#dot does febuwhump

[fastcardotmp3]

“And when will you leave?” he asks again. “When are you leaving? After Florida?”  Steve rolls them sideways, rolls them so Eddie is flat on his back, so his emotion-wrought muscles can slump with the weight of gravity, so all he has to do is gaze up at Steve hovering just above him and promising, “never leaving. Not without you. Never again.”  » Steddie // Rated M // Escaped Prisoner!Eddie // 2.3k » Febuwhump #12: Presumed Dead & "I'm doing this because I care about you" » Febuwhump Masterlist

read on ao3 // preview under the cut

He hears the haste in the footsteps outside his room before anything else, the way they land heavier than everyone else who has come and gone throughout the day. 

He hears the testing of the knob next, the turning of it when it doesn’t meet resistance, and then the slide of the door against too-tall carpet. 

He opens his eyes to meet the opening of the door and he does it just in time to watch the tension on Steve Harrington’s face melt. 

Steve Harrington, full beard and wire-rimmed glasses, a bit of extra meat on his bones since the last time Eddie saw him in person, since I’ll figure something out and the tightening of chains around Eddie’s soul. 

He melts. His jaw hinges open on an unsteady breath and snaps shut again in just a passing of a moment, and then he shuts the door behind him and puts the chain on the hook without ever letting his gaze fully leave where Eddie hasn’t moved from the middle of his mattress. 

Shirtless and boxers and wondering what differences Steve sees in him. 

Maybe the short crop of his hair or maybe the handful of new scars. Maybe the extra lines around his eyes, aging quicker in prison than he ever did in the open air of the apocalypse. 

Maybe the ease in the slope of his shoulders that Eddie can feel in the same way he can feel himself taking the moment as it comes and accepting it more than he ever, ever has. 

Steve just stands there and stares and looks and melts and Eddie can’t help but to grin at him, pull himself to the edge of the bed with his knees spread wide and his weight leaning back into his hands when he murmurs a quiet, “c’mere then,” that quakes through the whole state of Arizona. 

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 2: Solitary Confinement (Green)

Ao3

CW for burn wounds, torture, vomiting, blood and injury

——————————-

Being alone isn’t something Green is accustomed to. Not often is he without someone beside him. He has Grandpa and Dot now, just as he always has. And before that Ezlo and the other Minish, and even Shadow for a short time before he had sacrificed himself.

Then, of course, there is the fact that he is one of the four divided emotions that make up his full being. Nothing like being four in one to ensure a person is never lonely.

And maybe the Shadow knows that about him. Maybe that’s why he has his own cell, separate from Vio, Blue, and Red.

He lets his head fall back against the cold, stone wall with a sigh. The same drip, drip, drip he has been hearing for forever grates on his ears. His chains feel impossibly heavy, too large for his slender ankles and wrists.

He isn’t sure how long it’s been since he woke up here in the dank darkness, broken body screaming with pain. But it feels like it’s been quite a while. The headache dancing behind his eyes likely isn’t helping with that.

Vio probably knows, he thinks, absently. Knowing him, he’s figured out how to calculate the exact hours, minutes, and seconds since we were dragged into this rancid dungeon.

The thought draws a pained chuckle from him. It only worsens the incessant ache encompassing him. He lets out a low groan, shifting to try and gain some small comfort. There is none to be had, however.

The new position awakens his slumbering legs, allowing him to feel the pain of countless cuts and bruises. And the movement allows more chilly dampness to slip through his tunic. It slices through his skin, icy and harsh, freezing his blood in his veins.

Green shivers. For what must be the hundredth time since he awoke, he twists in his bonds, attempting to find some small weakness. But even yanking at them does nothing. They are as strong and immovable as ever.

He leans back again, sighing through slightly chattering teeth. More waiting is in the cards, apparently. More moments spent worrying about the other colors and his brothers too. He can only hope they weren’t captured as well.

Especially Wild. After all, the hero had been the only one on patrol with him when the monsters had shown up. And though Green hadn’t seen him fall in the moments before a moblin’s spear had taken him out, that doesn’t mean it hadn’t happened.

But there isn’t much he can do about that now. Not unless, by some miracle, he can break free. Which, if Green is correct, won’t be happening anytime soon. So, he settles in as comfortably as possible and tries to ignore the ball of fear situated heavily in his gut. And he waits.

Time slides by at the speed of a sluggula. There is no window through which to see the sun or the moon, no cracks for light to filter through. The only thing that differentiates one moment from the next is the amount of feeling he has in his limbs.

He has just begun to give up on his fruitless battle against slumber and drift off when the screaming starts.

Green jolts up with a gasp. His heart skips a beat, blood flooding to his head and pounding in his ears. The room blurs for a moment, then clears, rights itself. He hardly sees it happen. All of his attention is on straining his ears to catch the next sound. Because he might be imagining things — though he’s almost certain that he isn’t — but that sounded an awful lot like Red.

It comes again, agonized and terrible. This time, it sends shock waves of blunt force shooting through Green’s skull. He grits his teeth, as pain drives down on him. He tastes blood on his tongue.

Red cries out once more not a few seconds later and again pain hits Green with breathtaking force. This time, he can feel the blood. It runs down his abdomen, in warm, sticky rivulets that stain his emerald tunic a deep maroon.

With shaking fingers, he drags up the shirt, wide eyes searching for a visible wound. Sure enough, there it is — a jagged gash that runs across his stomach.

Green stares at it for a moment. Then, he pitches sideways and vomits.

He hardly has time to recover, however. Another scream rings out (Vio, he thinks) and he crumples, crying out as the bones in his leg shatter.

His breath comes fast and ragged. Spots explode before his eyes.

Again, comes a wave of agony. This time Green’s scream joins with Blue’s. Iron floods his mouth and he gags on it.

He doesn’t hear the door slide open, doesn’t see the advancing swath of lantern light. All he knows is the roar of blood in his veins, rushing traitorously to the wounds that tear him apart. All he knows is the visceral terror gripping his mind.

“Your turn you little runt,” someone grunts nearby, breath hot on Green’s neck.

He hardly has time to comprehend the barely audible words. The monster (or perhaps man? Green has certainly never heard a keese or boko speak before) hefts something in its hands. Then, it brings it down in a screaming streak of metal and flame. It collides with Green’s back, hissing as it devours tunic and flesh alike.

He can’t hear his cry of agony, nor those who join it. He doesn’t feel his fingernails tear on the worn stones beneath him. When he throws himself into a desperate roll, he hardly realizes his own actions. Everything has narrowed to this moment and the flames eating away at him.

When, at last, they go out, leaving behind the nauseating scent of seared flesh and singed hair, Green goes boneless. He clenches his hands into trembling fists, dragging in desperate, sobbing gasps of air. Bile presses at the top of his throat and he chokes it up, heedless of the way it dribbles down the side of his face.

Harsh laughter pierces his ears, followed by the sound of screeching iron. He should be concerned, he realizes distantly. But he is too weak to care.

“No, no,” someone sneers in a voice that sounds awfully like the Shadow, “do not touch him again. He has suffered enough. They all have.”

Clawed feet round his body, padding soundlessly upon the hard floor. Green stares dazedly at them, seeing but not perceiving.

“Come now, little one.” A talon skewers his chin and lifts it. Something long and slim and silver lowers into his line of vision.

Green inhales sharply. It’s his sword.

The Shadow smiles and there is no warmth in it. “You are lonely and hurting. It has been days since you were last whole. It has been weakening you, I know. So, take your weapon. Reunite the broken pieces of yourself.”

