#febuwhump day twenty one

[fanfictasia]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Bad Batch (Cartoon) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Hunter & Omega (Star Wars: The Bad Batch) Characters: Clone Trooper Hunter (Star Wars), Omega (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), Clone Trooper Tech (Star Wars) (minor), Clone Trooper Wrecker (Star Wars) (minor) Additional Tags: Missing Scene, Canon Compliant, Omega Needs a Hug (Star Wars: The Bad Batch), Panic Attacks, Family, Depression, Febuwhump, Febuwhump 2024, Prompt: Unresponsive

Summary:

Omega has never liked closed spaces. Well, no one does, but after being kidnapped, and after Kamino, she's starting to find them... difficult to focus in.

Read on:

https://www.wattpad.com/1424096207-the-bad-batch-one-shot-collection-febuwhump-day

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14329977/1/Febuwhump-Day-Twenty-One-Unresponsive

[livmightlive]

Lu Boys Death Lineup

I was feeling a little edgy, a little angsty (perchance). I wanna say, this is based a little bit on canon and a lot a bit on vibes. Maybe this can be my (low effort 😔) febuwhump. Anyways, in order from first to last here it is.

Four - Four is in his mid-twenties when he gets called to help investigate with the resurgence of dark magic in the palace of the four swords. He goes in not expecting much, he’s used to being called to help aid in small things, like monster uprisings or in this case something to do with dark magic. He doesn’t expect things to go so wrong. It’s dark magic alright, but so much of it that it’ll overcome the land immediately if something isn’t done. Ganon is trying to return and Four is the only person in the way. So, he gives everything to seal it away. This effort fractures Four again, but not in the way it did before. This time the colors don’t reunite with each other but instead Four’s physical body is vaporized and his soul tears in to four pieces, each absorbing all the leftover darkness that Four couldn’t stop. Dot has no choice but to seal the palace completely.

Hyrule - When the chain’s journey ends, Hyrule doesn’t return home to a peaceful era. His journey continues and despite his and both princesses’ efforts things start to get worse. The cult has grown in an huge way and Hyrule soon knows no peace, constantly traveling to avoid them. They’re grasping at straws and with each year that passes since Ganon’s death they get more agitated. By his late twenties he’s more than exhausted. Hyrule no longer knows rest. He can’t return to the castle or any town, not even, especially not even, the ones that had been kind to him. The cult would find him. They burn would burn down buildings, cut down people, and even trample crops just to get to him. Unrelated to Hyrule, they destroy new growth forests and scar any attempts by the earth to heal. This has to stop. He goes to the cult and finds Ganon’s ashes himself. He makes sure that there isn’t anything left this time. The fire he creates, his last spell, burns for years.

Twilight - Twilight’s body is never found. Everyone who had known him had been greatly concerned for him for a few years now. It seems that he had been slowly going mad ever since he had turned 30. He had grown more and more restless, walking circles in his house until the carpet wore down. He withdraws for weeks, emerging with untrimmed hair and wild eyes. He holds a great sorrow at all times that cannot be quelled. He starts disappearing into the woods for weeks at a time. One day it all stops and it seems that he’s calmed down. His mind has returned to him. He begins tending to the ranch again, he smiles more, laughs more. But… There's an everlasting air about him that just feels like he’s waiting for something. A great storm descends on Ordon one day. It brings some destruction with it. Floods wash away buildings built too close to rivers and trees fall from loose soil. In its wake, it’s as if the world was shining silver. Twilight is nowhere to be found.

Wild - Wild is almost 40 when he leaves his and Flora’s shared home to go on a little expedition. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for this time but he craves fresh air and adventure. He’s on a well worn path, just leaving from a stable when he drops as if he were a puppet with all of its strings cut loose. And that’s it for him. Of course other travelers and stable hands try to check up on him, but he’s gone. There’s not a lick of life left in him. Purah runs a series of autopsies and can’t find anything wrong. He was in perfect health when he left and the people interviewed at the stables claim he was acting normal, or as normal as Wild can act. Purah decides that he must’ve thrown a blood clot or something, he probably had a left over brain injury from Hylia knows what, but both she and Flora know that’s a lie. They wonder if the shrine of resurrection only had so much to give Wild. They wonder if they have timers too.

Time - Time is almost 50 when he returns to battle. There’s a returning darkness that must be quelled. He prays that this won’t turn into another failure of his, that the mistakes he makes now won’t hurt his successors anymore than he’s already hurt them. His ocarina stays home; it’s buried deep under a floorboard beneath his and Malon’s bed. He takes some peace of mind from that. His fight takes him back to the lost woods where he never returns from. It’s decades later and Malon is old. Her hair has long been grey and she has grandchildren to keep her company. How she wishes Time could’ve met them… She’s called to the castle one day and asked if she recognizes skeletal remains of a Hylian body that was found downstream from the lost woods. She does. She prays that with a proper funeral her love might find rest, but she knows that he won’t.

Warriors - When Wars returns to his era, his work doesn’t end. He finds himself training the next generation of warriors and then the one after that. Wars never stops working as there is always work. There is always something he can do to make his home safer, to keep his people happier, to make them stronger. He’s still working by the time he’s halfway through his 70s. His friends and family beg him to retire, even Zelda has passed the throne down to her heir, but there’s still more to be done. He takes lunch one day in castle town and goes to his favorite pub. Despite the castle nurses banning him from eating overly rich food and beer until he has a less stressful lifestyle (it’s way too hard on his heart), Wars still likes to sneak a treat every now and then. What’s it gonna do? Kill him? He never finishes his last pint. 

Wind - Wind dies by complete accident. It happens when he’s in his 80s. He’s chatting with his mates while cleaning one of his old swords. He hasn’t had to use one in decades but he likes to keep them in good shape just in case he has to. Somebody tells a HILARIOUS joke. Wind doubles over in laughter, but as he does so he impales himself straight through. As he’s rushed to the newly opened hospital, Wind can’t help but continue to laugh. Oh boy is this stupid. He tells the nurses not to tell Tetra. She’d never let him hear the end of this. One of them starts weeping. Through tears she tells Wind that he won’t survive this. When they remove the sword he will bleed out unless he drowns in his own blood first. He cringes and tells them to DEFINITELY not tell Tetra. He’s a little annoyed when she and their closest friends and family come rushing in. She berates him. In between curses he can tell that she’s crying. He spends his last hours cracking jokes and sharing stories and gossip with those closest to him. When he starts struggling to stay conscious, they all bid goodbye and Tetra pulls out the sword. A year later, to her embarrassment, Tetra dies the exact same way.

Sky - Sky passes away peacefully in his sleep a week after his 100th birthday party and he KNEW it was coming. Sky knew for months. It started as small comments like at breakfast where he’d be like “Hylia willing I will see the solstice celebrations next week…” and his grandkids, and great grandkids, would be like “Grandpappy don’t say such things!” And he’d relent but it escalates to him asking his family members and friends which of his possessions they liked most. If they fall into his trap and answer, Sky tells them to write their name on it so they can have it after he passes. Nobody does this to his disgruntlement. Eventually they stop believing him because it gets to the point where every other dinner Sky mentions that his time to join Hylia draws near. Just in case they make his birthday a grand event. Somehow everyone, but Sun, is still a little surprised when he goes. She’s like *shrug* “he did mention it”. Like lovebirds, Sun follows him shortly after.

Legend - Nobody in the royal family knows how Legend is still alive. Some say it’s his great spirit, others claim that it must be courage, and those that know him best claim that it's sheer spite. If they were to actually ask Legend himself he’d spit. “The bitch goddess won’t let me.” He makes his opinion of his long lasting life obvious. No longer is Legend asked to attend prayer services or holidays in celebrations of Hylia. Not after the last dozen… incidents. Legend stopped counting how old he was after the passing of his dear sister and dear rabbit. The nurses who do frequent checkups on him mention that he is 121 years old. He rolls his eyes. Legend wants to go and he brings this up frequently, usually over dinner. He has great great great grand nieces and nephews now. He cares little to meet the next coming generation. Still, despite his fits of anger and general grumpiness, he is well loved. He lives in the castle now, not trusted to take care of himself. The kids love him best. “Grunkie Link tells the best stories <3.” He always makes sure to press treats or old rings into their hands when they pass. It’s a stormy night when the castle is thrown into pandemonium. Legend has gone missing from his chambers. Honestly, how hard could it be to find a wheelchair bound 121 year old man? They find him outside, screaming at the heavens. “Take me you HAG!” Screaming turns to pleading. “I want to see them again.” Before anybody can get close, lightning strikes from the sky and smites the hero. Nothing is left behind but ashes.

pls lmk what you think! Feel free to argue if you have a different idea <3

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Febuwhump - Day 1

Pairing: Dean x reader

Prompt: Helpless

Warnings: language, kidnapped

________

You were a damn good hunter. An amazing hunter. The number of times you’d been in bad situations was countless. But it was so rare to be…helpless. It made your skin crawl, sent shivers down your spine. 

There was something about being trapped with no hope for escape on your own that made you want to scream.

Demons didn’t scare you but twenty of them? Twenty high-ranking demons where no less than five had their black eyes on you at any given time? 

You had no choice but to sit on the hard cold concrete and pray Dean could come up with some way to save you. 

“Your little boyfriend wants to talk to you,” said the head demon, strolling in the room with an annoyingly stupid smirk. You narrowed your eyes, catching the phone when he tossed it over.

“Dean?” you asked, a breath being let out on the other end.

“Are you okay? Where are you?” he asked, the demon slowly stalking over and staring down at you.

“I’m fine. I-I don’t know where,” you said, the demon crouching down now, much too close for your liking.

“Can you get out?” he asked quietly.

“No.” 

“Shit,” he mumbled, noise in the background. “He wants us to do something for him. He says he’ll give you back if we do but you know he’s probably lying. There’s no chance of you making a break for it?”

“There’s too many,” you said, looking at your lap so you wouldn’t have to face the demon. “What do you-”

“It doesn’t matter. Just do what they say unless you think you can make it out but not unless you’re sure. Y/N…the things he said they’d do…hell wasn’t even that bad.”

“Find me then,” you said, jerking back when the demon stole the phone away. He grinned, holding it up to his ear.

“I take it we have a deal?” he asked. “Perfect. You know what I want. Contact me when you have it.”

