn't like questions. His hands shook at the memory of purple lightning burning through his veins. “He didn't think it was important.”

He certainly hadn't cared to tell him that he had once been a Jedi Knight. Which he wasn't. He had never been a Jedi. He hadn't. He was getting muddled, confused after weeks on end in this cell with no company but various Rebels regarding him with earnest looks and filling his head with equally earnest words about how he had been used and deceived and that they loved him and wanted nothing more than to help him heal from what the Emperor had done to him— No. No, it wasn't true. He wouldn't believe it. He wouldn't betray his master like that—his master to whom he owed everything. Everything. And yet...

And yet. There was something that didn't sit right in all of this. If he had fought in the Clone War as a powerful Force sensitive, surely he must have been a Jedi? If he had been a Republic soldier at least. All the Darksiders that fought in the war, as far as he was aware, had been Separatists. Surely he couldn't have been a Separatist? They had been evil, spreading chaos and carnage across the Galaxy to the point where his master had been forced to create the Empire to restore order and security when the ineffectual Republic proved less than capable, bogged down by its bureaucracy and over-reliance on the Jedi Order. But if neither were true, then surely he couldn't have fought in the war—not in an official capacity at least. But then, that must mean that, whichever way he looked at him, his master had lied to him and if his master had lied to him once—

No. He wouldn't allow himself to consider it. He wouldn't. His master hadn't lied to him. There was a reasonable explanation. There must be. There must be. Biting back the distressed little noise that was building in his throat, he squeezed his eyes shut, twisting his fingers together beneath the sleeves of his robes. His master hated it when he did that—he'd struck him on several occasions when he failed to suppress the nervous gesture—but Amidala didn't seem to mind it.

“Can I get you anything?,” she asked. “Anything that might help—?”

Vader shook his head.

“I don't need anything.”

“But do you want anything?”

The question had his eyes shooting back open as he turned back to stare at her, incredulous. Want anything? Want anything? He wasn't supposed to want things. He wanted what his master wanted, because he was to serve his master in all things and he owed his master everything—it would be low and ungrateful to want more than he was given—

He wanted...

He wanted...

He looked up at Amidala's beautiful face hovering above him, and he wanted more than anything for what she was saying not to be a lie. That he was her husband, that she loved him, and wanted him to be safe and well and protected from any who would try to hurt him—

No.

“I can't—” he gasped out. He could feel the edges of panic coming upon him, and with great difficulty, he forced himself to breathe slow and deep, counting the seconds as he did when these attacks came upon him. His master didn't like it when he— It was weakness and Sith didn't show weakness— He couldn't— “I...I don't know.”

The admission made him feel small and weak and pathetic, but it didn't seem as frightening with her as it would have done with his master. That, despite the fact that he knew it wasn't the answer she wanted, she wouldn't lash out like Lord Sidious did when he was displeased. All she did was smile at him sadly through a film of tears, giving him a tiny, barely perceptible nod.

“That's alright,” she said. “Would you like me to leave you to rest?”

“I...” Vader swallowed. He was suddenly aware of the fact that, faced with the prospect of her leaving, he really did not want her to go. He shouldn't, of course he shouldn't—his master would be so angry if he knew—but he didn't want— He couldn't ask her to— “Will you...will you stay?”

Amidala's eyes widened at the hesitant question, and for one long moment, he was sure he had made a horrible mistake, but then her face split into the first true smile he had seen upon it. Small though it was, and as hesitant as he felt, it seemed to him to be blinding in its intensity.

“Yes, Ani.” She reached out, slowly, carefully to cradle his flesh hand in both of her own. They were small and strong, the warmth of her touch pleasant against his skin. He did not pull away. “Yes, I'll stay with you. Try and get some sleep. I'll be here with you.”

That night, for the first time he could remember, he slept soundly, still holding onto her hand.

[whump-side]

WHUMPAY 2021

Day One: “I thought you were dead.” / “I wish you were dead.”

[sonderwalker]

Whumpay Day 1: I thought you were dead

Anakin gasped for air, forcing his diaphragm to expand against the weight of the derbies that were pushing down against him. Forced himself to take in another steady breath, through the burning pain in his chest from what he was sure were several cracked ribs.

Rebels.

He had been shot down by rebels while out in his TIE fighter, and from there spiralled out of control, crashing into the side of a mountain. He didn’t remember much after that.

There was a warm and wet substance running down the side of his face, and he reached up, fumbling with his helmet before he was able to detach it from the rest of the suit that he wore.

Head wounds always bled a lot. He wasn’t worried.

The mountain was cold, but his suit had a heater in it. He wasn’t worried.

But the rebels, they would be coming for him. He hadn’t expected the attack- he had been assured by Bail that there weren’t any rebels in this sector- which was the whole reason for why he had been diverting the imperial fleet towards this section of the outer rim. By using carefully falsified data, he had been creating a slow and effective diversion. Normally, he wouldn’t have tried something as risky but he hadn’t been given a choice.

Although, there was that lingering thought that perhaps he would have tried it in a past life.

He didn’t have a choice now either way, not with the information of Project Stardust being leaked.

They were running out of time, and he knew it.

Through the force, he could sense as the rebels grew closer and closer, following the path of the wreckage of his ship. But Anakin only lay there, contemplating his next move, and how he could do it with a minimal loss of life.

He could kill all of them. But that would defeat the purpose. He could turn himself in, but that would also defeat the purpose.

He could try to escape, but with broken ribs, a head wound, and almost no supplies, he wouldn’t make it for very long.

The rebels were getting closer, the warning in the force growing even louder as more time passed.

Anakin watched as his breath formed a cloud in front of his face, blending in with the grey sky that was above his head, and the bleak snow that covered the side of the mountain.

And then he called on the force to push the metal off of his chest, before slowly, carefully, sitting up and biting his lip as he did so.

He was out of time, and looked over out towards the forest that stretched before him, down the mountain and towards what he hoped was a village.

He looked back around where he was. The rebels were approaching from the east.

He looked back down, into the forest, wiped the blood off of his face and decided to take the chance.

As far as everyone knew, Anakin Skywalker was dead anyway. No one would know his face.

That’s what he hoped, anyway, until hours later, he ran into someone that was so familiar that it was painful. So familiar that it sucked the air out of his lungs and made him want to do nothing more than sob.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered as her hands went down towards where her sabers were hanging on her belt.

[meantforinfinitesadness]

“I thought you were dead”

Here we go! Day One (1) of Whumpay! The prompt I did for this one was “I thought you were dead”

Read on AO3

@tjfinnigan 

--------

Cody’s foot tapped impatiently on the floor of the landing bay on the Negotiator. To anyone else, it would be a normal thing to see a person do. However, this was Marshal Commander Cody of the 212th Attack Battalion. 

This wasn’t normal.

Cody never tapped his foot in a show of impatience. It just wasn’t something he did. 

“Cody,” Rex mumbled while looking out at the sea of Clones in the same area. “You’re scaring the men.” And it was true. All the men gathered together were watching Cody with worried and concerned expressions. They’d never seen Cody like this.

Cody, upon realizing what he was doing, abruptly stopped the tapping of his foot. “Sorry,” he grunted. “I’m just…”

“You’re ready to see the General.” Rex finished for Cody. “I get it. It’s a natural thing to do, tapping your foot.” Rex reassured him. “He’s been gone for a long time. It’ll be nice to see him.”