Green gazes at the blade. His reflection wavers within it. Hairband askew, eyes wide and feverishly bright, streaks of tears and blood on his cheeks – a clouded and distant portrayal of a broken boy. With trembling fingers he reaches out, enraptured by the promise of freedom and fight.

Of being himself once more.

If he can just become whole, he’ll have a chance.

His hand closes around the blade at the same time as footsteps come thundering down the hall.

“Green, stop!” Wild bellows. And Green screams.

Magic flows within him, setting fire to his veins, and sapping the last of his strength. But his body offers it readily. It needs to be one, yearns to be. Slowly, agonizingly, desperately, the pieces of himself crawl back to each other.

When he slumps to the ground, he is Four once more.

[shih-coulda-had-it]

FEBUWHUMP DAY TEN | DIFFICULTY BREATHING | wc: 600

>:3c

//

The blurry sight of All for One’s upside-down smug face is unfortunately the first thing Sorahiko sees when he wakes, but it’s not the first thing he registers. No, the first thing Sorahiko processes past the lingering haze of sedation is the shortness of his breath. His lungs are working double-time, even though he must have spent the past few hours in a deep sleep.

“Hello there,” says All for One warmly.

“What,” says Sorahiko, uncomprehending. The dots are slow to connect, but connect they do. If his head is being pillowed on All for One’s stomach, then his shoulders are braced against the bastard’s lap, and further down… Sorahiko’s brain crabs up to speed, and instinctively, he tries to burst out of the position with Jet.

His ribs ache. 

“Careful,” All for One chides, grabbing the flailing hands and pinning them high and to the side, forcing Sorahiko to arch his back and gasp. Covetous red eyes curve in a slight smile. “You make a lovely picture, Sorahiko, but I’m afraid I must insist on having you not faint right away.”

“You piece of shit,” he wheezes. “You--you son of a bitch--”

“A better reaction than to the collar, I suppose.”

Sorahiko attempts to jack-knife his way free, but All for One only reacts by hauling his body up closer. The last futile heave leaves Sorahiko totally breathless; he barely has enough energy to squirm, to see if the black corset will go slick with sweat and slide below his ribs. No dice.

All for One didn’t even have the decency to lace the damn thing over an undershirt. The unforgiving material digs into pale flesh without mercy, and his stomach is on the verge of turning over on itself. Perhaps the only thing saving Sorahiko from blacking out entirely is the comforting thought that All for One’s left his threadbare flannel pants alone.

“Get this off me.”.

“In due time.”

“Now.”

He pretends to be dismayed. “My dear, I’ve spent so much effort planning this evening! Why, ever since I heard from a little bird that you wanted to shut down the trafficking ring here, stalled only by a lack of knowledge of who, specifically, was running what… Well, I had to offer my help.”

“And why,” Sorahiko grounds out, “does that need me wearing restrictive lingerie?”

“The answer is two-fold.”

“Pretty sure it boils down to, ‘I’m a perverted opportunist.’”

In response, All for One tugs one of Sorahiko’s hands over and lightly kisses the whitened knuckles. Absolutely not, an inner voice shrieks, recoiling from the gentle, poisonous touch. Sorahiko digs his heels against cool white sheets and forces himself to focus on the unasked-for garment. On the unasked-for assistance regarding the Nā Shadā ringleaders.

“Is it so much to give up?” All for One asks innocently. “Information is priceless. You won’t have to worry about anything except gathering names and faces, because I can take care of the rest. Honestly, my dear, this is as strong as a cover you’ll get.”

“I quit playing arm-candy years ago,” Sorahiko snaps.

“The role hasn’t changed much.”

“If that’s true, then I don’t have to be wearing--”

“The corset is non-negotiable,” says All for One in a lofty manner. “Color and design, of course, we can discuss. I’ve invested in several sets.” He rubs his jaw over Sorahiko’s head in some pantomime of a nuzzle. “You’re a flight risk without collateral, Gran Torino. And you won’t have to wear it long. The next auction is sooner than you’d think.”

Sorahiko pictures tearing out the man’s throat with his teeth.

[the-13th-battalion]

Tadaaaa! Day 4 of @febuwhump is here!! I stuck with the prompt "impaling"!

This originally went way different in my head?? but then Rex grabbed my phone and said "no this is how it happened" and honestly who am I to argue with Rex???

Enough

Rex pushed his way against the rush of Togrutans. He coughed at the rising plume of dust ahead of him. The earth trembled. He staggered and bumped into a Togruta. He apologized, stabilized the other man, then set his eyes on his goal again.

"Sir!" he shouted over the panicked cries and rumbling stone, "Sir, stop!"

Obi-Wan stumbled on a few paces ahead. Rex urged himself onward, his bare feet clumsy on the loose gravel. Self-sacrificing idiot!

"Sir!" He reached Obi-Wan's side and grabbed his arm. "Stop! You're going the wrong way!"

Obi-Wan tore his gaze away from the mouth of the tunnel, from the black dust and gases vomiting from its entrance, from the Togrutans running and staggering out of the darkness.

Obi-Wan set his jaw. His eyes spoke volumes about his iron determination. Rex knew it would take all his power to dissuade the Jedi. "I can help them. Let go of me."

Rex tightened his hold. "With all due respect, sir, you shouldn't go any further! The boiler will explode and the tunnel will collapse. You and I have seen enough explosions to know that we'll be of no use down there!"

"But I can contain it! I can push it back, create a shield-"

"And the tunnel will collapse around you!"

Obi-Wan's gaze drifted back to the tunnel. He brought his hand up to his chin. Instead of rubbing his beard, he picked at a scab.

Rex knocked his hand away. "Stop that."

Obi-Wan let his hand drop to his side. "Rex, I have to help."

"And we will." He grasped his other arm. "There's a time to use the Force and there's a time to use your head. If you go down there, you'll be hurt or killed. If you stay up here, we can get these people away from the worst of it in time."

Obi-Wan considered it, then he nodded. "Fine. But when it does explode, I'll still contain what I can."

Rex gave him a wry smile. "I'd expect nothing else from you, sir."

Together, the two of them helped countless Togrutans to relative safety. For once, Rex was glad the Zygerrians had apparently abandoned this group and left them to die. They would only make matter worse if they saw how Obi-Wan practically carried many of them away, how he muttered reassurances and eased their pain with a featherlight touch to the forehead and a whisper of the Force.

Rex looked into their grateful faces and hoped they remembered this instead of associating him with their pain.

They had families and friends begin counting heads to ensure everyone had made it out when the ground shook with greater fervor. Everyone turned to the mouth of the tunnel. Several shouts and cries rang out from the crowd. The few Togrutans not holding onto someone quickly found a neighbor with open arms.

Obi-Wan's eyes flicked to Rex. They held each other's gaze.

Rex shook his head. "No. Don't you dare."

Obi-Wan smiled. A sad smile. A farewell smile. "Apologies, Captain."

He dove into the darkness.

Rex's heart leapt to his throat. "No, wait- Obi-Wan!"

He ran after him but stopped before he could cross the threshold. Another tremor rattled the earth. A flash of flame burned from deep within the tunnel. The silhouette of a man stood in stark contrast against the blaze of red and orange.

Then the ground stilled. The fumes leaking from the tunnel subsided to a trickle. Even the stifling heat lessened in intensity.

Rex waited. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He scanned the black void, praying for a sign of Obi-Wan.

At last, he staggered into view. Soot and dirt coated every spare inch. Blood ran down his neck from a cut on his cheek and dotted several spots on his blackened clothes. A shard of metal protruded from his shoulder. Despite it all, when he caught Rex's eye, he smiled.

Relief flooded Rex's chest. He dashed to his side and draped Obi-Wan's arm across his shoulders.