You glared as he stood up, cocking his head at you.

“He sounds pissed but at least he’s not a complete idiot. Now be good and stay put. We wouldn’t want to find out what happens when you piss me off.”

With that he left, leaving you stuck in a room with twenty demons, every single one of them poised to rip you apart if you so much as moved wrong.

“Please hurry, Dean.”

_______

[peachy-panic]

Febuwhump Day 7: Alternate Timeline

When I saw today's @febuwhump prompt was AU, I said SIGN ME UP.

Have some alternate universe Jaime & Sebastian, in which they are closer in age and this night in college goes a lot differently.

HEAVY TW for alcohol abuse, emetophobia, past noncon, implied attempted noncon, implied drugging

Jaime is too tired to be at this party. 

Derek, who convinced him to come party with the team in the first place, disappeared upstairs with the goalie from the women’s team twenty minutes ago, leaving Jaime sullen, sober, and alone in the crowd. The adrenaline from tonight’s win against USC has long burned out of his system, and they have practice early tomorrow morning. He doesn’t want to be here, with all these drunk strangers knocking into him as they dance. He wants the comfort of his dorm bed, a tall glass of water, and an audiobook in his headphones, lulling him to sleep.

Fuck Derek and his apparent new girlfriend. Jaime is going home. 

He doesn’t bother trying to find any of their teammates to say goodbye, and he doesn’t text Derek that he’s leaving. He can text Jaime, if he even cares to. 

Some part of him knows he’s being a little selfish, a little reckless. A little jealous. He’s too tired to investigate those feelings too closely. 

The back door is through the kitchen. Jaime elbows his way through the crowd until the exit is in sight. But something else catches his eye before he can bolt.

Someone is at least halfway passed out at the kitchen bar, a shock of red hair spilling out over the marble. His head is lolled onto his arm, his eyes closed and mouth slightly agape. He’s not quite unconscious, Jaime sees as he slips into the room. He still has enough dexterity left to keep himself atop the barstool, even if the position is precarious at best—one foot propped on the wooden rung of the chair, the other extended out to the floor to keep him balanced. 

The man is alone in the kitchen, with the exception of one other person. A face Jaime knows well. 

Matthew is on the soccer team with him, but Jaime has made every effort to avoid him all year. He never told anyone about the incident in the locker room during the first month of practices, but the memory glows red in his memory like a warning sign as he watches Matthew slide his arm around the half-unconscious stranger’s waist and coax him to standing. 

The man is tall, maybe even a little taller than Matthew, though it’s hard to tell with the way his body slumps as he’s guided toward the back door. Jaime doesn’t recognize him, but he recognizes that this isn’t right, and he won’t be able to live with himself if he doesn’t intervene. 

“Hey.” Jaime’s voice comes out firmer than he expected. 

Matthew stops in his tracks, head whipping back to him. His eyes narrow, and Jaime wonders if he realizes it’s the first time they’ve spoken off the field since the night he cornered Jaime and put his hands where they didn’t belong.

“Quinn,” he says pleasantly. “Not like you to show up to one of these things. Did Derek drag you out?”

Jaime ignores him, nodding toward the man who is struggling to stay upright at Matthew’s side. “Who’s your friend?”

Matthew’s jaw twitches like he can read the accusation in Jaime’s eyes. Good. “I’m helping him back to his dorm.”

That doesn’t answer the question, asshole. “You know him?”

“Do you?” Matthew’s eyes narrow again, annoyed this time. 

Jaime takes a calculated risk. “Yeah,” he lies. “He’s here with me.”

This quiets him for long enough to make Jaime think he’s won, but then Matthew’s mouth curls into a sneer. “You must be pretty shitty company if your date is leaving with another guy.”

The “date” in question is starting to slip, his knees buckling, and Matthew has to adjust his grip to keep him upright.

“He’s not going anywhere with you,” Jaime snaps. Anger simmers beneath his skin, fists curling at his sides. This interaction with Matthew has given new life to the rage Jaime has spent two months pushing down, ignoring, talking himself out of. 

Matthew’s eyes scrape up and down his body, either in a lewd attempt at intimidation or possibly sizing up what kind of physical challenge Jaime poses. Whatever conclusion he reaches makes him laugh, a curt, dismissive sound.

“Stay in your lane, Freshman.”

Then he makes another move for the back door, his victim in tow. 

Jaime is moving before he has to think about it. He pushes past him, shouldering in as a barrier between Matthew and the door. “Let go of him,” he says.

Matthew’s amusement gives way to a flicker of anger now. “It doesn’t look like he’s putting up much of a fight.”

“He’s barely fucking alive.” Jaime nearly shouts it, but the music keeps his voice from bleeding into the crowd. It is enough, however, to rouse the intoxicated stranger. 

“Who’re y… ‘m not…” is all he gets out, broken and slurred alongside a quick flutter of green eyes, before his head lolls back against Matthew.

Jaime feels sick watching Matthew’s hands on him. He can’t stop himself from reaching out and trying to take the man’s weight, forcefully if necessary, away from him.

Matthew resists. Of course he does. Fingers dig into the man’s side hard enough to look painful, and it makes Jaime falter his grip. But before he can attempt anything else, the jostle of movement stirs the stranger again, but this time it isn’t words coming out of his mouth. The man’s body crumples entirely, dragging down Matthew’s side as he falls to his knees and retches on the kitchen floor. 

The sound coming out of him is one of pure misery, one that drowns out the sound of Matthew’s groan of disgust. Matthew steps back—though not in time to save his shoes—and shakes off the man’s weight from his leg like he’s a stray animal. Jaime manages to crouch in time to catch the stranger’s shoulders before he can fall into his own vomit. He steadies him through the worst of the sickness, knelt awkwardly on one knee at his side. By the time it’s over, he looks up to find the kitchen empty. Matthew left.

There’s another flare of rage, but the moment is quickly stolen by the sound of crying. He looks down, alarmed to see tears tracking down the man’s face. His green eyes look so sad and maybe a little afraid as he gazes up at Jaime, body swaying. 

“I think I threw up,” he says quietly. 

Jaime nods, ignoring the rather damning pile of evidence in front of them. “I think you might be onto something,” he agrees. “Maybe we should go outside for a minute? Get some fresh air?”

He doesn’t get a response. The man is already starting to fade from awareness again. 

“Shit,” Jaime mutters. He doesn’t waste precious seconds of the man’s partial mobility, hooking his grip underneath his arms to hoist him to his feet. “Come on,” he whispers, trying to sound gentle and encouraging as he kicks open the back door, narrowly stepping around the vomit on the floor. “Just a few more steps.”

The cold, November air is a sigh of relief against his skin. He manages to keep his new friend on his feet long enough to reach the porch steps, where he sits him down long enough to retrieve his phone from his pocket. A rideshare back to campus will cost him the whole of his fun money for the week, but he can’t imagine a world in which he leaves this stranger to fend for himself tonight. 

He opens the app and hovers uncertainly over the search bar.  “Can you tell me where you live?” he asks softly, crouching down next to the man, who barely lifts his head from the railing. 

“At the college,” he slurs, pointing vaguely to their left, in the opposite direction of the university. “It’s over there.”

“Right,” Jaime says. “Okay. Do you have an ID?”

“Mhm.” The affirmative answer is not accompanied by any attempt to retrieve his wallet.

“Can I see it for a second?”

The man manages to get as far as pulling his wallet halfway out of his pocket before his limbs go limp, his head tilting back against the railing. “I don’... feel good. ’m sorry.”

Jaime hates how sad he sounds. “It’s okay,” he promises. “I’m just going to grab your wallet out of here, okay?” 

There’s no answer, not that he’s expecting one, so he pulls the wallet the rest of the way out of his pocket, careful not to touch him without his permission. When he flips it open to the ID card, he’s greeted by the photo of a man who is barely recognizable as the person next to him. His smile is self conscious but handsome, his eyes wide and bright. Sebastian Tate, the name says. 

Jaime knows it was a bit of a gamble, that most college kids keep their parents’ address on their license until they move off campus, but he recognizes the address on Sebastian’s ID as one the dorms. One small bit of luck.

He enters the address on his phone, wincing at the price tag before he accepts the ride. 

When he looks over to let Sebastian know that a car is on its way, he sees tears on his face once again. 

“We’re gonna get you home,” Jaime promises. 

****

Sebastian is mostly deadweight by the time Jaime gets him into his bed. 

The other half of the dorm room is sparsely decorated, with a bed that looks mostly untouched. Jaime wonders if Sebastian has one of those roommate situations where they only really see each other on moving day. It’s a positive in the sense that Jaime isn’t barging in uninvited on a stranger tonight, but it does leave Jaime with a bit of a dilemma. He can’t imagine leaving this person alone tonight. 

Jaime helps himself to a cup on the sink in the corner of their room—it looks mostly clean, he thinks—and fills it with water from the tap. 

“Hey,” he says, giving Sebastian’s shoulder a gentle shake. He stirs blinking up at him, and Jaime holds the cup for him to see. “You should try to drink something.”

A groan of displeasure rumbles deep in his chest. “Tired,” Sebastian argues. 

“I know. But you really should try to drink some water before you fall asleep.”

Sebastian peels his eyes open again. Jaime wonders if throwing up back at the house was the best thing he could have done for himself. His gaze is starting to look a little less glassy. Maybe he had gotten some of the alcohol—and whatever else he might have ingested, a dark voice whispers in the back of his mind—out of his system before it could really take root. 

“It’s okay,” Sebastian tells him.  “I’m a doctor.”

Jaime furrows his brow. “I don’t think that’s true.”

But Sebastian nods sagely. “I will be,” he says.

“Oh.” Jaime blinks. “Are you pre-med?” A nod. “Well, then you should know all about the detriments of dehydration and alcohol poisoning, Dr. Tate.”

His head lifts from the mattress at the name—not without what appears to be great effort. He blinks a few times and squints up at Jaime like he’s seeing him for the first time. “Nobody’s ever called me that before.” He sounds so awed, Jaime can’t help but laugh. 

“That’s probably because you’re not a doctor yet,” he says. “Sit up, please?”

It takes a little bit of support on his end, but he finally gets Sebastian to an upright position and helps him steady the cup as he brings it to his mouth. Jaime takes his time, waiting patiently until he’s downed the whole glass in tiny sips. 