Before Cody could respond, the alarm that signaled an incoming ship sounded. 

Cody stiffened and cast his gaze to the shield and saw a ship coming in to land. He resisted the urge to tap his foot again. Instead, he thought about what would be happening in just a few minutes.

With his head filled with thoughts, Cody barely heard Rex shouting orders at the men with them. There was something about Cody being first, but he wasn’t sure.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Cody watched the small ship land. He didn’t run to the ship. He wouldn’t. But, Rex shoved him forward and Cody went with it. He walked until he was sure he wouldn’t be in the way of the ramp when it hissed and opened. 

Anticipation curled in Cody’s gut and he swallowed thickly as the ramp lowered. It was horrible, waiting for it to be lowered. Cody thought he deserved a pat on the back for not vaulting up onto the ramp before it was completely lowered.

Of course, no one stopped him from running up it when it eventually did lower.

Cody ran when he saw Obi-Wan in the opening. He looked...not well. 

He seemed to only be standing because General Skywalker and Commander Tano were supporting him. His eyes were lined with dark circles and Cody couldn’t fathom what other injuries were hiding under the robes. 

Finally reaching the top, Cody’s hands hovered over Obi-Wan. He looked as though a soft breeze would knock him over. He looked…

“Hello there,” Obi-Wan rasped and smiled weakly.

“I…” Cody swallowed thickly and floundered for a moment. “I thought you were dead.” He admits shakily.

“As you can see, I’m not,” Obi-Wan replied. 

“Okay lovebirds,” General Skywalker piped up. “As nice as this reunion is, Obi-Wan nearly did die and is supposed to be resting.”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “Anakin--”

“Master Che said you’d be allowed to rest in your quarters.” Commander Tano says with a teasing smile. 

Obi-Wan blinks then nod. “Lead the way.” The other Jedi snort at the response.

“Cody,” Skywalker says before they attempt to walk down the ramp. “I’m sure Obi-Wan wouldn’t mind your company while he’s on medical leave.”

Obi-Wan sputters at Skywalker’s words and Cody sees a faint blush form on his pale face. “Anakin--”

“I would be honored. As long as General Kenobi is fine with it.”

“Ugh,” Tano responds. “Honestly, this would be a lot better if you two would just kiss already!”

Cody’s face heats up and Obi-Wan’s blush deepens. They both sputter as they struggle to respond. 

“Oh my--just kiss!” Skywalker commands. 

So, they do.

[whumpwillow]

villain whump | mercy

person saving their enemy because I’m a slut for that trope, and also villain whump 

based on this prompt by @hopelesslylost37

Whumpay 2021 Day 7: Mercy / Rage

warnings: torture, whipping, blood, captivity, interrogation (ya know, the usual)

//

Weeks of fighting, investigating, and tracking down leads. Following shady figures through darkened alleys in the dead of night. Rainy evenings spent searching. Sleepless as they waded through information and sightings and false leads. Hero worked tirelessly, never stopping to rest until they knew Villain was behind bars. They’d sleep when the city was safe—such was the life of a hero.

Finally, everything culminated in the capture of one of the city’s most notorious villains, and the heroes could breathe again.

But only for a moment.

The hunt was not yet over, as Villain had accomplices all over. Too many acquaintances more than likely involved with the vast criminal empire that spread throughout the city like poisonous nettle, choking out whatever was good and pure.

They had Villain in their possession, now all they had to do was get the information out of them. Get them to spill their secrets. Give up the names and places the heroes needed to put an end to all of this.

Once it was all over, the citizens could rest assured in a place vastly more crime-free than in recent weeks. It would just take some more effort, a little more work. Perhaps another all-nighter. Hero found themselves wanting to make this process as difficult as possible just to spite Villain—after all, didn’t they deserve a little revenge for all the struggles the villain had put them through?

It was a petty desire, but one Hero was too tired to push away.

They prepared by picking up a book on interrogation techniques, spending time reading how to phrase questions and drag out silences so Villain would be more willing to talk or could be tricked into it. They weren’t especially gifted in charisma or wordplay, no, that was Villain’s department. Villain always had a quip, a snarky comment, or a witty retort on hand for every situation that came about. Hero knew that Villain was deeply intelligent aside from being a sarcastic pain in the ass, they just wished Villain wasn’t so…good at it.

It made tricking them that much harder. Hero wasn’t sure they could manage, but they tried their best to practice what they were going to say and how to respond to whatever question or comment Villain would make.

The heroes had captured Villain over a month ago and Hero still hadn’t been down to visit them. Things had been hectic at the base, never a dull moment to be found. Thankfully, their friend, Other Hero, had been working on interrogating Villain and seemed to be producing a few results. Not as many as they needed, but in the last week or so Other Hero had gotten some names and safehouse locations out of Villain. Hero wondered if Other Hero had read up on interrogation techniques as well, or perhaps they just had a secret gift for intimidating people.

Hero laughed at that last thought—Other Hero was about as scary as chihuahua. Taller than one for sure, but too straight-laced to ever seem like a threat. Charisma, maybe. That had to be it—though Hero was by far the more talkative of the pair.

They supposed if Other Hero could get info from Villain, then they would have no problem. Hero arranged a trip to visit Villain in their holding cell, and after a few days of waiting for proper permissions—first time visits, and all, with Villain being such a high-priority captive—they found themselves at the doorway, staring in shock and horror at the scene before them.

“What…what are you doing…?” Hero whispered, their hand slowly rising to their mouth.

Other Hero with a whip, gleefully using it to strike their captive. Villain dangled limply from bruised wrists bound in chains. Their head slumped forward onto their chest, sweaty hair obscuring their face.

Blood. So much blood.

Other Hero spun around once they realized they were being watched and held up hands dripping crimson. They smiled sheepishly, as if they’d been caught stealing cookies from the kitchen and not torturing a living person.

“Oh, hello Hero,” Other Hero said. “Come to help with the interrogation? It’s about time.”

Hero’s eyes widened and they couldn’t help taking a step back from Other Hero’s unhinged grin.

“How could you do something like this?” they said, shaking their head, as if that would clear away the gruesome image.

Other Hero looked back at Villain, who mumbled incoherently, then at Hero, who’s heart thumped against their chest.

“I was only trying to help…you know how helpful the information has been. We’re ridding the city of evil, right?”

You’re the evil.

The thought struck Hero like a blow to the head and they swallowed their emotions down. They took a step into the room, into the horrendous scene of blood and pain and torment. It smelled like despair; the air was oppressive and thick.

Hero had seen Other Hero torturing Villain. Whipping them over and over until Hero said something just to make it stop. They weren’t doing this for the information. Hero wondered if that even mattered to them at all. They were doing this for bloodlust. For enjoyment. It wasn’t right. Villain didn’t deserve this no matter what they’d done in the past. Being a hero meant showing mercy to their enemies, not torturing them within an inch of their life. Apparently, Other Hero didn’t share the sentiment.

Hero had wanted revenge on Villain for all the work they made the heroes do, all the exhaustion this mission had caused them��but not like this. This was more than petty spite, this was blatant cruelty.