Obi-Wan leaned against him and allowed himself to be led away from the tunnel. "Made it out."

"I'm very glad, sir." Rex caught a glimpse of metal poking out the other side of Obi-Wan's shoulder. "That's quite a wound you've got there."

"A small price to pay," Obi-Wan replied, "It's- hnggg- I'm fine."

Rex raised an eyebrow. "Of course you are, sir."

"I contained the explosion."

"That you did." Rex smiled. "No one was hurt, thanks to you."

"And you. You helped lead them out."

"All in a day's work."

Obi-Wan laughed lightly.

They approached the crowd of Togrutans. The people began to cheer. Many of them rushed forward to offer thanks. A woman kissed each of their foreheads, cupping their cheeks in her calloused hands and thanking them profusely.

For a moment, Rex could pretend they had completed a normal mission. He could imagine Anakin, Ahsoka, and all his brothers waiting outside for them. They would leave only to be swept up again on another adventure.

For a moment, he could pretend, and that was enough.

[heytheredeann]

If I know you, I know what you’ll do (you’ll love me at once)

Tags: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Time Travel, Blood and Injury, Injury, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Canon, (mostly at least), Napoleon Solo Whump, Hurt Napoleon Solo

Summary:  “You know, if you are trying to kidnap me, you are being awful nice about it.” Or, a strange Russian man saves Napoleon’s life.

Notes:  This is the fill for the "Who are you?" prompt from day 12 of Febuwhump, and it totally could have been up on time but I have been squinting at it for two days instead. Aaaanyway, here it is, hopefully it turned out okay! The title is from "Once upon a dream" by Lana Del Rey.

.

Alright, so perhaps making a run for it while injured and unarmed was not his most brilliant idea of the day. He might have had better luck holing up somewhere and hoping not to be found.

But well, damage’s done, and it’s probably a statement to how much of his blood is not where it’s supposed to be that he makes another grave mistake on top of it all: hearing a sound behind him, he turns to check if he is being followed, fast enough that the world does not steady once he’s done turning, and next thing he knows he’s tripping and landing on all fours.

He supposes it’s a good thing that his hands automatically darted forward to break the fall, it wouldn’t have done him much good to land flat on his face, but his bleeding shoulder, having had to bear some of the impact, vehemently disagrees.

Or rather, it howls in pain, dragging a low groan out of him as he tries to breathe through it and get back up.

To go where, that has yet to be decided, and the fact that his plan is currently to just not die is—well, it’s not helping. He’s failing miserably at it, and it doesn’t offer much of an incentive to get back on his feet, especially with all those black dots at the edge of his vision and his aching knees protesting that they don’t feel like running anymore, thanks but no thanks.

He hears footsteps first, gets chocked by panic second and manages to get the man running towards him in semi-focus only third, but hey, it’s something, and there isn’t much that he can do to stop a bullet to his head anyway.

He could try rolling away. Just—letting go, falling down, rolling and rolling until the guy runs out of bullets.

Is it an excuse to just lay down? Possibly, but still.

The man does not shoot him in the head.

Instead, he takes a rather curious approach to murder: he crouches down in front of him, grabbing his arms and pushing him back enough to get the weight off his arm, then he looks at him in the eye, almost giving the impression of giving a damn about him – touching, really –, and announces that he’s going to pull him up.

[More on Ao3]

[hellowkatey]

Febuwhump Day 1

Prompt: Mind Control @febuwhump

read on ao3

A Magnet for Trouble

"This," Anakin kicks at a ball of dust, causing the particles to go flying everywhere. "blows,"

His Master coughs, and Anakin looks up to see he has kicked the dust directly into the face of Obi-Wan. He supposes he earned the disapproving scowl this time.

"Not every mission is going to be exciting, Padawan. Sometimes we receive tasks that are a little more on the mundane side."

Anakin examines his Master's face as he continues to brush dust out of his bearded face. Though he has the typical Obi-Wan Kenobi stoicism, Anakin has known him long enough to see that he too isn't exactly pleased about their task.

Some random Outer Rim planet claimed to have found some ancient Jedi artifact, so the council sent them to go fetch it. Literally, anyone could have done this, but they decided to send a Jedi knight? Master Nu would probably love this kind of thing, but Master Obi-Wan wouldn't let him suggest that to Master Windu.

So now they're searching through this dusty old house that smells like bantha poodoo and mildew because the local officials were too afraid to touch it. Apparently even too scared to get close enough to the artifact to get a decent holo. From the dark image, it looked like a deactivated Holocron, so Anakin isn't sure what all the fuss it about.

"Why would the Jedi leave something valuable in this kind of place?" he asks, crinkling his nose at a pile of something in the corner that seems to be a source of the horrible smell.

"This house is old, Anakin. I suspect long ago it was quite elegant and beautiful. During the Great Peace, Jedi Masters often opted to retire in their home worlds or places they liked. It is entirely possible this was the residence of a Jedi Master."

"I thought Jedi didn't like material things, though. This place is huge!" They'd spent the last hour or two making their way carefully through the three-story winding home.

Obi-Wan chuckles. "We are taught not to keep material things, but that does not mean some Jedi don't like them anyway. I'm sure you and that desk of projects you have can relate."

"Those are practical, Master."

"A bolt slingshot is practical?"

Anakin looks away from the wry gaze of his Master. He may or may not have broken a mug or two with that slingshot, but it was a prototype.

They go into the next room. It's the largest bedroom by far, with a canopied bed and large heavy furniture in various places. White sheets haphazardly cover the tables and paintings.

"Surprise, surprise. Another dusty bedroom." Anakin sighs, tugging down one of the sheets to look at the painting. In the dark, it is difficult to see, but he can tell it's a portrait of a woman.

"This is the main bedroom. Perhaps our artifact is somewhere in here."

"You'd think they'd tell us where they found it."

"I suspect they forgot which room it was."

Understandable, I suppose. There are literally over twenty different bedrooms that all look similar. While Master Obi-Wan looks through the drawers of the bedroom, Anakin continues to take interest in the painting. He pulls his lightsaber out, igniting it to get a better source of light.

"What are you doing?" Obi-Wan asks, his back still turned to him.

"Need more light." He waves the lightsaber close enough to the painting to see the face of the woman. Intense golden eyes stare back at him, almost like they are locking him into a gaze. He is entranced by her dark shiny curls that cascade down her shoulders and seem to fade into the elegant dark robes she is wearing. His eyes settle at the necklace that hangs from her neck, its dark metal forming a teardrop shape with a red gem in the center.

The woman is beautiful. Scarily beautiful. Were her eyes brown she might look a little bit like Padmé, or at least how Anakin remembers her. It's been nearly eight years since he's seen her, and he misses her sweet smile dearly.

"Anakin, what have I told you about gawking?" Obi-Wan teases, tugging at his padawan braid as he passes.

"I'm not-- oh nevermind," he groans, pulling his braid back in front of his shoulder.

"I'll check the closet, keep looking here."

"Yes, Master." He lowers his saber, about to turn it off when something catches his eye. The glow of his saber shows a space at the base of the wall. Anakin crouches down, placing his hand at the baseboard, and indeed feels a bit of a draft coming from underneath.

Interesting. He puts his saber away and stands, running his hands along the sides of the painting. To his excitement, he finds a seam in the wall, hidden well by the frame. He grins and reaches out with the Force. If this is the home of a Jedi, they undoubtedly would have a secret door that is Force activated! Maybe I can figure out how to put this in my room...

The section of the wall shutters and then slides backward, revealing a darkened room.