“Good job,” he says. “I’ll get you more to keep by your bed. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

As he gets up to refill the glass, he hears shuffling on the bed behind him. Sebastian is already laying down again when he turns back to him, but this time his eyes stay open, tracking Jaime across the room.

“I don’t know who you are,” Sebastian observes aloud. 

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” Jaime says. “I’m just helping you get home.” 

With a completely straight face, Sebastian looks at him and says, “You’re like an angel.” Then, blinking slowly, “You’re so pretty.”

“Oh my god,” Jaime bubbles out a startled giggle. “That’s… I—Um, thank you.” He feels his own cheeks redden. “That’s nice. I think you’re very drunk.”

As if Jaime’s words serve as a reminder, Sebastian’s face falls again, eyes squeezing shut. “I don’t feel good.”

Jaime’s face falls, too. The tear tracks are still visible on Sebastian’s face from earlier, a tangible reminder of the darkness shrouding these circumstances. 

“I know,” Jaime says. 

“Are you angry?” Sebastian asks, eyes still pinched. 

“Not at you,” Jaime assures him. 

“Okay.” Sebastian swallows, then moves his mouth like he’s trying to find his tongue. When he does, he asks, “Are you going to leave me here alone?”

Jaime stiffens. “Do you want me to?”

He is pretty sure the movement of Sebastian’s head against the pillow is supposed to be a no. 

“If you want me to stay with you tonight, I will,” Jaime says. It’s not like he’s in any hurry to watch Derek stumble into his dorm at four in the morning, with or without his one-night-stand. 

“There,” Sebastian slurs, slipping closer to sleep by the second. He raises a finger to point vaguely in the direction of his roommate’s side of the room. “That thing. Folds into a bed. Comfy.”

Jaime turns and spots the foam chair in the corner. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll stay.”

He kicks off his shoes, pulls a spare throw-blanket from the foot of Sebastian’s bed, and unfolds the chair into a thin mattress on the floor. When the lights are off, he feels his own exhaustion crashing over him. He stares up at this stranger’s dorm ceiling and lets himself drift closer to the darkness that pulls at him from behind closed eyelids. 

Before he can slip away, a tentative voice rouses him back to the surface. 

“What’s your name?” Sebastian asks into the darkness between them. 

“Jaime,” he answers. 

“Jaime?”

“Yeah.”

“Jaime, I feel very sad, I think.”

Jaime swallows, wishing he was better at offering comfort to someone who so obviously needs it. “Yeah. I know,” he says instead. “You’ll feel better tomorrow, though.”

“You promise?” Sebastian asks.

But that’s not a promise he can keep. Jaime doesn’t know anything about this man, other than that he had come close to something very bad happening tonight. Tomorrow, likely, he will be sick and shaken, probably regretful, probably confused. But there was one sure truth Jaime could offer this stranger for now. 

“Go to sleep, Sebastian,” he says. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

***

*AGAIN THIS IS FULLY AU, BUT I'LL TAG YALL JUST IN CASE YOU WANNA READ*

@whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline 

@anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain 

@thecyrulik @pumpkin-spice-whump @finder-of-rings @melancholy-in-the-morning @insaneinthepaingame 

@skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-world 

@inpainandsuffering @cicatrix-energy @quietly-by-myself @whumpsday @extemporary-whump 

@the-whumpers-grimm  @thebirdsofgay  @firewheeesky @whumperfully @hold-back-on-the-comfort  

@termsnconditions-apply  @cyborg0109  @whumplr-reader  @pinkraindropsfell  @whatwhumpcomments 

@honeycollectswhump @pirefyrelight @handsinmotion  @alexmundaythrufriday @scoundrelwithboba 

@starsick1979 @b0rgid@whumps-and-bumps @bilightningwhumper @technicallydeliciousdeer

@taterswhump @shit-people-probably-didnt-say @roblingoblin285 @hellodecisionparalysis @shinmich

@anonfromcanada @morning-star-whump

[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 ੈ✩‧₊˚

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

taglist || @febuwhump @ohagi505 @vesanal @aalinaaaaaa @fangedcinnamonroll @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @seastarblue @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @iamheretohurt @corinneglass @melodxi @thebookishkiwi @lancedoncrimsonwings @sugaredparchment @cepheusgalaxy @fizzydreamz @robinshandhurts @ieppiq @nosebleedgirlpunch @sunflowerrosy @charlachan @cacophonyofwords

✩ Send me an ask or dm to be added or removed from the taglist ✩

[thatsmygirl6612]

FEBUWHUMP DAY TWO: HOLDING BACK TEARS

CONTENT WARNING: ALCOHOL USE

“I’ve n ‘dea for a game.” The new leader of the Purple Dragons slurred. He took a gulp from the bottle in his hand, wiping his mouth sloppily on his sleeve.

Leonardo sat up straight, reaching for weapons that weren’t there.

“‘M bored ‘a you lot sittin’ on your asses doin’ a whole load’a nothin’.” He grumbled. “An’ I want payback, too. You’re borin’ in tha’ cage.” He repeated.

A low, but quiet growl rumbled in Leonardo’s chest. His left eye twitched.

The Purple Dragon took another swig from the bottle. Upon realising it was empty, he threw the bottle across the room. It hit one of the men watching in anticipation. 

“Ge’ me another one. Now!” He roared.

The loud sound woke the younger turtle from his uneasy slumber.

“Leo, what’s going on?” Michelangelo whispered, instantly alert.

“I don’t know,” Leonardo answered tersely. He curled his hands into fists, dropping into a protective stance.

Michelangelo didn’t argue, mirroring his older brother. 

“Grab me on’a them.” The man ordered, opening his new bottle. “I don’ care which one.” He paused for a second, a sadistic grin stretching across his face. “Actually, grab the blue one. I’ve got plans for the orange one.”

Two tall and blocky men that were indiscernible lumbered over. Leonardo pushed his brother behind him.

“Leo,” Michelangelo protested, but Leonardo motioned for him to be quiet.

One of the goons produced a small key from his pocket, and slid it into the lock, twisting it open. 

The two brothers tensed, like a spring being held down.

As soon as the door was open, just an inch, Leonardo flung it the rest of the way open, knocking one of the men down. He bent to sweep the other off his feet, but somehow, unexplainably, he managed to catch the turtle’s leg and lift him into the air. With his other arm, he slammed the door shut and turned the key.

“Got one, boss,” He grunted. Leonardo tried to kick him in the face, but he simply held that leg as well.

“Mm.” The ‘Boss’ set down his bottle. “So, who wants to give this one a lesson?” 

There was a loud roar of approval from the watching crowd.

“You.” The Boss gestured vaguely to his right. “You can start.”

Twenty or so Dragons rushed forwards, waving their arms around in the air. Several of them held baseball bats or bottles of beer with varying amounts of liquid in them. One of them even brandished a desk lamp. 

“Leo!” Michelangelo cried, shaking the bars.

The wave of dragons piled on top of his oldest brother, yelling loudly. There was no system as to who had a turn, instead, they shoved each other aside, occasionally hitting each other, causing several small fights to break out. 

The crowd cheered at Leonardo’s beating.

They were cheering.

Michelangelo backpedalled, his shell bumping against the bars behind him. His eyes pricked with tears, and a choked sob escaped his throat.

“Stop!” The Boss commanded. The large mob in the middle of the room slowly parted, leaving Leonardo exposed to the teary gaze of his youngest brother.

Michelangelo’s eyes widened.

Leonardo was in a terrible state. He was covered in bruises, and hadn’t, as Michelangelo would have, retreated inside his shell, because Leonardo would never do that.

Sometimes, Michelangelo wished he would. If he had escaped into the safety of his shell, he would’ve escaped at least two broken bones, from what Michelango could see, and probably a nasty concussion, too. 

The youngest turtle brother’s tears flowed down his face.

“I wouldn’t do tha’ if I were you,” The Boss chuckled. “Tha’s wha’ the game is.”

Michelangelo narrowed his eyes at him.

“Every time you cry,” He waved in his general direction, “We add another ten minutes to the clock.”

To what clock? Michelangelo thought. 

“You son of a bitch.” He said, with an iciness very unlike him.

“You jus’ cried, so, ten minutes it is.” The Boss shrugged. “You lot’s turn now.” He pointed to the other side of the room. Reluctantly, the Dragons in the centre of the room trudged back to their seats. The next group surged forwards, eager to get their hands on Leonardo. 

Michelangelo couldn’t see Leonardo’s face, but if he had, he would’ve seen his eyes open, pain glazed as they were.

He would’ve seen the way his brother flipped off the gang leader, eyes fixated his face.

He would’ve seen the way he mouthed ‘You will regret this’ at him.

But Leonardo’s back was turned to Michelangelo.

He didn’t see anything.

But as the mob covered his view, he made a pledge to himself and his brother, willing for him to somehow telepathically hear.

I won’t cry. When Donnie and Raph come to save us, I won’t cry.

If it allows you to survive,

I won’t cry.

I won’t. Cry.

And he was going to keep that oath. Even as tears built up behind his eyelids, he bit his lip, and willed his tears to dry up.

Because the three of them without their fourth was something he wouldn’t allow.

[macknus]

Febuwhump: Day Twenty

Prompt: “I did good, right?”

Febuwhump Master-post

Hero, Villain, henchman and Sidekick huddled against the ruins of the Hero Tower, ducking with every blast of grey energy that bolted towards their cover.

Villain had Hero by the throat, pressing him against the ground, straddling his hips as she shook him. “Are you stupid?! Don’t you realise he’s never going to stop?”

Hero’s eyes filled with a softness that curled something in Villain’s gut. “At least you’ll all get away. If I distract him—”

“NO!” Villain growled. “No! I am not letting your stupid self-sacrificial bullshit save us! Save me. Do you think I could live with myself if I let you do that?”

Hero smiled. He put a hand on her cheek. “At least you’d live.”

“Not without you,” she barked, her hands moving to his cheeks. “Do you hear me?! I just found you. I’m not letting you go again. I—” tears swelled in her eyes. “I won’t! I can’t. If you— if he kills you… I— it would kill me too. Don’t you understand?”

Henchman chimed in, gathering the pairs attention. “It would, you know,” he said softly. “It would kill her. I’ve never seen her so happy. So…” Henchman smiled as if he was witnessing a wedding of someone he cherished. “I’ve never seen you smile so much before.”