Other Hero shrugged, picking the whip back up. “Villain was a bit difficult at first—lashing out, struggling…but with a little work, he’s starting to cooperate.” Other Hero rolled their shoulders and moved their neck back and forth. “My arms sure are sore though, hm.”

Hero moved over to stand in front of Villain. They looked over their shoulder at Other Hero.

“I’ll take it from here then,” they said, hoping Other Hero would listen. Would leave them alone to deal with this mess.  

“Here,” Other Hero handed Hero the whip, still dripping fresh blood. “Take this.”

Hero gulped and took it, willing their hands not to shake. Other Hero gave them another smile, one that seemed so normal, as if nothing was wrong, and then left. Hero dropped the whip the second the door closed.

Villain groaned and Hero looked them over. Bruised and littered with wounds, they were a broken thing. Had this been going on since they’d been captured? Hero shivered at the thought. Weeks of…this. Hero couldn’t imagine it.

They bent down so they could see Villain’s face without them having to move their head. Their eyes widened when they met Hero’s, registering a new face and likely wondering if it meant someone new to hurt them. So full of terror and pain.

“I won’t hurt you,” Hero said, unsure if their reassurances would mean anything to the villain. “I’m going to help. Don’t worry.”

They were going to fix this…somehow.

—

[pandora15]

Whumpay 2021 Day 2 Prompt: Touch Starved

The exile was not doing any favors for Obi-Wan.

Never had Qui-Gon felt so useless, being unable to do anything more than watch his former Padawan suffer alone, after losing everything and everyone.

It was…painful to watch.  But it was all Qui-Gon could do, all any of them could do.  The other Jedi who watched along with him—the ones who have fallen, just like Qui-Gon did so long ago—were heartbroken to see what had become of Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan—who gave so much of himself and more during the war, who deserved all the peace and happiness the galaxy could offer him—was completely alone, completely broken.

In the three years that passed since Order 66, since the Empire, Qui-Gon watched his Padawan grow more and more despondent.  A Jedi was never meant to be alone, but now—

Qui-Gon watched as Obi-Wan lifted his mug of precious water to his lips with trembling hands.  He watched as the mug slipped out of Obi-Wan’s fingers, colliding harshly with the table and shattering before depositing itself onto the sandy ground, the water spreading itself across the sand instantly.

Obi-Wan’s breath hitched.

“Obi-Wan—” Qui-Gon tried, but it was no use, and he knew it.

Obi-Wan couldn’t hear him.  Not like this, and not now.

That didn’t stop Qui-Gon from reaching a hand forward, from putting a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

His stomach clenched as his hand passed through Obi-Wan’s form, just like it did all the other times Qui-Gon tried to comfort him.

He only wanted Obi-Wan to know he was not alone, and yet—

Obi-Wan shuddered, sinking to his knees next to the shattered mug with a harsh exhale, bowing his head.  His shoulders trembled.

From somewhere behind him, Qui-Gon heard Shaak Ti’s sharp intake of breath, along with Mace’s quiet sigh.  The Jedi all around him were desperate to somehow tell Obi-Wan that he was not alone, that they were all right here for him, but Obi-Wan could not see them.

Qui-Gon’s mouth snapped shut, and the hut lapsed into silence.

Then, there was the sound of Obi-Wan’s quiet, muffled cries.

(Pandora’s Whumpay 2021 Masterlist)

[anthemxix]

whumpay day 11: "don't touch me!" / "don't leave me."

request from @wolfwarden: I’d be really interested to see day eleven with Warriors (and maybe Time/Mask involved?).

Sooo I've been working on a multi-chapter fic about Warriors and Mask/Time for a while now. This prompt fit with a scene I had in mind, so I took the opportunity to write it. I hope that's okay! Still works as a self-contained story, I think. :) Hope you all enjoy~

warning: aftermath of torture

The rusted lock and warped wooden door surrender to the Fierce Deity’s boot with no resistance, and he steps into the dark chamber, tracking bloody footprints across the stone floor. As his pitiless gaze lands on the figure against the back wall, he stiffly halts, deterred by an unfamiliar tugging on his consciousness.

The child is trying to regain control.

Fierce Deity blinks, maybe feeling something akin to surprise. The child needn’t struggle so ardently. With all proximal threats vanquished, the presence of a war god is no longer required.

As soon as the mask is removed, the child reappears in a swirling cloak of magic. Mask is instantly overwhelmed by the room’s rancidity, the stenches of blood, sweat, and grime mixing with mildew and rotting wood. The chamber is poorly-lit, half of its lanterns extinguished, and the remaining dim, flickering flames cast odd shadows across the ghastly sight before him.

With hands and ankles bound, the Captain is on his knees, limp and sagging in the metal collar that chains him to the wall. Sluggish rivulets of red wind down his neck and bare chest, and ribbons of blood and saliva dangle from his mouth. Mask edges closer, grimacing at the scabbed lacerations that crisscross the Captain’s back, at the exposed and irritated nailbeds on his fingers, at his bruised and swollen shoulders.

“Captain…?” Mask chokes out. “Captain? Are…are you awake?”

Tentatively, he reaches out to press his fingers to the Captain’s neck, searching for a pulse, but the Captain jerks away from his touch, grumbling something incoherent.

“Captain, it’s m-me. It’s Mask.”

He reaches out again, smudging the blood on the Captain’s neck as the older hero again flinches away.

“Don’t,” the Captain groans. He sounds agonized and exhausted, and it carves fissures into Mask’s heart.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself, swallowing as he glances around the room. “Keys. There’s gotta be keys for…”

The only furnishings in the room are a shoddy chair and table, both looking liable to splinter under pressure. Reticent, Mask moves toward the table and tries to ignore the stained implements haphazardly tossed there—dagger, pliers, skewers—as he hunts for keys to the shackles. The longer it takes, the more his concern burgeons, as he worries he will have to retrace the path Fierce Deity took. One of the captors might have the keys, and Mask isn’t keen on rooting through the pockets of dead people, especially ones that died by his own hand…

Then he spots the key ring, antique and shabby like everything else here, and a surge of excitement urges him forward—but he freezes, staring at the chipped bowl beside them.

It contains broken, bloody fragments of teeth.

Nausea sweeps over him. Mask swipes up the keys and bolts back to the Captain, his hands shaking as he tests each key in each lock and chucks aside both sets of manacles with a resounding clatter. The skin on the Captain’s wrists and ankles is chafed and blistered, glistening with pus, and Mask struggles to block out images of the atrocities the Captain must have endured over the past week.

Last to come unfastened is the collar, and Mask’s relief is overtaken by horror as he discovers the short spikes ringing the inside of it, leaving behind their bloody mirror image on the Captain’s neck, and he tries not to remember the generals and the queen wasting time on bullshit debates, all while the Captain was here praying for a rescue he would have assumed was imminent—

With no restraints to support him, the Captain collapses into Mask’s arms, grunting in pain, and Mask feels lost, feels severely underequipped to handle this situation in any sense.

Arms trembling, the Captain attempts to worm out of Mask’s hold, and the kid reacts swiftly, easing his friend up and into a sitting position, leaning his weight against the wall.

“Captain, it’s okay now,” Mask asserts, false confidence in his tone. “It’s me. Those people are— They’re not here anymore. You’re not gonna get hurt anymore.”

At last, the Captain cracks his eyes open, taking a moment to register the person crouched in front of him. Blood dribbles from his mouth when he mumbles gibberish.