"Oh wizard," Anakin mutters to himself, pulling his saber out. He is about to walk into the room when he turns, looking to see if Obi-Wan is anywhere near. He probably should tell his master what he found, but maybe checking it out first would be a good idea. He would hate to take him away from his search for a dead-end...

He will call for him if he finds something. If this is where the artifact is, then he can say he found it all by himself!

Anakin steps into the room, using his lightsaber to light his path. It is larger than he expected, just a desk in the far corner and a bookshelf that is now empty and covered in cobwebs. He walks right up to the desk, giddiness running through him as he spots a cube in the center of the table. He picks it up, turning it around in his hands to examine it.

The holo they gave was dark, but this seems to be the artifact! It is a dark metalloid material with markings that do look like a Holocron, but it doesn't glow blue as the ones he has seen. In fact... it doesn't seem to be a Holocron at all. If it is a Jedi thing, maybe it too responds to the Force? He closes his eyes, trying to get some sort of signature from the object, but it is like it is just out of reach for him.

Strange. He decides to show Obi-Wan and walks out of the secret room. In the light of the main room, now Anakin can see there is a latch. Oh duh, it's a box!

"Hey Master, come look at this," he calls, as he undoes the latch.

"One moment, Anakin."

With the latch open, Anakin tugs at both ends, and the cube opens at the center, sending something from within rattling out and onto the floor under the bed. He cringes, hoping he didn't break whatever it is. He crouches down, feeling around the dusty floor until his hands lie on something cool and metalloid. He draws it out, his eyes widening when he realizes it's a necklace.

The necklace from the portrait. Its teardrop design is smooth in his hand as he examines it. Somehow, as old as it must be, it isn't tarnished.

Skywalker.

He looks over his shoulder, but there is no one there. Anakin could have sworn he heard his...

Skywalker, come to me.

He looks the other way. The voice is quiet, indistinguishable of gender though it is definitely speaking basic. When it whispers his name once more he looks down at the necklace, suddenly realizing that the voice is not coming from around him, but from it.

He flips it over, revealing the beautiful red stone. It shimmers as though it is its own light source, entrancing Anakin in its kaleidoscope of colors. He runs his thumb from the side of the necklace to the stone to feel the smooth-looking gem.

The moment he touches it, he is struck with an icy chill that runs from his fingertips down to his toes. Terror fills the Jedi Padawan, and he staggers backward, his mind telling him to drop it but his body not listening. He clenches the necklace in his freezing hands, and the world around him tunnels.

Obi-Wan is going to be so mad at me...

And then there is only darkness.

_______

A clatter and a thump resonate from the other room. Obi-Wan sighs. What has he done this time? He found nothing in the closet so he heads back to see what his padawan has gotten into this time. While he had hoped Anakin would outgrow his propensity to attract trouble, it seems the sixteen-year-old is still well endowed in finding mayhem.

"Anakin, if you managed to break something--" he trails off as a chill runs up his spine. A warning in the Force. Obi-Wan puts a hand on his lightsaber and reaches out through their bond.

On the other end, he feels nothing but static.

"Anakin!" he calls, now running into the bedroom. He skids to a stop at the sight of one of the walls caved in, an open box lying on the floor, and Anakin's body slumped to the side. Though he still senses danger, he doesn't see anything that could be causing it. He drops to his knees beside his padawan, rolling him so his head lies atop Obi-Wan's legs. He lays a hand on Anakin's cheek and pulls away in horror at how cold he is. "Anakin, wake up!" he orders, shaking him firmly.

Obi-Wan gets a sudden feeling like he's been here before. For a split second, his teenage padawan becomes his graying Master lying motionless in his arms on Naboo. Panic grips him, and he grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. As quickly as he sees it, it is gone.

Freezing fingers enclose around his wrist and Obi-Wan's eyes snap open to see Anakin staring back at him, but there is something off about him. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he has time to process what is happening his body is being flung across the room with tremendous force. His back slams into the wall and he sags to the ground, vision spotting with black dots.

Anakin stands now with his lightsaber in hand, and Obi-Wan realizes what is wrong with his padawan is that his bright blue eyes now shine a dusty gold.

"Padawan," Obi-Wan says carefully as he pulls himself to his feet. He doesn't dare reach for his own lightsaber. "What happened?"

"I am no padawan," he says back, his ashen face devoid of any emotion. Though it is Anakin's voice it isn't Anakin. Obi-Wan has never heard him speak in such an inflection.

"Then do tell me who I am speaking to."

"Anakin Skywalker."

Obi-Wan shakes his head. "I'm afraid not."

"I am Anakin Skywalker, and you, Obi-Wan Kenobi, will die by my hand."

Anakin raises his saber, not in his usual starting position but in Form II-- Count Dooku's preferred form for its elegance and dueling superiority. Anakin has never once taken interest in the fluidity and discipline it takes to learn Makashi.

Obi-Wan still doesn't grab for his own weapon. Anakin lets out a guttural yelp and darts forward, jabbing his lightsaber aggressively. Obi-Wan twists out of the way much to the displeasure of whatever is controlling Anakin.

"Draw your weapon, coward," he hisses.

"What have you done to him?"

Anakin's face twists into a sinister smile that Obi-Wan has a feeling will likely give him nightmares in the weeks to come. "He is my vessel. A strong one, at that, for an apprentice. I have inserted my Life Force into him, and now we are one."

The boy lunges at him again, and Obi-Wan is able to evade him once again, but this time his shoulder is grazed by the tip of the lightsaber. He bites his lip at the red-hot pain igniting his upper body but swallows it back.

"So what is the plan then? What is your purpose?"

"Does there need be a purpose besides the chance to walk the galaxy once again?"

He stares at the boy, recognizing the tell-tale shadowing of him about to strike once again. If whatever is occupying his padawan is telling the truth, then Obi-Wan knows what he must do. He finally draws his lightsaber grimly, raising it above his head parallel to the floor in the opening move of Soresu. He points in Anakin's direction.

"You will not take over the soul of a boy for your selfish purposes," he says, and then Anakin's saber is crashing against his.

Obi-Wan has sparred with Anakin so many times throughout their training. The boy is a natural with a lightsaber, and one of the best padawan fighters among his age mates. He is quick and decisive, pouring every ounce of his endless supply of energy into each brutal strike. Even with another controlling his mind, his body still moves like Anakin. Thankfully, this is a feat Obi-Wan can easily accomplish. He blocks every strike, knowing exactly what he is planning before Anakin even knows it. Every one of his jabs is met with Obi-Wan's lightsaber waiting patiently for him to catch up. With every crackle of their blades striking another, he can see the fire in Anakin's eyes grow. His golden eyes are not unlike the piercing yellow of Darth Maul, filled with hatred and anger.

Through his anger and fatigue and many minutes of combat, Anakin becomes more and more sloppy. Obi-Wan takes this opportunity to lash out with a rapid kick to the center of his chest. He goes staggering backward in surprise, and Obi-Wan is quick to sweep his legs and cause him to go tumbling to the ground.

"I see you are not used to the awkward body of a teenager," Obi-Wan says, kicking the lightsaber out of Anakin's hand and using the Force to pin him to the ground. He thrashes against the hold, but Obi-Wan is tapping deep into his Force abilities to hold him still. He can already feel the tremendous headache blossoming in his temples.

"You know you will have to kill him to stop me," The thing says lowly. "There is no other way."

"No," Obi-Wan shakes his head. "There is always another way."

"The boy is kin to the darkness. It wraps around him and he accepts it with open arms," he grins. "Anakin Skywalker is a natural in the dark side, and so you must kill him to free him."

Obi-Wan kneels down beside the restrained boy, placing a hand on his forehead despite his attempts to pull away. He looks Anakin-who-is-not-really-Anakin in the eyes, reaching out once again through their bond.