Villain’s chest felt like it was caving in as she reached a hand out, and Henchman took it, squeezing her fingers in his.

“The same goes for Hero,” Sidekick grumbled, put off by the display of emotional affection. “She makes you act like a normal person. You spend less time in the office, agonising over work. She fills you with life you never had.”

When Hero’s hazel eyes met Sidekick’s blazing blue, Sidekick said: “which means that if you love her you’ll stay here, and listen to her.”

Sidekick pushed to his feet. Hero jerked under Villain, a hand reaching out to clasp Sidekick’s ankle. Panic seized his chest. “What’re you doing?”

Sidekick rolled his head on his shoulders. “I’m not a good person like you, Hero. Hell, I’m not even a happy one. I think… I think I should do something entirely unselfish for once. I want to know what it feels like.”

Hero’s fingers tightened on Sidekick’s ankle. His eyes so wide the whites were visible around his iris. “No. No! NO! You cannot. That is an order, Sidekick! Stand down.”

Henchman pressed a kiss to Villain’s knuckles. She gasped, looking back at him and saw the same steely resolve. “No,” she whispered. “No, don’t you dare.”

“I think we should get to decide how and for what we die for, Vil,” he said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “You taught me that. I would give my life for love. I would give my life for your potential happiness. It’s the least I can do. You saved my life once, let me return the favour.”

“No,” she said again as Henchman withdrew. “No, there’s no favour to repay, Henchman please.”

Sidekick looked at Henchman. A grave knowing etched into his foreign features. Another blast sent rubble and dust scattering across their crumbling and quickly deteriorating sanctuary.

“We’ll hold Supervillain off for as long as we can.” Sidekick said, pulling his foot from Hero’s grasp. As he passed Villain he put a hand on her shoulder, “make sure he can’t go anywhere. God knows he’ll try to stop us, but I think that would ruin the whole self-sacrifice bit,” he said with a knowing smile down at Villain. “Don’t you?”

Villain couldn’t say anything. She couldn’t breathe, so she just set her trembling lips into a line and nodded.

“I wish you both a long and happy life,” Sidekick said, a strange sentimental tone to his words. Something Sidekick never expressed. Hero let out a choked sob. He shot a handsome smile over his shoulder at Hero. “Make sure you name your most handsome, vainglorious little shit son after me.”

Hero blinked through the tears. “We… we will.” He turned his head to Henchman. “And our most caring after you.”

Henchman scoffed. “God no. My name is hideous, but a middle name would be a nice remembrance. Promise me you’ll keep her safe.”

Hero’s hands tightened around Villain’s hips. “I will,” he gasped, feeling like the shittiest man on earth. A fucking coward. But he couldn’t sacrifice Villain… and if he ran out, Villain would follow and they… they weren’t strong enough to beat Supervillain.

Sidekick and Henchman stepped out together. “Alright you tantrum-throwing-toddler,” Sidekick yelled. “How about we teach you some target practice?”

A sinister laugh filled the air, and then, the sounds of a fight. With every blast, every whip of wind, every clash of steel Hero and Villain flinched, trembling like children, swimming in a sea of their shame.

And then… like a comet, Superhero arrived with a slew of heroes on her heels and the fighting increased tenfold. Only then did Hero and Villain slip out, running hand in hand through a battlefield of the ruins of the city, searching for Henchman and Sidekick. The battle was still ongoing when Superhero arrived.

Which means they were still alive.

They found Henchman first, passed out, blood streaming down his forehead, his bow discarded by his side. “He’s got a pulse,” Villain whispered. His breathing rattled in his chest with wheezes, but he was still stubbornly alive.

They moved him to safety, then searched for Sidekick. He was still alive too. Hero ran to his side, going to pick up the piece of rubble that pinned Sidekick’s chest and pelvis to the ground. Sidekick screamed and shook his head.

“NO! NO, STOP!” He cried, “stop. It’s…” he gasped, his face contorted in pain as he drew in a heavy breath. “Fuck, fuck! Ngh. Altruism hurts. Why didn’t you mention that before I risked my life for you, you fucking bastard?”

Villain held Sidekick’s head up, resting it on her knees, running her fingers delicately through his hair. He wheezed out a hum and groaned as his body twitched.

“We’ll— you just need to hold on, Sidekick, do you hear me? That’s an order! You stay alive until a medic comes.”

“You’re so bossy,” Sidekick said, a wry smile curving his eyes up as he met hazel eyes with pained blue. “And you know I never really listened to you anyways.”

“Sidekick, I swear to god—”

Villain caught Hero’s eyes over Sidekick’s body, tears streaming down her cheeks as she shook her head slightly, almost imperceptibly.

Sidekick coughed again and red stained the cement debris that kept him trapped, pinned, crushing his ribcage and organs and body.

“I wasn’t fast enough,” he said, blood colouring his tongue with bright red that spilled over the corners of his mouth. “You always told me to watch my surroundings, I should’ve listened.”

“Sidekick, please. You’re strong enough to hang on. Please. Not like this.”

“I’m dying a hero,” Sidekick murmured, tears pooling in his gaze. “God, I’m dying… I— I’m scared.”

Villain ran her hands through his hair as Sidekick fret beneath their soothing touch. His wide, tear glazed eyes met Hero’s. “I… I did good, right?”

Hero couldn’t contain his sob as he reached over and stroked Sidekick’s cheek. “Yes, yes. You did… you saved us,” Hero replied, sniffing.

“You’re our hero,” Villain added. His eyes flickered to her above him, as if he just realised she was there.

“Your most handsome son,” he said again. Villain let out a laugh, but it was sharp, discordant as she held in a cry.

“Of course, of course.”

“Maybe… maybe we can move the rubble now,” Sidekick said, his voice terribly soft and faraway. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. Maybe I can still make it. It doesn’t… it doesn’t hurt.”

Sidekick’s eyes focused on the sky. “What a beautiful day it turned out to be.”

Sidekick loosed a breathy exhale. And his eyes stilled, fixed on the sky that reflected the colour of his startling eyes. A heart broken wail tore from Hero’s chest as he looked down at his Sidekick. His still Sidekick. His stupid, stubborn Sidekick that wasn’t moving, he stared at the sky.

Villain’s breathing hitched beside him as she stifled her sobs, her fingers still running soothing through Sidekick’s jet black hair.

“Hero,” a warm voice said behind them. A heavy hand settled on his shoulder. “Gods. Sidekick, I’m so sorry, Hero.”

Villain hiccuped as she turned her gaze from Sidekick, glancing up to Superhero. She gasped as she looked down at Sidekick again, as if he would draw another breath or blink at her. Oh gods, his eyes…

Villain’s chest rattled, fret up and down as she reached down and closed his gorgeous blue eyes. “Our most handsome son,” she whispered as her tears hit Sidekick’s relaxed forehead. “Our bravest son,” she vowed, leaning down and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Superhero gathered some heroes who still stood after the fight and motioned for them to lift the rubble. They did and Villain’s breath was ripped from her lungs at Sidekick’s mangled body. His pelvis was crushed on impact, a splat of blood spattered from his right hip.

Superhero herself leaned down and wrapped his arms under Sidekick’s broad shoulders and under his knees before she lifted him as respectfully as possible. His hair hung from the nook of her elbow as she stood. Villain went to Superhero, wrapping him in her arms as sobs wracked her body.

*~*~*~*~*

Tag-list: @whump-in-the-closet @anxious-mess19 @scoundrelwithboba

@febuwhump

[minyard-05]

Febuwhump Day 9

Prompt: Major Character Death

Except they're one game– one damn game– into the season, and it's already a shitshow. Nobody expected the Foxes to win their first match of the year, and they'd certainly delivered on that front. Then, they'd spent six hours on the road to Raleigh at fuck-you-o'clock in the morning, just to watch some Arizona rookie run his mouth on live television and succeed beautifully in pissing off a twenty-year-old with a bad tattoo, who both Kevin and Andrew seemed to consider an actual, genuine threat.

So here they are, spending the night at Eden's, like usual. And Aaron's a little fucking tired.

taglist: @bsideheart @you-know-i-get-itt @millportisntreal @absolutely-existing @sunriseabram @tessasilverswan @andrewsleftarmband / @phosphorescentdreaming @givemethedamnflowers @pink-hydrangea

[chaotic-orphan]

Febuwhump: Day Twenty-Six

“Help them” — #febuwhump prompt calendar

Almost over!! Eeek!! I need to get all the prompts done! And my assignments are coming due but what is more important honestly?!

*~*~*~*~*

Hero brought Villain to supervillain cradled in their arms, paler than milk. It made everything look worse somehow… the dark circles around their eyes looked more like bruises now, deep purple and sore reds. Henchmen narrowed their eyes when they opened the door to see Hero standing there, covered in blood and an unconscious Villain cradled in their arms like a baby.

“I need to see Supervillain,” said Hero thickly. Henchmen raised their brows, clearly unimpressed. Hero stepped in, desperation driving them. “Please… I wouldn’t be here if there was any other way. You know Villain, henchmen please.”

Henchmen’s eyes flicked from Villain to Hero before setting their mouth in a thin line and stepping back into the house, opening the door wider.

“Thank you,” Hero breathed.

“I’m not doing this for you.”

“I know, thank you anyway. I’m grateful.”

Henchmen guided Hero to the stairs down to Supervillain’s workshop that took up the entire basement, renovated to suit Supervillain’s needs. Hero thanked Henchmen again before descending to the sounds of the door shutting behind them.

“Henchmen, if this is about tea again, I told you I’m fi—” Supervillain grumbled coming to see the intruder on the stairs. He paused, continuing to wipe his fingers in a cloth. Supervillain’s eyes took in Hero, the state of them, then focused on Villain in Hero’s arms.

Supervillain’s gaze when it returned to Hero’s eyes was heavier, weighted by their shared history. Supervillain turned away and said: “I’m closed for the day, little Hero.”

“Please.” The word was blubbered out of Hero’s lips before they could reign it in, the desperation, the despair, the panic. It caused Supervillain to pause again.

“Help them,” Hero whispered, sniffing, tears streaming down their cheeks Hero wished wouldn’t shed in front of the deadliest Villain in the entire city. “Please.”