“I-it’s okay. Don’t talk. I’m gonna help you, okay? And then we’re gonna get out of here.”

The Captain licks his chapped lips, reminding Mask to pull out his waterskin. He holds it up and helps the Captain drink, hoping he’s not ingesting too much blood, or any spare bits of teeth.

When he’s finished drinking, he draws in a deep breath, wincing, and rasps, “Real?”

“…Wh-what?”

It takes a moment, but he eventually croaks, “You. Real?”

Mask’s stomach lurches. “Am I…real?” The Captain watches him silently, motionlessly, without expression. “I— Yeah. Yeah, I’m real.”

This avowal earns only a languid blink.

Mask bites his lip. “Hey, y-your shoulders are, uh. Dislocated, I think. Can I check?”

Not expecting an answer, he cups his hands around one of the joints as gently as he can. The Captain twitches, makes an awful, pained whimper as Mask conducts a careful examination.

Given how swollen and tender the shoulder is, Mask hesitates to pop it back in place—but it will be two or more days before they can reach a field hospital. Leaving it untreated seems unwise.

“I’m going to try and fix your shoulder.”

He aligns the bones and successfully pushes the joint together; the Captain grunts, winces. Mask moves to his friend’s other side, but as he settles his hands on his shoulder, the Captain wheezes, “Hurts.”

“I know,” Mask whispers. “I’m sorry.” His mouth twists as he studies the fresh blood still leaking from the Captain’s mouth and some of the shallow punctures on his neck. “I’ll do the other shoulder later. Let me find something for your, um, other injuries, okay?”

Tottering to his feet, Mask frowns as he glances around the gloomy chamber, which clearly has a single purpose. He doubts he’ll find medical supplies in here. “Look, I’m prob’ly gonna have to go somewhere else for bandages and stuff, but I’ll be right back.”

The Captain mutters something muddled again, and Mask offers a small smile that he hopes is somehow reassuring. He’s halfway to the exit, smashed remnants of the door scattered nearby, when the Captain calls out, strained and broken, “Don’t leave me.”

It takes Mask a moment to compose himself before turning towards the older hero. He forces his voice to stay level. “I have to go find things to treat your injuries. But I’ll be back really soon, okay?”

There are others who would leave him, Mask thinks spitefully, which is why he’s here alone now, on a solo rescue mission. There are so many cowards who left the Captain, despite all the sacrifices he’s made for his people, to suffer and die.

Mask recements his resolve. He has to stay strong so he can bring his friend—his brother—safely home.

Without effort this time, his voice is steady and sure. “I’ll be back soon, Captain. I would never leave you.”

[whumpingcrow]

CW: PTSD themes, mention of flashbacks, knives, self mutilation, blood

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

Whumpee had been asked to put the clean dishes away. They had been sitting around for days, a shell of the person they once were, stare vacant and body eerily still for too long. So Caretaker asked for help with the dishes. Something to keep them busy, they thought, something to give them something to do besides sit and fester in the flashbacks.

But Caretaker had forgotten about the knives.

They left the kitchen for five, ten minutes tops, they were just going out to take out the trash. They said they would be back, and they left. And Whumpee found two sharp steak knives sitting in the dishwasher, the harsh light of the kitchen glaring back at them in the clean reflection. They think, Caretaker wanted me to see these. They wanted me to pick them up and to use them. And then they think, you've been sitting around with it way too good for days, you deserve this. You know you deserve this. They get to work immediately, they don't want to wait anymore to feel some of the familiarity of the pain, they don't want to think anymore.

Five, maybe ten minutes pass before Caretaker comes back and finds Whumpee, pale and trembling, their hands dripping blood into the empty sink. Their panic blown eyes meet Caretaker's own and they look, for a moment, like they're horrified of the person who's been helping them, who has given them no reason to be scared.

"Whumpee!" They cry abruptly, grabbing a towel as they rush toward them. "What did you do?!" They don't allow Whumpee to scramble away from them, instead taking their wrist and holding them still as they begin wrapping the towel tightly around both of their mutilated hands.

Whumpee says nothing, they simply watch their own disgusting, pitiful blood stain the grey towel a deep red. They didn't deserve to be cleaned up yet. They deserved to bleed out until they woke up on the floor hours later, maybe the next day, and then possibly they might be allowed to wash the dried blood away. Possibly. But Caretaker is already so angry, so they stay as still as they can despite their shaking and simply watch through tears as they are cleaned and bandaged.

[actress4him]

Whumpay Day 26 -

“Don’t hurt them” | “Don’t hurt me”

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Fandom: Original work

Warnings: mild blood, implied torture, capture, self-sacrifice (no death)

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“Please…” 

Villain towered over him, casting a dark shadow across his prone form. A didn’t move from his spot, though. Wouldn’t move. Not unless Villain killed him first.

“Please, don’t hurt him.”

A wide, evil smile spread across Villain’s face. “How absolutely precious. So touching, really. But tell me...I have not one, but two of you right here, weak and vulnerable, mine for the taking. Why in the world wouldn’t I take advantage of that?”

A bent further over his friend, raking trembling fingers through his hair. B was just so still. Eyes closed, face slack. A trickle of blood still ran down his temple and stained the dirt. 

“I’ll come with you,” A whispered. “I-I’ll do anything you want. Just, please. Leave him alone.”

“Such a generous offer.” Villain crouched, arms propped across his knees. “Here’s my counter. I take both of you, and if you don’t want me hurting him, you have to keep cooperating, long term.”

He snapped his fingers, and more enemy soldiers appeared. Before A could react, he was yanked up off of B, his arms wrenched behind his back and cuffed together. Others were reaching for B, picking him up off the ground, leaving his head lolling. 

“Don’t, don’t you dare...swear to me that you won’t -”

Villain stepped forward and grasped A’s chin in his fingers, and A hastily blinked away the tears that had formed. “I solemnly swear to you, if you’re a good little boy and do exactly as I say, I will not lay a finger on your poor, pitiful friend.”

It would have to be enough. A went limp, allowing himself to be dragged away.

[whumpay]

Well, the poll has spoken. If you have suggestions for prompts, you can send an ask or put in a submission here. Thanks I’m advance.

[sonoftatooine]

Whumpay 2021

DAY 19: HOPE / DESPAIR

Finally, this one took ages

Characters: Padmé Amidala, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker

Warnings: Brainwashing

Summary: Winter Soldier AU - Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker disappeared from the face of the Galaxy the day Palpatine executed Order 66. Padmé Amidala, however, managed to escape from Coruscant when the Empire was formed and became a founding member of the Rebellion. Several years later, when Obi-Wan Kenobi manages to capture the Emperor’s infamous Sith apprentice, Darth Vader, Padmé is left to deal with the horrifying discovery of what happened to her husband at the fall of the Republic.