Anakin. He calls against the distant sliver of his padawan's Force presence. Come back to me, my padawan. You are stronger than it is. Fight against it. Take hold of the light.

A girthy cackle. "You think the boy can fight me? A Master of the ancient Sith arts?"

Obi-Wan smiles. Through their bond, he hears the quiet voice of his padawan. Distant, but determined.

"And you think you can silence my padawan? I assure you, I have tried. Many times."

The darkness that taints the Force suddenly begins to flicker, and the Sith's prideful face flickers with sudden worry. "This is-- this is impossible," it says.

Master! Obi-Wan hears Anakin saying with great distress, and he lays his hands on either of his cheeks.

Anakin I am here! I am with you, keep trying! Obi-Wan is growing wearier and wearier by the moment trying to keep Anakin still.

"I will not be bested!" the Sith grunts and Obi-Wan is thrown back. He manages to stay on his feet, but his hold finally slips. The bedroom erupts in a whirlwind of raw power. Loose objects and a cloud of dust fly around at terminal velocity. Obi-Wan squints through the dust storm and sees Anakin now on his feet, his saber back in his hand and ignited in front of him. His eyes stare wildly at the blade as he rotates it in his hand before looking back up at Obi-Wan with a sinister look. "Not by you, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and certainly not by a padawan."

Obi-Wan's eyes widen, "No!" he yells, lunging forward as Anakin's wrist turns to point the tip of his blade toward his own heart. Naboo flashes before him once again, and Obi-Wan is filled with a burst of energy from the Force.

He will not watch the Sith take another from him.

Obi-Wan flips through the air and manages to jam his blade between Anakin and his own lightsaber, deflecting it away from his chest and smashing his wrist in the wall. Anakin's cry of pain rings out as his shoulder dislocates from the force Obi-Wan uses. It makes him feel like his heart is tearing in two, but a dislocated shoulder is worlds better than a lightsaber through the heart. Anakin's lightsaber drops and Obi-Wan summons it to his hand with the Force. Now he is restrained once again, this time physically rather than through the Force. He can feel the heave of his padawan's chest, and the feral thrashing of his body.

Obi-Wan blankets himself with the Force, allowing it to take control of his strength. He reaches through their bond once more, pushing past the barriers the Sith had placed. To his relief, he finds Anakin's Force presence shining brightly, just lost.

I am here, padawan. Come back to me.

__________

Anakin opens his eyes and immediately closes them. His head hurts.

As his grogginess begins to clear, a few questions prod at him. Why does my head hurt? Why am I on the floor? Where is Obi-Wan?

An exacerbated exhale beside him makes him realize maybe the answer to his last question is easily answered. Anakin rolls to his side, squinting through the pounding headache at his temples. Obi-Wan lies on his back next to him, head flopped to the side so Anakin can clearly see his face. Shock pangs through him and he ignores the pain and makes himself sit up.

Bad idea. His shoulder now erupts in shooting pain, and he looks down to see it is not in the correct position. He blinks back some tears that have formed and tries to focus on his master.

Blood drips down from Obi-Wan's nose, coloring the mustache of his beard a dark crimson. He spots a char mark across his left shoulder-- from a lightsaber?-- and dark circles so dark they look like two black eyes..

"Master!" Anakin yells, grabbing him by the lapels of his robes.

He doesn't remember what happened. How they ended up unconscious in the bedroom-- which looks war-torn with kicked up dust and broken objects. A glint of metalloid catches his eye and he picks up his own lightsaber that lies in Obi-Wan's other hand. His stomach drops. What could make Obi-Wan need to dual-wield? He isn't sure he's ever actually seen Obi-Wan fight with two sabers.

Anakin reaches out through their training bond, and his master winces in his sleep. He immediately withdraws, eyes wide. Their bond is strained. Obi-Wan's shields are simultaneously locked tight and clearly on the brink of collapse. Force exhaustion.

His master isn't the only one suffering from it, either. Anakin slumps himself forward to lay on Obi-Wan's chest, careful of his dislocated shoulder. He matches his master's even breaths to calm himself down and ease his own pain. He is nearly falling asleep when he feels movement below him and fingers carefully rifle through his hair.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan says stiffly. "Why are you on top of me?"

He perks up, turning around with glee at the sound of his Master's voice.

"Have a nice nap, Master?" he says, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Obi-Wan slowly pushes himself to a sitting position. He leans his head back against the wall. "Oh, a lovely one," he says dryly. Then his expression shifts to worry. "What do you remember, Anakin?"

Question of the year. "I remember finding the secret room. And opening a box that had a necklace in it. And then... I woke up here."

"Nothing else?"

He takes a slow, deep breath. "I kind of remember hearing you telling me to come back, or something," his eyes flicker up to meet Master Obi-Wan's. "Did I pass out? Were we attacked?"

The Jedi Knight stares at him for a long moment-- so long it begins to feel uncomfortable. Anakin can tell he is not saying something important, or at least debating whether or not to actually say it.

"It seems your snooping got you into trouble again, my padawan. That necklace... held the Force presence of an ancient Sith who managed to... control you for a small while. I suspect the request was forged to lure Jedi here."

Anakin blinks with confusion. He looks at the lightsaber mark on Obi-Wan's shoulder and the pieces start to fall together.

"We fought... I did this... and I hurt you," he says, shame filling him.

"To be fair," Obi-Wan shrugs. "I accidentally injured your shoulder so don't feel bad about something you didn't consciously do."

Still, Anakin bows his head and stares at the floor. He messed up and got them both hurt in the process. Probably lost the artifact as well. When will I stop being such a screw-up?

A finger taps at his chin, and Anakin looks up to see Obi-Wan looking at him with a comforting gaze. There is no anger or disappointment in his face or the Force that flows between them. "This was not your fault, Anakin. In fact, you did amazingly. You were the one who stopped the Sith, forced it from your body and sent it back into the Force where it cannot hurt anyone anymore. You were brave and strong and didn't give up."

Anakin smiles, the negative feelings melting away easily now. Obi-Wan slowly pulls himself to his feet and reaches his hand out to help Anakin up as well.

"Come, padawan. I've had quite enough of this mission."

They begin to stagger toward the door. Anakin looks over at the painting and feels his heart skip a beat. The woman is gone now, leaving only the simple background on the canvas. In the back of his mind, he can hear her now. Feel the darkness surround you, Skywalker. Embrace it. Use it. Fuel your power and extinguish the light.

But more clearly, he can hear Obi-Wan. You are stronger than it is. Fight against it. Take hold of the light.

Their commands echo through his mind, the Sith one becoming quieter and quieter until it is gone completely. Relief finally washes through him as the darkness fades away.

They walk back through the dusty halls, slowly and leaning on one another. Anakin remembers their conversation as they walked these corridors earlier and smiles.

"I suppose this wasn't a boring mission after all,"

Obi-Wan sighs. "I should really stop wishing for mundane missions. There seems to be no such thing. We could be farming and you would find a way to attract trouble."

[little-ligi]

Febuwhump - No.22

No.22 - Burned Fandom - BBC Merlin Wordcount - 1160 @febuwhump

“Hold still,” Gaius scolded as Merlin squirmed again under his hand.

“It hurts,” Merlin whined.

“Of course it does. You took a ball of fire to your chest.”

Gaius tutted and continued pressing the compress to the burn on Merlin’s chest, his other hand on his shoulder holding him flat down on the bed. Merlin kicked his feet helplessly, moaning as the pain seared under his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut.