“I told you,” said Supervillain, looking at Hero over their shoulder. “That if you walked out the door Villain was your problem. I told Villain that too. I didn’t walk, Hero. You did.”

“I’ll beg,” Hero told them taking another step down the stairs. “I’ll stay, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll give up being a Hero, I’ll stay here with you and we can start again.”

Supervillain scoffed, casting their gaze to the ceiling instead of anywhere else. “You’d give up your freedom for that mongrel?”

“Yes.”

There was no hesitation. No hitch in Hero’s voice, no doubt.

Hero watched Supervillain’s back stiffen at the immediacy of Hero’s reply, and the guilt overwhelmed them but it was the truth. The one truth Hero would live and die by, sacrifice their freedom for. If it meant Villain lived.

Supervillain started walking again, their voice quieter as they said: “you can set them down on this table here. Then leave. I don’t need you lurking over me while I work.”

“But—” Hero protested as they set Villain on the table. The rest of their protest died on their tongue when Supervillain cut them with a glare.

“Just upstairs, you don’t have to leave. You can shower, tend to your wounds yourself.”

Hero nodded and sniffed, “oh—okay.”

Hero pressed a kiss to Villain’s forehead before they sniffed and turned to leave. Supervillain spoke and it halted Hero in their stride.

“This will cost you dearly, Hero,” they said, voice grave. Hero nodded and said: “I know.”

That’s all they said, that was all there was to say. Hero walked back up the stairs to the main house. Henchmen was waiting beside the door, arms crossed over their chest, head reclining against the wall. Hero thought Henchmen would be surprised to see Hero without Villain, but Henchmen just scoffed, shaking their head.

“They never could say no to you,” they told Hero. Their eyes were burning with scorn when they fixed on Hero’s face. “What did you do? Sell your soul? You know they won’t do that for nothing.”

“I know,” said Hero softly, too tired to fight anymore. “I’m— I’m going to lie down.”

Henchmen pushed off the wall, haughty. “Do whatever you want, Hero. It’s what you always do anyways.”

[bilightningwhumper]

Belonging to Nightmares

-A "12 Dancing Princesses" inspired story-

Rating:

Mature (with some Explicit scenes throughout)

Summary:

Thirty years ago, the wife of the king's favored scientist passed away, taking their unborn child with her. Twenty-five years ago, twelve girls were made and born to the scientist, both in honor and the image of his beloved wife. Nearby, another girl was born, but she was unimportant, unworthy of note by any other than her adoptive parents in celebration of the grand miracle. Now, in the present day, our story starts five days after the scientist's death. Only one daughter, Minna, the one their father kept closest, does not grieve him. Neither does she grieve the loss of freedom taken from her sisters and her. She barely grieves in any way. After all, she does not feel. Not like her friends and sisters do. But she does love, she thinks. And that love is what keeps her going. And so, her fate is sealed. She is the protector of her family. Hidden away in the dark walls of the castle, Kyrie fights to change her fate. After her family's slaughter, she is now a concubine for the king. A king who is unpredictable, ever-changing in what she and others can do to please him. But please him she must, so she can find a way to be with Minna again. Or die trying. All main characters 18+ unless I specify otherwise (ie, certain flashbacks).

MCs:

Minna Palore- Clone 3 of 12, autistic and semi-verbal through echolalia/reading (communicates mainly by writing/visuals) Kyrie Erinsky- Minna's best friend turned girlfriend/lover, adhd and hyperverbal

Basic Premise:

-Medieval with some modern/steampunk-esk twist; partially dystopian or post-apocalyptic in quality -F/F romance -MCs are female whumpees with various whumpers and various caretakers

Types of whump/general warnings:

-lab+medical whump -possessive+manipulation whump -familial whump -discrimination+ableism -nsfwhump (in moderation) -explicit lesbian smut/nsfw content (consensual) I do not condone Rape/Noncon irl. This is purely a way to vent and cope. Take care of yourselves!

(* for mature/18+ posts)

Character List (and mini lore dump)

MC Portraits for "Belonging to Nightmares"

Calendar for the story

Character List for "Belonging to Nightmares" prequel- "The First Ones"

"Do You See Me?" companion story Masterlist

Main Work:

Important Mini *Major Spoiler* Lore Dump

(alternating PoVs; Minna first, Kyrie second, repeat)

Meet Minna

Meet Kyrie [tbd]

Minna- The First Two Years [tbd]

Kyrie- The First Two Years*

Meet the Sisters [tbd]

Masterlists for bits and bobs:

Flashbacks before Separation (chronological order; generally not spoilers)

Flashbacks set during "The First Two Years" (chronological order; mostly semi-spoilers)

Excerpts/Drabbles for The Main Story (chronological order, subject to change; generally spoilers)

Writing Events using these MCs:

Febuwhump 2025 [Planned daily postings 6pm EST]

Feveruary 2025 [Planned daily postings 6:30pm EST and 6:45pm EST]

Femslash February (using hollie47's prompts) 2025 [Planned daily postings 7pm EST]

Femme February 2025 [Planned daily postings 7:30pm EST]

Related answered asks:

Writeblr Library- Browsing: What's something your character is looking for? Will they ever find it? (answered with Minna)

Writeblr Bakery- Cake: How does your character celebrate? Could be for holidays, special events, or general celebration when they are excited/happy? (answered with both MCs)

Writeblr Gym- Stretches: What is your character's final goal? What are they reaching for? (answered with Kyrie)

ask game for teasing wips/upcoming projects- 🌪️Sum up a WIP with a few fic tropes/Ao3 tags

Mystery Question- Snowflake: What's something that your character is sensitive about? (answered with both MCs, as well as Sydney, Cyrus, and Dianna)

WIP ask game- about "The First Ones/The Old Ones" (the prequel story)

WIP ask game- about "Belonging to Nightmares"

Weather ask game- Snow: Who is your coldest / most stoic character and how do they express themselves (if at all)? (answered about Tanis)

Let me know if you want to be on the taglist, but no pressure, as always.

[fanfictasia]

Febuwhump Day 21

Shackled

Spoiler: This is an excerpt from The Chosen Twins

Anakin Skywalker

I blink a few times, refocusing. “You’re one of his victims, aren’t you?”

I don’t know why I didn’t expect the flare of rage I feel in the Force. I definitely didn’t expect him to hit me. “Sith are not victims,” he snarls, “I am more powerful now. Tell him what I said, boy.”

A swell of anger burns inside me, the thing that always coils when someone looks at me as though I’m nothing. Maybe it’s that I fear so much I’m not. “My name is Vader.”

“I don’t care what he calls you,” the twi’lek’ throws back. “You will only stay his for a short time. Lord Plagueis has far more important uses for you.” I loathe how fear twists inside me every time I hear the name. I’m… scared of him. I can’t help it.

I don’t know who he is. It’s certainly not anyone I know of. No Jedi would react like that, and Krell doesn’t count. It has to be something else, and it feels far more personal. “I don’t belong to any of you.”

“You will always belong to someone. You were made by him.”

On that note, maybe some of that… snipiness is coming back after all. “Everyone is made by someone,” I throw back, “It’s part of being human. Except clones, anyway.”

He hisses, and I stubbornly refuse to flinch back, instead glaring back at him. “I am letting you return to him only because Lord Plagueis demands it. Tell him.”

“Why should I give him a message from you when I don’t know who you are?” The Dark Side is whispering to me now, telling me to lash out, to crush his neck, and for some reason, something about that feels strangely… something. I don’t think Plagueis would appreciate it though, since this is clearly one of his science projects, too. On second thought, sassing back at someone when I’m still restrained isn’t a good idea after all.

[ninjadeathblade]

Febuwhump Day Twenty Eight: (Alt. Prompt) Last man standing

Warnings: Being sick, combat training

Word count: 602

Author's notes: The one and only thing I have written for The Bad Batch this month, happy Season Three Episode Four.

Crosshair ducked down behind the ledge of the tower, barely avoiding the bolts of fire that went past not a second later.

“Tech? Hunter? Wrecker?” He hissed into his comm. “I could use a distraction right now.”

Silence echoed back over the feed and he risked a quick peek down onto the field to spot where Wrecker had been swarmed by droids and his other two brothers seemed to have been tagged.

Right, stupid training regulations.

If you were tagged you were effectively dead and couldn't respond to comms.

And Wrecker was clearly too busy to reply.

“Useless di’kuts,” Crosshair sighed, quickly dodging a few more bolts.

The young clone swung his training rifle up with him, quickly sniping the droids that had been firing at him.

An overdramatic shout rang through the room and Crosshair rolled his eyes as Wrecker lay down on the floor.

That left him.

Last man standing.

He quickly sniped a few of the droids that were more sluggish about moving away from Wrecker before cursing as a bolt of training fire zipped past his helmet.

Crosshair wasted no time with picking off the last few before scaling back down the tower as the buzzer that signified the end of training sounded.

Wrecker clapped a hand onto his shoulder, jostling his skinnier brother. “Awright Cross! Nice job!”

The sniper kept his expression blank as he tugged his training helmet off, Maker forbid his brothers’ tease him. “I would have appreciated it more if you didn't go down so easily.”

“In my defence, ”Tech stated, a throaty sniff punctuating his words. “I am not functioning at usual standards due to the strain of the influenza virus I have picked up after you decided to drag us into a fight with a group of regs that had just returned from another planet.”

Crosshair shook his head before fixing Hunter with his piercing gaze. “And your excuse?”

Hunter shifted, averting his gaze. “Tech’s sniffing and coughing kept distracting me.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Crosshair dragged the word out, trying to highlight his disbelief - at Hunter's obvious lie - and annoyance to his brothers.

“Tech, I'm going to harass a medical droid to get you something to take. Hunter, you are clearly having migraine symptoms so I'm also gonna grab your painkillers, di’kut’ika. Wrecker, get Hunter to his bunk and then try to be quiet, however hard for you that may be.”

Wrecker mock-saluted before flinging their brother over his shoulder, Hunter's screeches of protest making Crosshair snicker.

After those two were gone he turned to Tech. “You look like you need to puke.”

Tech's nose scrunched. “I will inform you that I do not need to regurgitate our first meal, I am perfectly fine.”

Crosshair looped an arm around his brother's shoulders, guiding him towards the exit their other batchmates had taken. “Y'know, you really don't have to phrase it that way. Also, you definitely do, I've never seen you this pale aside from that one time when I mixed some of your rations into your drink.”