***

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Padmé Amidala, former Senator of Naboo and member of the High Council of the Rebel Alliance, frowned down at the screen displaying the flickering vid feed of her lost husband in the room adjacent to the high security—or as high security as their current base could afford them—cell in which he was being held.  She had been stood there for at least ten minutes, hovering, waiting, and in all of that time, Anakin had not so much as twitched—so much so that she might have been fooled into thinking that she was looking at a still image if not for the rise and fall of his chest and the occasional blink. It was so unlike him—her restless husband, always on the move, but who had always come back to her until the day that he didn't—that it made her eyes burn with the effort to hold back tears. This was wrong, so wrong—

“Yes, Obi-Wan, I'm sure” she said once she was sure she could bite back the sharp reply that was on the tip of her tongue that the man beside her didn't at all deserve. Of course she was sure. How could she not be sure, when this was her husband—the man she loved with all the force of a thousand stars—at stake? She had to.

“You don't have to, Padmé.” Stood beside her, arms folded over his chest, and tired blue eyes fixed as unrelentingly on Anakin's frozen figure as her own, Obi-Wan Kenobi sighed, his mouth curved downwards in an unhappy line. Grief had aged him badly since the horrors of Order 66 and the beginnings of Palpatine's Empire. There were new lines around his eyes, and his auburn hair was fast turning white, but the change over those years was not nearly as stark as that which had been wrought upon him over the past few days. He looked raw and worn down, no matter how he tried to disguise it with his regular stoicism, as if he was on the verge of being swallowed by despair. Ever since the Empire had come for him on his last mission. Ever since they had managed to capture the Emperor's enforcer, Darth Vader.

Vader. Lord Vader. The name sent a shiver of horror through her, but not for the reasons that it once had. Before, she had known him simply as the latest in what seemed to be Darth Sidious' ever replenishing supply of Sith apprentices, and one of the most troubling additions to the Empire's ranks. Robed and masked entirely in black, without even the slightest indication to what lay beneath his impenetrable disguise, he had been a complete unknown to all but Palpatine himself—Empire and Rebellion alike—save for the brutal efficiency with which he carried out his duties. They had watched the Emperor's transmission introducing him to the Galaxy—her and Obi-Wan and Bail, while Luke and Leia slept soundly in their cribs watched over by Threepio and Artoo—from their bunker about a year after the Empire was formed. Padmé remembered seeing him, standing tall and motionless, three steps behind his master, and had felt a frisson of fear and misery run through her that she hadn't quite understood at the time.

She understood now. Oh Force, she thought as the image of Anakin, swamped in black robes and strapped, unconscious, to a gurney, and Obi-Wan's anguished look as he gasped out “he doesn't remember us; he doesn't even remember who he is”, swam through her mind. Oh Force, she understood now.

“Yes, I do,” she said, with a nod that looked far more decisive than she felt. She clutched the pile of warm cloaks and blankets that she had brought with her tight to her chest. Anakin had always hated the cold, and she couldn't bear the thought of him all alone in that cell without at least making sure he was as comfortable as possible. “He's my husband. I want to see him.”

She wanted to see him ever since they had brought him off the ship, ever since she had been dragged away from Coruscant by a harried Obi-Wan and Bail, crying and begging for them to take her back, that they needed to find Anakin, they couldn't leave him there. Anakin who she had last seen standing to the right of the Chancellor during the meeting of the Delegation of the 2000, hands bundled into the voluminous sleeves of his Jedi robes and not quite able to meet her eyes. Who had been sent by the Council to report to Palpatine the day of Order 66, and had never been seen since.

Until now.

“Padmé, he tried to attack me when I went to talk to him,” Obi-Wan reminded her grimly. “Ahsoka too. He doesn't remember any of us. All he knows is what Sidious has made him believe. What if he hurts you?”

Padmé shook his head.

��He won't hurt me” she whispered. He wouldn't hurt her. Anakin would never— But she didn't think he could ever have tried to hurt Obi-Wan either. Or Ahsoka. But he didn't remember any of them, because Sidious had taken him and forced him to forget everything, turned him into his weapon— She was shaking, full of rage and grief, but she pushed them both down. It was alright now. It would have to be alright. He was with the Rebellion now and they would heal him of whatever vile Sith had done to him and then he could meet their two precious children and everything would be alright—

“Padmé.” She thought, faintly, that Obi-Wan had managed to hone saying her name in a tone of utmost exasperation and frustration to a fine art. No doubt Anakin had given him a great deal of practice in the past. “He's not the Anakin we know. Not anymore.”

This time, it took a great deal more effort for her to swallow her harsh retort. Obi-Wan had given up hope a long time ago—the night of Order 66 when his bond to Anakin had snapped. He had thought him dead, and blamed himself for it—the Council had pushed him into spying on Palpatine, he had said, and he was sure that Anakin had discovered the man's secret and been killed for it. She remembered how he had looked, blurred through her tears as they rushed through hyperspace away from Coruscant—dishevelled and worn, the telltale signs of his battle with Grievous burnt into his Jedi robes, and a haunted look in his eyes, misted up with tears that he refused to let fall. He had come back from his last visit to Anakin's cell much the same, convinced that his old padawan had died with whatever it was that Palpatine had put him through, that what was left was nothing but a shell of the man he had loved as a brother.

(It still hadn't stopped him from abruptly ending a call with Yoda when the old Jedi Grandmaster had suggested “lost to the Dark, young Skywalker is; let him go, you should”.)

“I don't believe that,” she said. She had never believed Anakin to be dead. Refused to believe it, told Luke and Leia all sorts of stories about their brave and dashing father that she saw so much of in each of them, hoping beyond hope that one day he would be there to share his own stories with them. She wasn't about to give up now, when he was here—finally here, in front of her, no matter how changed, and no matter what Jedi platitudes about letting go she heard. “We can save him. I know we can.”

She turned her pleading gaze to Obi-Wan, but he refused to meet her eyes. He was still staring at the screen, and though his expression was blank, she could see the longing in his gaze—longing and fear. Fear that he would get his hopes up when nothing could be done. Fear that she would get hurt trying. Padmé sighed sadly. Obi-Wan may have given up hope, but she wasn't about to let him fall into despair.

“Obi-Wan, you'll be here the whole time,” she said, softly, soothingly. “I have faith that you'll protect me, if need be.”

Obi-Wan scowled, finally turning to look at her, but there was a hint of something gentle and fond beneath it.

“The pair of you will be the death of me” he sighed. It was barely a ghost of how he had been before, when they had all been together and happy and none of them had been brainwashed into becoming a Sith, but it was familiar enough that Padmé couldn't help but send him a watery smile.

“Please, Obi-Wan, I'm ready.”

Reluctantly, Obi-Wan nodded.

“I'll be just on the other side of the door.”

Despite her words, Padmé's heart felt like it might burst out of her chest as she stepped into Anakin's cell, the pneumatic hiss of the door closing behind her reverberating in her ears like a threat. She was not afraid. At least, she was not afraid of the figure sitting, head bowed, on the little cot in front of her—he had not attacked any of his visitors since the two Jedi; indeed, had barely acknowledged them, enough so that the High Council had deemed it as safe as it would ever be for her to see him—but she was afraid of what would happen next. Of what she would learn from this meeting. Of looking into her husband's eyes and finding him unrecognisable. But Padmé was never one to shy away from things that made her afraid, and so she took a deep breath, and murmured:—

“Anakin.”

No response.

“I brought these.” She gestured to the robes and blankets in her arms. “I thought you might be cold.”