That didn’t help; closing his eyes just made him more aware of the horrible stink of burnt skin and singed hair mixing with the sharp smell of the vinegar that Gaius was using on the compress. He wrinkled his nose and pouted up at Gaius.

“Yuck,” he grumbled.

“It will stop any infection,” the physician told him, lifting the cloth to examine the burn underneath.

Continue reading on Ao3, FF.net or below! 👇

Merlin peered down at his chest too. Nimueh’s fireball had struck him hard and the large pink burn spread over his sternum like a sunburst, the edges charred and peeling. He hissed as Gaius dabbed the cloth a few more times before removing it and fanning Merlin’s chest with one hand, letting the vinegar dry slightly.

Gaius sat back and picked up a bowl from the bedside table, beginning to stir the poultice in it. That one, at least, seemed to smell a lot nicer. Merlin pushed himself up onto his elbow, one hand ghosting over his chest, poking at the edge of the burn carefully to test the pain. It stung ferociously, the skin around it hot and itchy and he had to suppress the urge to give it a good scratch.

“Stop that.” Gaius batted his hand away with a sigh. “You are a terrible patient, my boy.”

“Just curious,” Merlin replied with a grin, which turned to a grimace as Gaius pushed him back down onto the bed and began spooning the poultice onto the wound.

“Really? I’ll make a physician of you yet.” Gaius chuckled.

Although he probably regretted the sentiment a moment later when Merlin stuck his finger into the bowl of poultice. He lifted the sticky finger to his nose and gave it an exaggerated sniff.

“Smells tasty,” he commented happily, watching as Gaius smeared it all over his chest. It stung and ached and Merlin couldn’t help shifting, involuntarily pressing his back down into the bed to try and shy away from Gaius.

“Honey, blackberry leaves, potato and common John’s wort. Now, stop moving!”

Merlin stopped wriggling and flinching to beam up at Gaius.

“Blackberry leaves? Does that mean you have some blackberries too?” He curled his toes in anticipation, his mouth watering as he tried to focus on the pleasant thought rather than the pain still flaring over his chest.

Gaius smiled at him, giving his shoulder a small squeeze.

“Yes.” Merlin made a happy sound but Gaius held one finger up, his eyebrow arched as he wagged it at Merlin. “But only if you let me finish tending this without wriggling!”

Grinning cheekily, Merlin froze, tensing all of his muscles to stay as still as possible. Gaius gave him a stern, but fond, look, and continued spreading the poultice, making sure every inch of the pink blistered skin was covered.

Once he was done, he patted Merlin’s stomach.

“There we are, my boy.”

“Thank you.” Merlin looked down at his chest; it was covered by a splodge of dark green sticky paste, but it didn’t seem to hurt as much anymore. When he looked back up again he saw Gaius had left the room and he could hear him rinsing his hands down in the main room. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and made to stand up.

“Don’t you move from that bed, Merlin!” Gaius called.

“I’m not!” he shouted, quickly shuffling back onto the bed and lying down again, his hands behind his head.

Gaius’s eyes were narrowed when he came back in the room, crinkled at the sides with mirth. He sat down on the bed beside Merlin, passing over a bowl of blackberries. Merlin took it with a grin.

Gaius laid a hand on his shoulder, giving it a small shake.

“I’m proud of you.”

Merlin ducked his eyes, a smile breaking across his face.

“Thank you, Gaius.”

Before Merlin could say any more, the door to the physician’s chambers banged open.

“Where’s my good for nothing manservant?” he heard Arthur call good-naturedly.

“Up here, Sire,” Gaius called back, patting Merlin on the knee and getting up to leave.

He crossed Arthur in the doorway of Merlin’s room, stopping him momentarily to check the sling holding his arm and pull the collar of his shirt away to look at the bandages still wrapped around his shoulder.

“I’ll redress that for you, Sire,” the physician told him and Arthur nodded his thanks. Gaius bustled downstairs.

“Are you alright?” Merlin asked, pushing himself more upright on the bed so he could see Arthur. The bandage peeking out from under the collar of his shirt was dotted with blood.

“Takes more than a Questing Beast to take me down,” Arthur said with a confident smirk, patting himself on the chest.

Merlin rolled his eyes. If only Arthur knew…

The prince came over, giving the bed’s leg a kick so Merlin was jerked slightly.

“What happened to you?” he asked, a worried frown pulling his brow down, even as he tried to pull his typical uncaring expression.

Merlin shifted guiltily, not meeting Arthur’s eye.

“I, uh, I had an accident…” He looked down at the mess of poultice over his chest. “With, um, a candle?”

“A candle?” Arthur stared at Merlin’s chest incredulously, his eyebrows now high on his forehead.

Merlin nodded, grimacing. “A big candle.”

Arthur shook his head, giving him the look that Merlin had learnt by now meant he thought he was an idiot.

“Don’t I smell good though?” he said with a grin, waving a vague hand at the sweet smelling poultice.

“Well, it’s better than your usual rotten vegetable and stable stink,” Arthur said with a shrug.

Merlin scowled at him, tugging his bowl of blackberries towards himself and stuffing a few berries in his mouth to muffle the “prat,” he shot back at Arthur.

“Ah, lovely,” Arthur prised the bowl from Merlin’s hand, popping a berry into his mouth with an exaggerated hum of contentment. “Mmm, these are good.” He ate a few more, ignoring Merlin’s spluttered protests and his grabs for the bowl.

Eventually he relented, holding a blackberry in front of Merlin’s mouth. Merlin considered biting his finger but instead just lunged forwards and licked his hand before snatching the berry between his teeth.

“Yuck!” Arthur wiped his hand on Merlin’s blanket, rolling his eyes.

Merlin couldn’t help grinning at him; the burn on his chest was completely worth it to have saved the prat’s life. He nudged him with his elbow, catching Arthur’s attention.

“I’m glad you’re still alive, cabbage head.”

[anarchyduck]

Febuwhump - Impaling

Title: The Hardest Part 

Fandom: Marvel

CW: Blood, serious injury but nothing terribly graphic 

AO3 link here

(Am I doing whump right? Feels like I’m on the right track lol)

It is strangely quiet when Peter comes back to consciousness. He blinks as little black dots retreat to the farther edges of his vision. Much to his dismay, he sees his suit is torn from a cut that runs from his knee and wraps around his thigh. ‘There goes my ‘No Suit Damage’ streak,’ he thinks mournfully. Oddly enough it does not hurt.

Peter frowns as he tries to piece things together, figure out what is going on, but it is all muddled. It’s cobwebs covered with molasses and mud, and he’s trying to wade through it waist deep. There is something else that tugs at a thread, something that feels important and leaves a dull ache at the back of his neck.

He tries thinking of something else. What was he doing? Fighting. He was fighting someone – no, they were fighting someone. A gang of illegal arms dealers who’d gotten their hands on alien tech. Just down the river from the compound, outside the city. Technically not Avenger business, but he managed to convince Tony it would be better if they handled it rather than local police. He and Tony… no, he and Tony and Rhodey tracked the gang to a construction site. Office buildings. Concrete and metal and dirt. Someone threw a cement truck at him.

The rest is a blank.

Peter reaches to push up the mask from his face, but other hands catch him around the wrists. “No, don’t do that.” The familiar voice pierces through the sludge and Peter latches onto it. 

“Mr. Rhodey? What’s… Why?” He can see the familiar black and grey suit in his peripheral, kneeling beside him. Yet when he tries turning his head, he cannot.

He can’t turn his neck.

“M-Mr. Rhodey?” Peter’s heart beats wilder, faster. The back of his neck burns, the smell of blood and sweat filling his nose, strangling him. “I ca-can’t… I can’t!”