Tech gasped, turning to him with knitted eyebrows. “I was certain it was you! Why you-”

Crosshair quickly stepped back as Tech doubled over, proving Crosshair correct.

The silver-haired clone gently rubbed his brother's back, trying to give off an air of indifference.

When Tech straightened back up he adjusted his goggles with one hand, using the other to wipe the edges of his mouth.

“Yeah, I'm definitely going to harass a med droid.”

“That would be appreciated Crosshair, thank you.”

“Sure, whatever, just go back to the barracks and try not to throw up again.”

[stardustandash]

Ooooh for the Febuwhump prompts, "used as practice" for Cal? (I don't think I even fully know what that means, but I am excited to see what you come up for it!)

I had several ideas for this one and once I got going I just couldn't stop! Excellent suggestion, thank you!!

Fighting Alone

Febuwhump Day 12 - Used as practice

Fandom: JFO Words: 2323

From up on high in his observation tower Sorc Tormo grinned wickedly down at Cal in the arena. He didn’t have to picture the expression as the man had a fifty-foot holo of himself projected overhead. Cal reached for the Force to try and get a read on him, but was once again met with emptiness. The binders on his wrists were more than just a tool to keep his hands pinned. Whatever they were made with, it cut off his connection to the Force. Trapped in Sorc Tormo's arena once again, Cal must survive his fights until the rest of the Mantis Crew can come and rescue him.

Ao3 Link

The binders were too tight around his wrists. There were other things Cal needed to worry about, like whether or not BD-1 had made it back to the Mantis before the bounty hunter found him and if Cere, Greez and Merrin had made it off the planet okay. And if they were looking for him. That last part was probably important but all Cal could think about was how his fingers were getting colder with the lack of circulation. He also knew asking for the binders to be loosened would only get him laughter and insults. Nobody on this station cared about his comfort. In fact, all of them were there for the entertainment the exact opposite of his comfort would bring.

From up on high in his observation tower Sorc Tormo grinned wickedly down at Cal in the arena. He didn’t have to picture the expression as the man had a fifty-foot holo of himself projected overhead. Cal reached for the Force to try and get a read on him, but was once again met with emptiness. The binders on his wrists were more than just a tool to keep his hands pinned. Whatever they were made with, it cut off his connection to the Force. After finally regaining his connection to the Force to have it severed like this felt awful. Everything felt off balance.

“Well well well. Look who’s decided to grace us once again with his presence! The littlest Jedi, back again,” said Sorc. His voice echoed around the arena with the help of several loudspeakers.

There was no audience in the stands today, though something told Cal there were cameras around recording whatever Sorc Tormo had cooked up. He glanced around, trying to find some kind of weak point or escape route. Nothing stood out to him. He shifted his weight, trying to look bored and nonchalant while taking the pressure off his ankle. The bounty hunter that brought him in had used a rather nasty snare that left it bruised and the joint strained.

“After your last performance in the arena it became clear to me that the Haxion Brood has some work to do if we want to play with the Jedi. And I don’t mean you, little Jedi, I mean the real deal. The Generals of the Republic now in hiding. So what better way to train up than with you?”

Cal frowned. He did not like where this was going, especially with the kriffing binders on his wrists. He resisted the urge to tug his wrists apart. He’d already tried that with little results other than some fresh bruises. Instead he readied himself as much as possible for whatever was about to come. The arena was open, with slick walls that stretched up nearly twenty feet. Unless Cal spontaneously developed the ability to fly, he wasn’t getting out that way. He’d been lifted up from his cell through a hatch in the arena floor and could guess that anyone else would enter the same way. Less chance of him being able to break out through a gate. There were no pillars to hide behind nor anything that could be used as a weapon.

Still, Cal could work with those odds. Maybe. At least he could hold out until the Mantis made another dramatic entrance and he could once again make a daring escape. Maybe this time he or Greez could manage to take out Sorc Tormo in the process.

“Alright, enough dancing around, let’s see how our Jedi fares against our first round of bounty hunters desperate for some practise,” said Sorc Tormo, getting louder with excitement.

A buzzer rang shrilly as the floor shuddered then out of two different hatches four bounty hunters armed and armoured to the teeth rose up. Cal had barely a moment to brace before blasters were trained on him and firing. At least he could still run, even if his ankle hurt. He ducked and ran to the right, ignoring the sounds of blaster bolts slamming into the wall and floor just behind him. Those weren’t stun bolts. If he stopped, he was dead.

With no plan or means to defend himself, Cal did the first thing that came to mind. He ran in circles around the bounty hunters, trying to outpace their blasters while getting close. When he was within ten feet he made his move, launching into one elbow first and taking him to the ground. There was a quick flurry of movement as they tried to stand back up but Cal had spent most of his life learning to be quick and part of it learning to fight dirty. He jammed his knee up towards the crux of the bounty hunter’s legs and tore the blaster out of his hands as the hunter curled up with a groan of pain. He brought the butt of the blaster down on the bounty hunter’s helmet hard enough to crack it before spinning to shoot his partner.

Two down, two to go.

Cal had to duck as the other bounty hunters didn’t seem to care if they hit their allies and fired blindly. He rolled away, coming out of the roll on his feet in a sprint. He hoped the Force would grant him luck as he charged the other two intending to employ the same strategy.

It almost worked. Just as he was closing in he felt the sting of blaster fire graze his thigh. He stumbled, his weak ankle rolling at the awkward movement, and he crashed into the first bounty hunter with less force than he intended. The two of them rolled across the ground anyway, though this time the bounty hunter landed on top. He pinned Cal’s hand with the blaster beneath one knee as he took aim between Cal’s eyes. But Cal had looked down the barrel of a blaster before and this was hardly terrifying compared to staring down the clones under his command. He growled and twisted, unseating the bounty hunter from above him and freeing his hand enough to fire into the man’s side. It worked. The bounty hunter slumped and slid away. Instead of detangling himself from the man’s legs Cal simply shot the other bounty hunter before he could fire at Cal.

For a moment the arena was quiet. Cal pushed the dead man aside and scrambled to his feet and gulped down large lungfuls of air. He hated this part. Seeing the people he’s killed and knowing he did it. And with a blaster. At least he knew which end to hold and to squeeze the trigger. He had no aim, and he knew in a show of skill he would be the loser.

Before Cal can completely catch his breath there’s a round of tinny applause through the speakers.

“Well done, Little Jedi. But That was just your warm up round. I think these next ones might prove a little more difficult. And hey, just for you, I’ll give you your precious toy back,” Sorc Tormo goaded over the loudspeakers.

Cal wished he could fly up to the observation tower and toss Sorc Tormo off it. Why he had it out for Cal was a mystery. Anyone else who got their ass, arena, and bounty hunters handed to them so solidly the first time around would probably have backed off, but not this guy.

A small hatch in the floor opened halfway across the arena and Cal’s lightsaber appeared through it. Seeing it was a comfort, even if not being able to feel it was disquieting. At the same time another group of Haxion Brood bounty hunters appeared through another hatch. Cal barely spared them a glance as he ran for his ‘saber. His fingers closed around the metal hilt and even though he couldn’t hear the kyber singing inside, the shape of it in his hand was enough to bring at least a little peace to his mind. He couldn’t get both hands around it properly with the binders in place, but he had his lightsaber and when he ignited the blade it felt like a chance at victory.

Unfortunately for him, he was still at a disadvantage and the bounty hunters included two droids this time. He hated fighting those kriffing droids. But they weren’t going to hold back so neither would he.

Cal focused first on the two humanoid hunters. One had a flamethrower, the other a blaster rifle. Both annoying, but he’d dealt with ones like them before. He rushed in, lightsaber ignited and ready to strike. It was awkward using one handed techniques without being able to balance with the other hand, but it was better than nothing. He slid under the bolts from the rifle and sliced its barrel in half before pivoting to cut down the man behind it. His ankle protested loudly through the turn and he stumbled through the swing, but it connected with enough force to do the job. The one with the flamethrower barely had time to get their weapon readied before Cal was on them. A quick jab through the chest and they weren’t going to get up again.

One of the droids faced him with its blaster at the ready. Cal shifted his grip on his lightsaber and readied himself to dodge and strike when he heard a loud, metallic thunk from behind him. The other droid. He forgot about the other droid. Cal only made it halfway through turning and raising his lightsaber in defense when a metal arm came down on him. It caught him in the shoulder and the weight of it made his bad ankle burn and buckle and sent him sprawling to the ground.

Cal could hear the other one’s blaster firing up and knew he had to move. He groaned and rolled, but not fast enough. A spray of blaster fire peppered the ground where he’d just been, but he wasn’t far enough to escape entirely. Another blaster bolt found its mark through the meat of his bicep. Thankfully not on the side that was holding the lightsaber but enough to make him grunt with pain and know that his time was almost up. He had to dispatch them quickly or he’d be done for. Granted if Sorc Tormo had another round lined up for him he’d be dead anyway.

Again, he hoped that Cere and the others would find him soon.

He brought up his lightsaber in an arc to slice through the closer droid’s heavy arm. The hole in his bicep screamed with the movement but he had to ignore it if he wanted to get out of this. The droid sparked and hissed, and Cal took the opportunity to drive it through where he was pretty sure its central processors were. It gave a pitiful whine before its joints groaned and buckled with the loss of power. One more left.

The droid fired at him again. The blasterfire landed around Cal though luckily none managed to hit him this time. Cal was slow to dodge. His ankle and leg burned with the effort of keeping him upright, let alone moving. He couldn’t close the gap between himself and the droid before another round of blaster fire was directed at him. Moving on instinct he spun his saber in a circle in front of him, movement slow with the wound in his arm, and managed to deflect the shots. The ground around him smoked with fresh scorch marks and Cal bit his lip. He needed the cuffs off. He needed the Force to help.

The second droid was a bit more crafty. It jumped out of the way of Cal’s first strike. It landed with a ground-shaking slam that almost knocked Cal off balance. He had to take a few steps to regain his footing and in that time the droid had cocked back its arm and begun a swing aimed at Cal’s head. He ducked just in time. It was close enough Cal could feel his hair move with the wind. As he dropped he twisted his lightsaber backwards in his hands, jabbing behind and slamming it into the droid’s side. It missed the processors, but he heard the thing’s leg joints hiss and wheeze against ruined mechanics.