That got a reaction from him. Slowly, jerkily, as if his head were being lifted up by a string, he turned his face towards her. The sight of him made her want to scream—scream and cry and hold him in her arms and never let go. He looked sick and gaunt, and the change from golden tan to waxy white looked even more stark under the bright lights of the cell, the circles under his eyes dark like bruises. And his eyes, oh his eyes. The sparkling blue that she remembered—had loved and missed so much for all that she saw it every day in the face of their son—had been replaced with the same horrible yellow that she had seen deep set in the sunken face of Emperor Palpatine, gleaming cruelly under the shadow of his hood, during Empire Day transmissions. But that wasn't even the worst of it. Anakin's eyes had always been so expressive, brimming with love and joy and fear and anger and grief, as if he felt too much and too deeply to keep it all inside. It was one of the things that she loved about him. Now, however, he turned those sickly eyes to her and she saw nothing in them but blankness. For the first time in his life, Anakin Skywalker looked upon her and he felt nothing.

Padmé swallowed, fighting back the urge to cry. She wanted to run to him, bury her fingers in his hair and press her lips to his as she used to do each time he came home to her from the war, but, with what felt like a monumental effort, she pushed the desire away. That wasn't what Anakin needed right now, no matter how much she wanted it. Instead, she waited for him to reply, waited for some sort of acknowledgement—anything to indicate what she should do, what she should say.

None came.

She sighed. Stepping forward, she leaned down and placed the pile of clothes next to him on the bed, trying to keep her heart from shattering into a thousand pieces at the tiny flinch he gave as she approached him. Carefully, so as not to startle him, she pulled back, coming to a stop once she was far enough away for him to relax minutely. Hot tears burnt at her eyes.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked, wishing that her voice did not sound so shaky, so thick with emotion. Anakin had always had a way of bringing out absolute honesty in her—even when she didn't even know she was trying to hide something—and now, confronted with her husband whom she hadn't seen in years, and who had spent every day of those long years suffering under the man who had enslaved the entire Galaxy to his will, all her politician's training, all her masks and airs had fled her. Even if she had wanted to, she couldn't have done a thing to hide her feelings from him.

Anakin frowned.

“You are Padmé Amidala,” he answered tonelessly. His voice was as dead and as flat as the look in his eyes. He sounded hoarse and tired, like he used to after waking up from a particularly bad nightmare. Like he had when he had when he had dreamt of her death in childbirth, only a week before he had disappeared, before she had run and left him— “One of the founders of the Rebellion.”

“That's right,” she said, with a nod that she wasn't sure was meant to encourage him or herself. “Do you— Is there anything else you remember about me?”

She knew it would be no. She knew he remembered nothing. But she wanted so badly for him to remember at least something of her. Wanted to know that Sidious hadn't taken everything from him. No matter what she wanted, though, she knew what his answer would be. Knew it and feared it.

“I understand that it's more usual for an interrogator to ask their prisoner for information,” Anakin replied. He tilted his head to the side, the expression on his face somewhere between confused and wary. “Not questions about themselves.”

He didn't sound like Anakin. Or rather, he sounded like Anakin—his voice sounded like Anakin, but the words, said in that flat, dull tone— It was wrong, all wrong. Oh my love, Padmé thought. My love, what has that monster done to you?

“I'm not interrogating you, Anakin” she said. She fought keep her voice steady and calm, even as she wanted nothing more than to burst into tears. Anakin's frown deepened, a look of suspicion flitting across his face.

“Why does everyone keep calling me that?” he asked, and for the first time, there seemed to be a hint of something else in his flat tone, a hint of uncertainty, of apprehension. His hands twitched, like he wanted to twist his fingers together like he used to do beneath the sleeves of his Jedi robes when he was nervous. Instead, he balled them tight into fists.

Padmé sent him a watery smile.

“It's your name, Ani.”

My Ani, she thought, watching him twitch oddly at the contraction of his name, turning sharply away. Her Ani who didn't even remember his own name. Oh, what was she going to do. How could she help him when he remembered nothing—nothing about his friends, nothing about her, nothing about himself—and they didn't even know what it was that Palpatine had done to him to cause this? She felt despair rushing in on her like a shark that had scented blood in the water, but she pushed back against it. She couldn't given in now. For Anakin's sake, she couldn't give up hope.

“How much has Obi-Wan told you?” she asked carefully. It was a risk mentioning Obi-Wan—a Jedi, a man he had ostensibly been sent to kill before the Rebellion had captured him—but she needed to know how much he had actually taken in.

Yellow eyes flicked back to her, the wariness and suspicion turning his expression even more closed off and guarded than it had been before.

“He told me I was once his Jedi apprentice,” he replied. “But I suppose you'll claim that I was your closest friend in the Senate. Or have you had the chance to corroborate your stories since Kenobi's last visit?”

The harshness of his words—as much as their content—made it all the harder to hold back her tears. Anakin had hardly ever spoken to her like that, was hardly ever sharp with her. Around her, perhaps, when he was particularly upset or frustrated, but rarely with her. It was yet another reminder of what had been done to him—the changes Sidious had forced upon him, as if he were nothing but a droid to be reprogrammed according to an owner's desire. Well, she would fix it, she would help him, and she would never let that vile man near him again. But to do that, she would have to get him to believe her, and for him to believe her, she—

“I'm not lying to you,” she insisted. “I promise you. It's Palpatine—Sidious—who has lied to you. You were a Jedi—have been since you were nine years old. Near the end of the war, the Council was concerned about the powers Palpatine had gathered for himself and sent you to report on him. But you— They sent you to his office the day he ordered the Jedi killed and then you disappeared. The Jedi thought you were dead, but he took you and he did something to you and you don't remember it because—”

“No.”

The sharp growl silenced her rambling mid-sentence. Her mouth clicked shut and her eyes widened as Anakin stood abruptly from the bed, his expression as hard as durasteel. Padmé swallowed, a flicker of nervousness fluttering in her stomach that she ruthlessly pushed down. She wondered if Obi-Wan was getting ready to dash into the cell from the other side of the door, afraid that he was about to attack her. But she refused to share that fear. She had never been afraid of Anakin, and she never would.

“No,” Anakin repeated, more softly this time. Instead of starting towards her, he prowled away to the far corner of the cell, back not quite turned to her—just enough to keep her in his line of sight—and hunched in on himself, arms crossed defensively across his chest. It was such a familiar gesture that, despite herself, Padmé couldn't help but feel a sliver of relief at the sight of it. Whatever Sidious had done to him, he hadn't managed to chase every last part of him from his mind. “My master warned me about this,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “He told me that you would try to deceive me, turn me against him—”

“He's the one deceiving you!,” she cried, trying to ignore worm of uneasiness in her stomach at the thought of the Emperor warning her husband against the Jedi and the Rebellion—or perhaps her specifically. If she could just get him to see, just get him to believe— “I don't know what he's done to you but please, Anakin, all we want is to help you. All I want is to help you. But to help you, I need you to believe me—”

She approached him, slowly, cautiously, as one might a wounded animal. His gaze fixed on her the whole way, wary, unrelenting, but he did not move, frozen to the spot. She itched to reach out to him, to pull him in and hold him close, but she wrestled the urge down to the depths of her heart.

“Please, Ani,” she begged, barely a whisper. “Please.”

Anakin stared down at her, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flash of blue in those yellow eyes.

“You haven't told me who you are,” he said, after a long moment of silence. His tone was guarded, cautious, just as quiet as her own. “Who you were to me. If what you say is true, what did I mean to you?”