Rhodey, mercifully, pushes up his mask over his nose and Peter gasps for breath. He wants to get up, wants to move, but something screams to him no. Do not move. Be still. Do not move.

He can’t turn his neck.

“You gotta breathe. Focus on your breathing, Pete, or you’re going to pass out.” Rhodey says at his side, his hand holding Peter’s and squeezes. It helps, brings him back down and Peter works on those exercises Tony told him about (Breath in through your nose. Hold. Then release through your mouth. Repeat.)

 “Good.” Rhodey says. “Can you tell me what hurts? What’s your pain level?”

 Peter hesitates. “Uh, not bad?” he takes another deep breath, only to wince as pain catches in his side. “Ribs kinda hurt.”

 “That’s it? Nothing else?”

 Peter wants to shake his head, but the voice screams no (do not move, do not move). “N-No, don’t think so.” He licks his lips, tastes blood. Smells blood. “What’s going on?”

 Before Rhodey can answer, another metal suit lands beside him. “Oh fuck.” Tony breathes. There’s an edge, a shudder, that makes his blood run cold.

 His eyes widen behind his mask. Nothing comes across the HUD. Karen is down. Something is wrong. Something is wrong. Something is wrong. “Mr. Stark, what-“

 He can’t turn his neck.

 “Not now, Tones.” Suddenly Rhodey’s voice sounds miles away. A hundred, no, a thousand miles away. Peter can barely hear it over his own rapid heartbeat.

 “He has an iron rod through his fucking-”

 Whatever else Tony says fades out. Peter only knows the panic that grips his throat, roots him in place. His back is pressed against a slab of concrete, cold and sticky. Thoughts scramble in his mind and he feels like he is drowning. The world narrows to a point and he can only see the blood wound on his leg, only smell blood.

 “—eter. Peter! Shit, he’s going into shock. Tony, cut it!”

 “FRI, alert the medical team. Tell them to get ready.”

 “Kid, stay awake. We’re going to get you out, just stay—”

“Talk to me, Pete!”

Peter doesn’t hear the rest. 

------

There are a few horrifying moments that are seared into Tony Stark’s brain. One was flying through the wormhole over New York City while carrying an armed nuclear warhead. Another was helplessly watching Pepper fall into a raging ball of fire. The third was seeing Rhodey plummet to the earth. 

And now he has a fourth - the sight of Peter Parker with an iron rebar sticking through his skull. 

Tony runs his hands through his hair, leg bouncing anxiously. He feels useless. More than useless. Like he should be doing something. He picks at his nails, paces, fights the urge to retreat to his lab. He catches himself several times looking at the door every time he hears a noise that sounds remotely like footsteps. 

When they arrived, Helen and her team met them at the door with a gurney. Peter was rushed away for surgery and that was it. All they can do is wait. As time stretches, the more Tony replays the scene in his head. The image of a cement truck hurtling through the air, hitting Spider-Man and knocking him through a cinderblock wall. FRIDAY’s voice in his ears telling him Karen was offline. Rhodey goes to the kid first because he’s closer, because Tony is too busy blasting away the guy who dared throw a truck at his kid. 

Tony covers his face and rubs his eyes hard enough to see flashes of white. The scene replays again and ends with the same horrifying result.

“Okay,” Rhodey sighs as he returns to the waiting lounge. “Just got off the phone with Happy. He and May will be here in a couple hours.” He takes a seat in the chair across. “Tony, stop. I can hear you blaming yourself all the way over here.”

“I should have done something.” Tony drags his hands from his face as he leans back on the sofa. “Should’ve seen that guy quicker.”

“It’s not your fault.” 

Tony shakes his head. “Isn’t it?” he scoffs and looks away. “It was supposed to be a casual weekend visit. Hanging out in the lab, staying up watching movies, that’s it. No fighting, no going up against crazy gangs with stolen, modded tech. I shouldn’t have let him go.”

“You think he really would’ve wanted to be put on the bench?” Rhodey asks and when Tony doesn’t answer, he continues, “He’s going to get hurt, Tones. Best you can do is be there.” 

He isn’t sure if it helps, but Tony nods anyway. “Yeah.”

[whumpinggrounds]

Febuwhump Day 6: Insomnia

notes that probably no one is reading but i am putting in anyway:

- this little drabble thingy takes place before all of my other febuwhump writing, so Mara is telling the truth about not having seen Jude.

-Jamie is very important and also i love her :)

CW: nothing i can think of!

Jamie’s not exactly beautiful. It takes a long time for most people to figure that out, because she’s so striking, but Mara was with Jamie long enough to know. It’s not the nicest train of thought, and Mara knows she should be better than this, but when she’s feeling small and mean, she can’t resist. And now that Jamie’s texting her for the first time in months, Mara gives in to her bitchy little worst impulse, pulls up the contact photo, and looks with critical eyes.

It’s the hair that does most of the work. Jamie’s hair is red, red, red. Not orange or strawberry blonde or even auburn; Jamie’s hair is red like no one’s ever seen. The color is true and deep and absolutely natural, and the long wavy locks are so long they almost reach her waist. Jamie looks like the photo on a box of dye at a CVS. People stop her on the street sometimes to ask what she does to it. Poor shy Jamie hates that, keeps her hair tied up in a bun or a braid almost always. It’s still impossible to ignore. It still makes people turn their heads when Jamie walks by; it’s the kind of thing that convinces strangers she’s absolutely stunning. They’re not wrong, because the hair itself is stunning, it’s just that once you get past the hair, Mara knows, Jamie is just sort of…plain. Nothing hideous, but nothing special either. Her eyes are nice enough. Blue. But her nose is kind of hooked at the end, and her skin is sort of sallow. She’s skinny. Not much else to her.

And, and, and there’s nothing wrong with her, of course, but she’s not as pretty as everyone thinks. Mara concludes it all over again after staring into the familiar smiling face on her screen, and the knowing soothes some bitterness deep in her chest. It’s not nice, thinking these things. It’s not right. But it brings Mara some small, vicious satisfaction, which she tells herself she’s earned.

It also takes her mind off the contents of Jamie’s text, if only for a little while.

Hey, have you heard from Jude at all lately?

There are a thousand different replies itching in Mara’s fingers. No, I haven’t fucking heard from Jude. You know we haven’t spoken in months. I kind of think you know why, too, and if you cared about me at all you would tell me what’s going ON.

That’s when Mara’s thoughts turn pathetic, as they always do. Something. Anything. Please god just tell me anything. If it got her some answers, she wouldn’t even care about how pitiful she sounded.

Mara growls, throws her phone at the couch.

Okay, so maybe she’d care.

Okay, so maybe what’s most tempting of all is a clean, simple, fuck off.

It takes a good few minutes of careful breathing before Mara is ready to let that one go.

All of that is anger, of course. Anger that would feel so, so good to express, to spit right out at Jamie – but beneath the anger there’s worry. A creeping fear. Why is Jamie asking her if she’s heard from Jude? Mara wants to believe that Jamie is insecure about Jude coming back to Mara, but…but what if it’s something worse? They’re in a dangerous line of work. Jude could be shortsighted, could be reckless. Anger is one thing, but the worry on its heels is a different monster altogether. It occupies Mara’s thoughts.

It’s not Mara’s business anymore, is it? She and Jude broke up. They haven’t spoken in months. If Jamie and Jude are so close now, then let Jamie worry about it. Let Jamie figure it out. It sounds great, in theory, just letting it go and moving on.

But Mara can’t. Letting go lasts as long as Mara can distract herself with cooking dinner and reviewing session notes and showering, but when she lies down to sleep, there’s no escape. When she lies down to sleep, Mara is left staring at the ceiling, obsessing over that text.