This was his chance. Cal darted further behind the droid and brought his lightsaber up across its back with a vicious diagonal strike. It shuddered and tried to turn even as its body failed it, slowly collapsing onto the arena floor with a metallic thud.

For a moment Cal could take in nothing but the sound of his own ragged breathing. Then slowly the adrenaline faded and pain crept its way in. His arm burned, it and the graze in his thigh pulsed with every heartbeat. His ankle shook with the effort of keeping him upright and Cal knew if he tried to take another step he’d fall. And he wasn’t sure if he would be able to get back up.

“Well look at that! Little Jedi survived round two. But uh oh! Looks like he took some damage. Can’t have our bounty hunters training against wounded prey. Someone knock him out and fix him up for me,” said Sorc Tormo over the loudspeakers, his projected image full of delight.

Cal glared up at it, which was as much as he could do as a soft click and hiss echoed around the arena. White fog slowly spread its way towards him from vents in the walls. There was nothing Cal could do as it reached him but try and hold his breath as long as possible. It didn’t help. Eventrually he had to breathe in the bitter-scented gas. Almost immediately he felt lightheaded and made himself sit before he could fall without being able to catch himself. He hoped Cere and the others would be there soon. He didn’t know if he could last like this.

[off-brand-likes]

Febuwhump Day 1: Vocal Cords

Warnings for torture and unfortunately placed burns! And no, I can't write anything without an intro, apparently.

Unlike the regular stormtroopers, riot trooper protocols didn't require them to run ID checks in the field. Knelt on cold duracrete with his hands behind his head among twenty Corellian resistance fighters scooped up in the pre-protest raid he'd come to warn them about, Kallus would enjoy a few hours of anonymity before the troopers realized who they caught. 

One of the resistance fighters, a Drall with dark brown juvenile stripes on her furred shoulders and head, shifted her weight toward her feet in such an obvious motion that the troopers really should have reacted to stop her. They were doubtless underestimating the small non-human's capacity for causing trouble.

Kallus caught the youth's gaze and shook his head. The Drall bared her teeth at him.

If Kallus couldn't stop the kid from doing something stupid, joining her would give her a chance at surviving whatever bad idea had occurred to her.

Kallus launched himself off the factory floor and tackled the nearest riot trooper. Both he and the trooper landed on the floor in a clatter of armor.

Riot troopers converged on him, shock batons crackling. Under the sharp thumps of batons hitting his arms and sides, claws clicked away from the group on the duracrete floor. The Drall youth was free. Maybe she'd stay that way long enough to bring help.

The riot troopers didn't have much trouble pinning one unarmed man to the floor, however much of a fight he put up. One snapped binders over Kallus's wrists and rolled him onto his back with his arms under him. His heart pounded and his chest heaved, even though he had no hope of continuing the fight with six trooper standing over him.

Three troopers returned to their positions guarding the remaining detainees, standing to one side of them to give the officer in charge a spot to face them while he talked. "We told you to stay where you are. Now, watch what happens when you don't do what you're told." At least Kallus hadn't caught the attention of an officer who liked to make speeches.

One of the troopers stepped on Kallus's chest and put his whole weight into holding him in place. Another knelt to grab his hair and pull his head back while the one on his chest shut his shock baton off and leaned down to jam it into Kallus's mouth.

A chip off one of Kallus's teeth cut his tongue before the baton smashed it flat on its way down his throat. He breathed through his nose, shallow and fast, forcing himself not to gag.

The troopers moved like they'd done this before. It probably wouldn't kill him, but kriff, it was going to--

A low hum hung in the air for longer than should've been possible before electricity ripped through Kallus from the inside out. It scalded his veins and scorched everything else. The current pulled every muscle as taut as the boot on his chest allowed.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't scream. Agony blanked his mind and paralyzed him. Blood sizzled in his throat.

It would never end.

It couldn't have gone on for more than a few seconds.

The pressure in his mouth and throat disappeared. Kallus gulped down air and got liquid in his lungs with it. Every cough hurt like a blaster shot to the neck.

The boot lifted off Kallus's chest. The officer was talking again. Kallus's coughing gasps drowned out the words. Fighting his twitching muscles for every burning breath, he curled over on his side. Blood sprayed from his mouth onto the duracrete beneath him.

The troopers left him on the floor in binders, where the Corellian prisoners could see what they'd suffer if they tried to run. They knelt in perfect stillness except for the wide-eyed human nearest him, who whispered, "What can we do?"

"Watch--" Pain choked Kallus for several trembling breaths through clenched teeth. "Watch for an opportunity." Whispering hurt, but the Corellian acknowledged the order with the smallest possible tilt of their head and a less panicked, more alert expression.

Kallus had never felt this burning, tearing pain in his throat before. ISB trainers valued students' voices too highly to risk ruining them. Even if it were safe to speak at a normal volume, Kallus's voice was nothing but a wet whisper now.

A bloody smirk made his bruised face ache. He couldn't answer any questions the troopers asked, unless they found him some flimsi to write on. Once the ISB found out the troopers had rendered Kallus effectively mute, they'd be furious at the inconvenience. And they'd have to leave his hands free to write.

[staycalmandhugaclone]

If you're new, this all starts with Touch Starved - Echo! You can read this little chunk as a standalone, or head back to the beginning for the full experience!

Febuwhump Day 1 Part 5

Touch-Starved – Crosshair - Fed up with Crosshair's dismissal of her help after a nearly disastrous escape, Doc finally snaps.

Warnings: Maybe light arachnophobia? Cursing, yelling, brief mention of injection

WC: 2,622

If not for the delicate sensors flashing across the overlay of my visor, I would have lost the others miles back, legs burning as I sprinted through the dense underbrush of the ancient forest. Fun. Yeah. I swear, next time a commanding officer called a mission either ‘fun’ or ‘simple’ or ‘easy’ I was going to strap the 70Ib medpack to their shoulders and let them see for themselves how fun it was to go racing through overgrown foliage so thick you could only hope it wasn’t concealing the massive trunk of one of those towering trees while being chased by dozens of ten-legged, very hostile carnivorous insects taller than Wrecker.

‘Scout the area for future outpost locations.’ ‘No known Separatist forces in that area, so should be an easy hike for you guys… have fun.’ That pompous old man better hope I didn’t stumble across him in a deserted hallway…

“Doc, eyes up!” Hunter’s voice barked over the com. I didn’t hesitate, body instantly responding by jerking both pistols toward the dark canopy. Those massive beasts blended in perfectly with the mess of bark and leaves, but my visor emphasized their movement and synced with sensors in the armor stretching down my arms and hands to guide my aim. From this distance, however, the handful of bolts that struck it from my rapid barrage of shots was only just enough to dissuade it from charging, sending the thing retreating to whatever web or hollow hid beyond that impenetrable layer of plant life to lick it’s wounds.  

Hunter and Wrecker were holding back the brunt of the assault behind us while Tech had raced ahead to ready the ship. Echo was somewhere near me, the ceaseless sound of his pistol the only thing granting me any certainty that I hadn’t strayed, and Crosshair laid in perfect stillness somewhere up ahead, blue bolts appearing like magic the instant one of those creatures got too close.

“There appears to be another wave incoming from the north. I suggest you hurry.” I briefly muted my com to release a violent string of curses on painfully quick, panted gasps even as I strained to force myself to move faster, hands training from one creature to the next at the relentless alerts chiming from my targeting system. In barely the span of a single heartbeat, I noted the glint of metal beneath one of those alerts, and my chest seized.

“Crosshair! Five o’clock!” The words tore from me in a panic. He was well beyond the range of my pistols; too far for any of us to do more than watch as he rolled hazardously over the branch he’d perched atop in an instinctual rush to avoid the sudden charge of the spider-like beast. The ancient tree shuddered beneath the assault, the terrible creaking of its moss-covered limb screaming over even the chaos of battle raging all around me.

“Crosshair!” Hunter’s voice boomed over the intercom just as the wood shattered. Even as he began to fall, Crosshair leveled the elegant barrel of his rifle at the creature and, with a single flash of light, sent it tumbling limp to the forest floor below. The instant he pulled the trigger, his hand darted out behind him, and I could only guess toward the desperation with which his fingers clawed into the sleek, moss-covered bark for any whisper of purchase. “There’s a vine twenty feet below you!”

The sniper barely glanced down before angling that lithe body against the massive trunk for whatever traction it might offer, rifle clasped carefully in one hand. The renewed frenzy driving me forward numbed the fire burning through abused muscle, diverting without a second thought from the path to the Marauder to sprint toward Crosshair, eyes locked on his rapid descent. I barely noticed the thin vine until his free hand snatch it midair, lower body arching forward like a pendulum for the half-second it held his weight. His mic just picked up the tiny hitch of his breath, and the rest of the forest went suddenly mute beneath it, beneath the fear in that flutter of air breaking over clenched teeth. Hand still locked around that traitorous vine, he began to fall.

Barely a dozen strides separated me from the base of the tree when his body suddenly snapped to a halt arm jerking above his head. I’d only just made out the loop of green caught around his wrist before his hand slipped free he crashed the final handful of meters to the ground.

Pistols already thrown into my holsters, I snatched the scanner from the side of my pack and slammed to my knees beside him. Before even coming to a full stop, my fingers darted out and slipped under his bucket to find the rapid dance of his pulse hammering just beneath his jaw as my other hand began the scan. Ignoring the listless flail of his arm trying to push me away, I maintained that position for just a few fleeting seconds, monitoring the rhythm while reading over the flashing text scrolling over my screen, trusting the others to cover us.

“‘M fine – get the kriff off me!” He snapped, movements gaining more strength as he finally wrenched my hand away. Beyond a sprained wrist and some bruising that would bring all manner of unsettling colors to his back, his armor seemed to save him from the worst of it. Ignoring the sharp words, I forced my arm beneath his shoulders and, with a surge of power fueled more by adrenaline than strength, hauled him up against me. He staggered beside me for barely a single stride before pushing away and racing forward on his own.

He said nothing as we ran, but I noted with painful clarity the way his right hand tucked slightly against his chest. Even if the damage was relatively minor, the pain was clearly severe enough to still even an attempt to use it. Cringing at the fresh hurt that surely tore through the limb with each stride, I tried to force my attention back to the encroaching wildlife, but the wave of fire from the others was finally beginning to allow us some breathing room.