Everything, Padmé thought. You meant everything to me. You mean everything to me. You and Luke and Leia. And one day, I'll be able to have them meet their father and you'll mean everything to them too. Her heart, too full of love and fear and hope and despair, ached in her chest, snatching up all her words before they could reach her mouth. How could she say all of this to him? How could she say any of this to him, when he barely believed she was telling him the truth about his name?

“You're—”

She faltered, unsure what to do. Would it be too much for him, finding out that he was married to a woman he didn't even remember? But what could she say? She couldn't lie to him—wouldn't lie to him. She wanted him to trust her again, like he used to before everything had gone so wrong, and how could they ever help him if they too deceived him?

“I'm...I...I'm your wife.”

Anakin froze stock still.

“...What?” he whispered hoarsely.

“It's true.” Padmé could no longer stop herself. She reached out slowly with both hands, making to smooth down his hair—it had always calmed him down after a nightmare; maybe if he accepted the truth, it might soothe him a little now? He gave an odd little jerk at the contact, his tongue darting out nervously to wet his lips, but he didn't pull away, still frozen to the spot, staring down at her with wide eyes. “Please believe me. It's true. I'm your wife—”

“No,” Anakin cut across her again. This time, however, his eyes had not hardened, and he could see the uncertainty creeping into them. His voice shook. “No, you're a liar.”

His hand—the one of durasteel that she had held at their wedding after he lost it to Count Dooku—darted up to snatch her wrist. But instead of shoving her right away, he held her in place, her hand hovering between them, arm extended towards him, as if he could not decide whether to push her aside or pull her closer. Padmé stared into his eyes, vaguely aware that Obi-Wan was probably panicking by now on the other side of the door. She could feel the strength in his grip, well acquainted with what his mechno hand could do. He had been horribly embarrassed when he had managed to crush several of her cups after their wedding, still unused to the amount of force his prosthetic required compared to his flesh hand. If he wanted to, he could tighten his grip now and crush her just as he had those cups, shatter every bone in her wrist. But he did not press down. He didn't even so much as grip hard enough to bruise.

“I'm not,” she cried—really cried, the tears she had been holding back starting to trickle down her cheeks. “I swear to you—”

“You didn't corroborate your stories after all,” Anakin retorted. “I could hardly have been a Jedi and a husband.”

Padmé shook her head, blinking heavily to keep the tears from blurring her vision. It would be alright, she told herself. She could persuade him. His voice was not nearly so certain as his words, and if she could just explain properly—

“You broke the Code to marry me,” she said. “We kept it secret, so you could stay as a Jedi and I could keep serving in the Senate until the war was over—”

“How convenient” Anakin returned, perhaps not as derisively as he had intended. He still hadn't let go of her wrist.

Padmé shook her head again, more insistently this time. She reached once more with her free hand to cradle his cheek in his palm.

“Please, Anakin, please. I love you. I love—”

“No!” With a cry, Anakin jerked backwards. The durasteel fingers wrapped about her wrist pulled away. “No! You—”

But words seemed to be beyond him. He staggered back, hand shooting out to steady himself against the wall, but it wasn't enough. His legs failed him, and he sank down to the floor, forehead pressed to his knees, trembling violently.

“This isn't—,” he hissed. “You can't— It's a trick. It's a trick—”

His hands fisted in his hair, so tight that Padmé thought he might tear clumps of it out. She rushed to his side, wiping her tears away furiously with her sleeve. She had pushed him too far. It was too much for him—too much at once.

“Padmé.”

Anakin's head shot up just as Padmé turned around to see Obi-Wan standing in the doorway, trying to remain impassive and failing miserably. She caught a flurry of movement in the corner of her eyes—Anakin had forced himself to stand back up, pressed up against the wall. He looked like a cornered loth-wolf, hunched in on himself, ready to spring, his yellow eyes wide and feral.

“It's alright,” Obi-Wan soothed, holding up the palms of his hands to show him he wasn't armed. Despite the calmness of his tone, Padmé could hear the agony beneath his words. “I won't hurt you. We will leave you to rest now.”

He turned a significant glance towards her, and Padmé could do nothing but nod, for all that she wanted to stay. She didn't want to overwhelm Anakin any more than she had already. Swallowing thickly, she forced down her tears, turning to meet her husband's unnatural yellow eyes with her own glistening brown.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm so sorry.”

She made it to the other side of the door before she broke down in tears.

(Later, when she came to check on him to find him curled up in the warm robe she'd brought him, she cried for very different reasons).

[calltomuster]

I really really really can’t do Whumpay but it’s SO TEMPTING, THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT PROMPT MONTHS THAT JUST GETS TO ME

[sonderwalker]

Whumpay day 2: touch starved

It had been a month since he had seen his padawan. A month since he had seen any of the padawans that were in Anakin’s class.

As each day passed, the halls of the temple grew more and more uneasy. Some master had resigned themselves to the fate of their padawans- they had been gone for too long for them to have survived. They had been silent for too long for them to have survived.

But Obi-Wan didn’t believe it. He didn’t believe it then, when the council told him that he needed to release his feelings into the force. When he had been told that Anakin was probably dead.

Anakin was fourteen. Too young to meet such a fate. And the council wasn’t always right, was one of the first lessons that he had been taught by his own master.

But thinking about his own master only made the loss of Anakin sting even more. He had sworn to keep Anakin safe. To protect him. To train him.

And now Anakin was gone, gone with the rest of his class, lost somewhere deep in the jungles of the last planet they had been on.

It had been a routine mission up until that point. A lesson for the group of young teenagers that were accompanying their masters to a large relief effort coordinated by the republic. To help mend fraying diplomatic bonds.

But none of them knew.

None of them knew that it was a trap.

And one by one, the children were picked off- a different one went missing each night.

Until there were none left, and despite the hours they spent searching, they found nothing.

Nothing at all.

“We’re going back,” Luminara had told him one evening in a soft voice, staring out of the window that was in front of them. Watching the sun set over the city.

“I thought the council said we should leave their fate up to the force,” Obi-Wan replied, turning to look at her with a curious expression.

“I pulled some strings,” she had replied with a shrug, and Obi-Wan grinned.

But when they found that first padawan braid on the floor of the jungle, his heart sank and his blood ran cold.

And then they found another, and another.

It was on the third day that they found Anakin. Hiding in the trees, away from the prying eyes of the slavers that had been hunting them.

And Obi-Wan had walked right past him at first.

Anakin was only fourteen, but could hide himself so well in the force that had he not jumped to the ground a moment later, Obi-Wan would have never known.

The sound was muffled by the wet ground and leaves under his feet, and Obi-Wan quickly spun around, his hand going to his lightsaber when his heart stopped.

“Anakin,” he whispered, in awe of the boy that stood in front of him.

And the boy that stood in front of him was a skeleton of who he used to be. His posture hunched as if he was prepared to make a break for it at any second.

“Master,” Anakin replied, his voice cracking.

But when Obi-Wan rushed forward to embrace him, Anakin stumbled backwards, his eyes wide with fear and Obi-Wan stopped, lowering his hands down to his side.

“Where are the others?” He asked instead.

“Dead.” Anakin replied, his voice hollow.

“They’re dead,” he whispered softly, his eyes unfocused on what he was looking at.

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what they were focusing on or not.

“Anakin,” he said again after a moment of silence, and Anakin flinched before looking at him.

“Come with me,” Obi-Wan offered, holding his hand out slowly for Anakin to take it.

And Anakin nodded.

But he didn’t take his hand.

[meantforinfinitesadness]

“Put your weapon down”

Ha. Here’s day 16 of Whumpay. Uh. I’m so sorry. That’s all I’m going to say. 

Read on ao3

Warnings: Major Character Death, Post Order 66, Purge Trooper Cody, Sad Ending

Tag List: @tjfinnigan @yellowisharo @ewanmcgregorismyhomeboy12

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

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Obi-Wan choked out through silent tears. “Please, Cody. Put your weapon down.”

Cody snarled and shook his head. He raised his electrostaff higher and aimed it at Obi-Wan. “My designation is PT-2224.” He growled out and his face twisted. 

The black helmet had been discarded and Obi-Wan had felt his heart shatter at the sight of his past love. 

“Cody, please,” Obi-Wan whispered.

“Don’t call me that!” Cody snapped and surged forward. Obi-Wan side-stepped and kept his saber extinguished. He would not use it.

He could not.

“It’s me. Obi-Wan.” The former Jedi’s words did nothing but anger the Purge Trooper. 

He lashed out again and Obi-Wan dodged once more.

They continued this dance for some time under the blazing twin suns. Obi-Wan continued to dodge and weave, pleading with Cody. Cody continued to rage and attack, snapping harsh words at Obi-Wan.

A sensation rolled through Obi-Wan. Resignation? Perhaps. Obi-Wan understood what it meant. 

Cody would not stop until Obi-Wan was dead.

Obi-Wan would not step pleading even after his voice would fade.

Obi-Wan understood what had to happen. 

He unclipped his lightsaber. The blue blade ignited and reflected on the black and red armor before him. 

“I’m sorry,” he cried. “Forgive me, my love.”

Obi-Wan shot forward and plunged his saber into Cody’s chest. 

The choking gasps from Cody filled Obi-Wan’s ear as he held him close. His lightsaber flickered off and Obi-Wan lowered the two of them to the ground. 

Cody’s body rested in Obi-Wan’s arms. 

Tears flowed from Obi-Wan’s eyes. Cody’s eyes were filled with fear as he continued to choke and try to breathe. 

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan sobbed. His tears plopped on Cody’s face. “I’m sorry. I love you. I didn’t want this to happen. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” A soothing, warm feeling washed through him and he smiled. “Be free, my love. Your brothers are waiting with open arms. I love you.” 

Obi-Wan’s shaky fingers carefully rested against Cody’s face. He slid his hand down and closed his love’s eyes.

He pulled Cody’s still body closer and sobbed into his chest. 

[whumpwillow]

unrequited love | hero x villain

yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee it’s here!!! the first day of Whumpay2021 and also my very first writing event that I’m participating in! I’m gonna try and fill all the daily prompts because they’re all amazing 🤍 starting with some hero x villain angst 

Day 1: “I thought you were dead.” / “I wish you were dead.”

warnings: unrequited love, broken nose, drugs mention, not much else since this is more angst than whump oop

//

Their fights always went much the same. A punch here, a dodge there, a power blast and a daring escape. Well, at least on Villain’s part anyway, that last bit. Hero never knew when to run from anything, even when Villain had left a perfectly good opening before they got down to the dirty work. But no, Hero was too honorable to leave, forcing Villain to fight them for real, as much as they didn’t want to.

Hero constantly got in the way of their plans. Always disrupting a heist or storming into a perfectly good hideout that Villain thought had been concealed well. It was downright annoying…at first. Then it became expected, and eventually, begrudgingly accepted.

It didn’t bother Villain, they began to realize one day. It struck them in the middle of a fight as surely as Hero’s right-hook did, catching them too off-guard to dodge.

They liked it. This game of cat and mouse. Cops and robbers. One chasing the other, never quite catching up, but always there, always persistent.

Perhaps that’s what drew Villain to Hero. Their unwillingness to give up. They were so good, so bound by a duty they personally enforced, holding themselves to an unbreakable standard. Villain was half-hearted at best with everything they did, always had been. High school dropout, lackluster effort in finding a proper career. None of it ever really held their interest until they started scheming…and fighting against Hero.

Villain didn’t know when they began feeling it, but they realized they could feel the blood pumping hot through their body and their heart racing with anticipation. They were so, so alive. Not merely drifting through the world as a breathing body, but living. Adrenaline coursed through their veins, the thrill of the fight and the chase and the escape driving brightness behind their eyes that had been so dull until now.

“You’re so full of yourself sometimes,” Hero said, a hand on their hip. Never far from the little throwing knives they kept there.

Villain tossed a smirk their way. “Shouldn’t I be?”

The answer was no, Hero replied, but it didn’t matter in light of their banter. Villain loved the quips they offered with a wit as quick and sharp as their daggers.

“You should be finding a legal way to make money other than this,” Hero remarked.

Villain rolled their eyes and smiled. “Where’s the fun in that?”

They leapt away into the night before Hero could catch them.

Till next time, my love.

The first time that thought had passed through their mind, Villain had stopped short on their journey over the rooftops, crashing into the side of a building and breaking their own goddamn nose. They’d laid on the cobblestones of the alley below, legs folded beneath them, laughing hysterically as blood flowed down over their lips, chin, and neck. They leaned their head back against the cold brick walls, looking up at the darkening sky with its clouds and burgeoning stars.

They loved Hero.

What a mistake that was.

Villain was a fool, but not so much as to be blind to the fact that Hero hated them. It was all too evident in their eyes, that burning glare, in their face, the tick of a jaw, the flare of their nostrils. It was laced through every way they carried themselves; this was just a job to them.

Villain had, at first, thought of it as a game. Then it was a hobby, of sorts, akin to skydiving or bungee-jumping. Something that gave them a rush, the knowledge that they still had a heart that could beat inside their aching chest.

Then it was a drug, something Villain couldn’t live without.

They rubbed a hand over their face. Carded it through their hair. Was it even Hero they loved, or the adrenaline?

No. Hero.

Their quick wit, their sharp words and sharper daggers. The way they moved, darting around corners and jumping through the air as if it was all a grand show. They were so achingly beautiful.

And they would never, ever love someone like Villain.

“I wish you were dead.”

Hero spat at them from the ground, coughed, and brought themselves up to their elbows. Villain had knocked them down this time, this fight, and Hero glared with the fire of a thousand suns. They hated being defeated as it put a strain on the high standards they held for themselves, but Villain would never kick them while they were down.

Villain smiled, leaning back against the wall. “Ha. Wishes are useless, Hero. Believe me.”

A dashing smile. A casual shrug. That was all they could manage of their insouciant façade, and apparently all Hero needed. They darted from the window, vaulting over rooftops until they knew they were a safe distance away that Hero couldn’t follow.

And then they broke.

Falling to their knees, they clutched at their chest where they felt their heart shatter, as it always did after a fight like this. It was a pain that let them know they were alive.

“I wish I could love you,” they whispered to the sky.

Useless.

—

gosh im so happy to be posting my writing, I hope y’all like what I’m posting throughout May 🤍