“I want everyone strapped in now! Tech: we’re thirty seconds out.” Hunter ordered barely seconds before the top fin of the Marauder came into view. Nearly the instant my feet touched that ramp, we began to hover, and I had just enough time to throw myself into a crash seat, followed almost immediately by the others, before we were rocketing through the trees.

The quiet beneath five sets of heavy breathing offered frightfully little comfort, attention already turning to Crosshair. He glared blindly through the flooring beneath his feet, hand carefully limp inches above his thigh, jaw tensing beneath absent attempts to shift his fingers. As soon as the worst of the turbulence eased, I quickly freed myself from the mesh harness and trotted toward him.

“Try not to move it. Let me-” I started, already reaching for the swelling limb, but he quickly pulled away from me.

“I didn’t ask for your help!” He snarled, “You want to get all touchy-feely with the others, fine! But stay the kriff away from me!” For a brief moment, I was too shocked to reply, barely noting the grimace weighing heavily over Wrecker’s face, nor the annoyance in Echo’s glare as the man stalked quickly from the cabin.

“I’ll talk to him.” Hunter offered wearily, but that only fueled my rage.

“Don’t you dare.” The quiet threat in my words instantly drew his attention. Eyes shifting between me and the retreating form of his brother, his brow slowly raised in something between sympathy and skepticism. I merely narrowed my eyes before throwing my pack down and starting quickly after the sharp-tongued sniper. As soon as Crosshair saw me storm into the bunk room after him, that glare hardened into something dangerous, lips twisting into a snarl.

“No! You’re going to shut that karking mouth and listen to me!” I barked in the split second before he could unleash whatever retort boiled over his tongue.

“Or what? You’ll make me?” He challenged, shoulders rolling back as his head tipped forward, looking at me with those sharp eyes.

“Oh, grow up!” I spat, stalking forward until barely an inch lay between us. “You want to act all better-off-alone? Fine! You want to insult me and push me away? Kriffing go for it! But you have exactly three options right now!” Despite the fleeting space, I brought a hand up to count off, “Keep up this damn tough-guy osik, and I put you on med-leave until that wrist heals on its own.” I held up a second finger, “You walk into medbay and take a very painful bacta injection between your scaphoid and trapezium carpal bones.” My voice lowered only slightly into a growl as I raised the third, “Or sit your shebs on that karking cot, and let me do my job.”

He offered no retort to that, fury burning in those brilliant eyes as he stared me down, but I didn’t move, unflinching beneath the intensity of his rage. How long did he stand there, mind working for some alternative; any excuse to ignore me, to prove me wrong, before, finally, his teeth clicked from the way his jaw ground, gaze sliding reluctantly to the wall just behind me. Shoulders painfully taut, he sat heavily on the bed beside us. I’d apologize to Hunter later, but his was the easiest to access at that moment.

I didn’t try to catch his gaze as I kneeled before him, once more reaching for his hand. I just caught the way his lips pulled into a slight grimace at that first contact, muscles tensing beneath the instinctual drive to pull away; to flee, but he forced himself still. Without a word, I pulled the vambrace from his forearm before carefully beginning to ease the glove free. I could feel the slight twitch steal through his arm, but, again, he fought it.

Already, the joint looked painfully inflamed. I didn’t bother requesting he focus on his breathing or offer quiet conversation to distract him as my thumbs swept lightly in tandem along his palm both to trail over each bone in search of any hidden soreness as well as to begin pushing the swelling out of the angry tissue. I could feel his gaze carefully trained on me, eyes following my every movement with a violent distrust that robbed me of my earlier rage.

Pointedly ignoring the heat burring into me from his glare, I merely focused on my own movements, softly testing the sensitivity of the apex of the sprain and surrounding tissue to map out what I had to work with. Touch dragging back to the tips of those long fingers, I carded my fingers around each digit in turn. With a meticulous calm, I dragged the heel of my palm up his, swept the pad of my thumbs along the lines of tendons and over the ridges of bone until some whisper of that tension began to ease.

I was careful not to risk looking at him fully, but managed to catch a brief glimpse of him as my touch roamed delicately over his wrist before working into the lean muscles of his forearm. That rage was beginning to fall away, something so near to fascination just touching those eyes that left me holding my breath. This wouldn’t fix the sprain; not really, but the simple act of pushing the swelling from the injured tissue would greatly help with the pain and quicken its healing. In conjunction with the bacta patches stashed in one of the pouches lashed to my waist, I was hopeful that he would be nearly back to normal before reaching Kamino.

As I began dragging long, leisurely movements from the tips of fingers carefully supported against mine, up his palm, touch growing delicate over the swelling mound around his wrist, before firmly sweeping up the length of his forearm, he finally began to lose himself, eyes drooping as his head gradually sank lower toward his chest with each laxed breath.

I felt my movements slowing, reluctant to let him go for fear of never being allowed this moment of stillness with him again. Selfishly, I found myself returning to already blissfully limp muscles, working over each joint just once more, granting myself endless excuses to warrant a half dozen final adjustments before, with a slow, reluctant breath, reaching for the kit at my waist.

Only a whisper of that tension returned to him, eyes following me almost lazily before quieting upon seeing the basic madpack, and I tried to justify that quiet in the gentleness of my movements as I carefully secured the bactapatch against his wrist with meticulously applied bandages. I didn’t pull away from him once I’d finished, hesitating a moment before finally letting my eyes find his. That stillness lingered for a long while as he passively took in the gratitude burning through me, the silent plea screaming beneath my certainty that, the instant either of us moved or spoke or simply remembered the existence of a reality beyond this room, this moment of trust would vanish.

My arm seemed to move on its own, carefully resting his bandaged hand atop his thigh before just beginning to reach for his other one, palm held open in a quiet invitation as I let just the faintest glimmer of hope touch my gaze. He glanced briefly to my open hand, mind slowly returning to some level of awareness, and I felt that cold flush of defeat wash through me as his eyes shifted pointedly away, brows just tensing before his jaw clicked shut.

Without a word, he quickly pushed himself to his feet and stalked passed me. My hands sank back to my thighs, body deflating beneath the blanket rejection as the unapologetic hiss of the door closed behind him, leaving me too aware of the isolation that left me in. Fighting back the threat of guilt and regret at the harshness of my earlier words, I resigned myself to continued dismissal from the final member of this squad I was still trying to embrace as mine and thoughtlessly reached for the discarded wrappers around me from the used medkit.

Just as I’d begun calling some bit of motion back into my limbs, ready to finally force myself to my feet, the door opened once more. Expecting a kind word of sympathy from Echo or quiet reassurance from Hunter, I didn’t bother turning to look, unwilling to let them see the lingering hint of sadness I hadn’t yet managed to force back. The shock that tore through me when Crosshair dropped heavily back onto the cot, pinched glare turned pointedly to the far end of the room as he nearly thrust his other hand toward me left me staggering, lips just parted in a tiny gasp.

If he heard the way my breath caught as I let out a long, barely controlled sigh before reaching almost reverently for the offered limb, he made no show of it. I couldn’t begin to force back the smile, the lightness that burst through me as I gently eased the gear from his arm, overcome in that flood of relief. I knew this didn’t mean he truly trusted me, nor even that he more than tolerated my presence, but it was a start, and, as the smooth motion of my hands working over his gradually lulled him back into that blissed calm, I let myself finally begin to feel some hope that, just maybe, I could find my place here.

Continue Reading

Click here or message me if you'd like to be added to a taglist!

Click here for my Masterlist.

Taglist: @arctrooper69 @ct-0113

[em-writes-stuff]

"who did this to you?"

day 15 of @febuwhump

hero and villain

540 words

warnings: implied abuse

part two here

~

Villain lands one last blow to Hero’s chest and she collapses to the ground, hands coming up to protect her face. She whimpers and tenses up, waiting for him to hit her again. After nearly ten seconds of waiting for a hit, she peers through the gap between her arms and shifts slightly. 

“What are you waiting for?” She asks, hoping her voice wasn’t making her sound as weak as she felt. 

Villain’s head tilts, “I’ve won. I’m not going to hurt you more than needed.” 

Hero blinks in surprise and wraps her arms around her legs. She pulls her legs close to her chest and rests her chin on her knees. 

Villain sits down in front of her and takes a deep breath. “Are you alright?” 

“What?” 

“You’re slow today. It’s barely been five minutes and I’ve beaten you. Normally you’re good for at least ten.” he says. “Don’t even blame school because I know you’re out for spring break.” 

Slowly, he inches closer to her and cranes his neck to look at her. She pulls away uncomfortably and pulls her shirt down to cover her stomach.  

“What are you looking at?” she asks accusingly. 

Villain pulls her hand away from her shirt and reveals her bruised torso. 

“What happened?” he asks, lifting the shirt up more. 

She swats his hand away and pulls the shirt down. “None of your business.” 

His face softens and he backs away from her, imitating her position. He rests his chin on his knees and laces his fingers together in front of his legs. Hero stays quiet, waiting for him to say something. 

“Who did that to you?” he asks. 

She scoffs and lifts her head. “It’s almost like I was just fighting someone.” 

“Those are a few days old.” he retorts. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine, but don’t act like I’m not right to be worried.” 

“Why do you care?” she asks, pulling her legs closer against herself. 

“Because you’re a kid trying to save the world. And if I can’t help you see that Superhero is using you…the least I can do is stop him from killing you.” 

“Again with this thing with Superhero?” she snaps. “Last time I checked, he had the support of the city. And all you have is yourself.” she looks away from him and adds under her breath, “And I’m twenty.” 

Villain bites the inside of his cheek and takes a deep breath. “You’re not the only person he’s taken in. And it never ends well. Ever wonder how he’s still alive after this long? It’s because he sends his soldiers out instead.” 

Hero shakes her head, “No that’s not true. He and I have fought together-” 

“When he knows he can win.” Villain interrupts. 

Hero stands up and shakes her head, “I won’t turn on him. He’s given me too much.” 

She walks away, then under her breath, barely loud enough for Villain to hear, “Training is supposed to push you. I wouldn’t gain anything from it if he went easy on me.” 

Villain lets her leave, knowing that he won’t be able to change her mind if he pushes her too hard. Maybe one day, she’ll realize and maybe…she won’t.