She’s had trouble sleeping since high school. Mara has a routine she sticks to religiously, one of those things that doctors swear will prevent this kind of night. Sometimes, though, even putting down her phone and reading a book and listening to soft music isn’t enough. Sometimes, Mara is left staring at the ceiling, well past midnight, thinking about Jamie, thinking about Jude.

Jamie thinks Jude might be with Mara, or at least talking to her. Does that mean something? Does that mean Mara might get an explanation, or to see Jude again? Is Jamie jealous? The bitter, mean part of Mara hopes so. The bigger part of Mara just wants to get some sleep, because her head is fuzzy and her eyes are stinging from continually swiping open to the white glare of her phone.

But no sleep comes.

It’s a little past 1 am when she finally can’t resist anymore, when she finally replies, and if Jamie reads something into Mara’s timing, well, fine.

No.

Jamie writes back within minutes, even though Mara knows she usually goes to sleep early. Nothing?

That’s what no means, Jamie.

Sorry.

The little gray dots pop up, disappear, pop up, disappear. Mara stares at them with morbid fascination. It just keeps getting later, and somehow, she’s never felt less tired. Her eyes burn from staring at the screen, but her mind is buzzing, buzzing. The text comes in. I’m just worried. We haven’t seen her around here for a while.

That makes Mara swallow hard. She flops back against her pillow, thoughts racing overtime. How long is a while? What kind of work do they have Jude doing, anyway? She’s supposed to be helping rescues in safehouses. That’s it. They all know she’s too impulsive for much else, likely to get caught in a fight or shoot her mouth off when she really shouldn’t. Goddamn stupid, impulsive, beautiful righteous Jude.

Mara finds herself on her feet pacing tight circles around her apartment. She’s been so good for so long, keeping all those stray thoughts of her ex out of her head. Now they overwhelm her – Jude’s eagerness, her bright eyes, her godawful sense of navigation, the dimple in her left cheek. Lib work is dangerous, no matter what way you spin it, so what does we haven’t seen her in a while fucking mean? Mara’s been angry and she’s been hurt, and it’s been brewing for months, but when she’s confronted with the idea of Jude in trouble, all that disappears. When she’s confronted with the thought of Jude in danger, all the fight drains out of her as neatly as a glass tipped on its side. Her knees feel weak, and she sits down on the bed again. Jude. If Mara was with her, things would be different. If Mara just knew where she was, could keep an eye on her…

Mara keeps staring at the unhelpful little words on the screen as if they’ll relent and change into something different, better, something that can give her peace of mind. Nothing changes, and she sets her jaw and forces a response, because she’s angry and afraid and she can’t just leave it there, not knowing.

Well, what happened? Aren’t you looking out for her?

I am.

Almost immediately afterwards, I mean, we are. Whatever. Just let me know if you hear from her, okay?

We are. Mara snorts darkly as she reads that, Jamie’s poor attempt at acting innocent. Sure, Jude has other friends, but Jamie is something else. Something more. Jamie is the reason Jude broke up with her. Mara knows it, even if no one will admit anything outright.

Hand coming up to scrub against her temple, Mara heaves out a sigh, and with it, forces down all the toxic, confused fury she wants to spit through the phone screen. When the anger abates, she feels suddenly exhausted, and more than a little afraid.

She reads the text again, focuses on the important part. Just let me know if you hear from her, okay?

Sighing, Mara taps out a response. Yeah. Try to keep her safe, okay?

Another almost instant response. I will.

Anger can’t be long denied, and upon seeing Jamie’s text, it bubbles back up under Mara’s skin. Really? Really, Jamie thinks that she can look after Jude? Mara and Jude dated for a year with no problem, and then as soon as Jamie entered the picture, things went south. Now that it’s just Jamie and Jude, things have gone to shit. So a promise from her doesn’t mean a whole hell of a lot.

Mara taps out a message but never sends it, even though she hardly sleeps two hours that night. Time drags by, and she tries to distract herself on the Internet, but over and over she clicks back to her conversation with Jamie, to read the words she wants to send but knows she shouldn’t.

Really, Jamie? You’ll keep her safe? Because it doesn’t sound like you’re doing a very good job.

[pixieposts]

Febuwhump Day 26

AO3

Today’s prompt was “recovery” so this is a little companion piece to yesterday’s prompt.  I got all my medical info from healthline and mayoclinic.  This will be the very last prompt I fill!  I’ve already written 27 and 28, so I’ll have finished with exactly 7 days to spare (it’s the 23rd right now).  I hope you enjoy!

Specific TW’s

Brief descriptions of injuries

MotherHen!Fjord

Beau and Yasha arrived at the hospital around noon to pick them up.  Fjord had called that morning, explaining the situation and worrying that the truck would be too hard for Caleb to get into.  The door flew open, and Caleb winced at the sound.  

“Beau, concussion remember?” Fjord glared  

“Shit- right sorry man”  

She walked over, a sheepish look on her face as she stopped to take in the scene.  Fjord knew what she was seeing, because he saw it too.  Caleb covered in bandages and bruises, Caleb in a cast, in a hospital, with tubes all around him.  Caleb hurt.  He caught her eye and grimaced sympathetically; it would be hard for her.  A large hand landed on his shoulder and he looked up to see Yasha smiling tentatively at him.

“We brought clothes”  

“Danke Yasha, Beauregard, that was very thoughtful of you”  

“No naked ginger butts in the van”  

“Such a wonderful sister, your concern is touching”  

“I don’t want your ass touching the seats is all”  

Fjord rolled his eyes and stood, leaning forward to hit the buzzer for the nurse's station.  

The next hour was a blur of activity while the nurse got Caleb unhooked from his machines, Fjord walked him (probably too slowly) to the bathroom to help him change from the hospital gown to the clothes Beau had brought.  She had made excellent choices, soft worn sweatpants and a loose fitted t-shirt (one of Fjords, if the way it hung off Caleb’s shoulder was an indication) and a zippered hoodie.  Fjord tried not to wince at the sheer amount of bruising that covered Caleb’s skin, but his expression betrayed him.  Caleb reached for him as Fjord went to open the door, tugging lightly to get him close before pressing his forehead to Fjord’s shoulder.  Fjord held him as gently as he could, feeling the way Caleb’s hands shook where they gripped his shirt.  The nurse had given him a rundown off all the necessary caretaking instructions, along with a few printouts with the same information.  Beau took Fjords keys and parking lot ticket, offering to drive the truck back to their apartment so he could sit in the van with Caleb.  

Getting Caleb into the apartment took much longer than usual, mostly because Fjord refused to let him walk faster than absolutely necessary.  Yasha walked in ahead of them, unlocking the door and scooping up a very grumpy Frumpkin.  She went ahead, turning on as few lights as she could.  Fjord got Caleb settled in his favourite armchair before taping the care instructions to the fridge.  

No strenuous activity, limit screens, no driving... Sleep upright at first, icepack for pain, pain meds....

Did they have pain meds?  He couldn’t remember the last time they had bought any.  He checked the bathroom, pulling out a mostly empty bottle and shaking two loose.  Grabbing a glass of water he made his way back to the living room.  Yasha had settled herself on the floor cushion Molly had bought them the year before, and Frumpkin was purring in Caleb’s lap.  Fjord held out the meds and Caleb sighed.

“You heard the nurse, take them every four hours on the dot unless you want the pain to catch up to you”  

Caleb took the meds, swallowing them with the cold water and handed the glass back.  

“Beau’s grabbing meds, she wants to know if you want burgers?”  

Yasha and Beau left around dinner, keeping an eye on Caleb while Fjord made all the necessary phone calls to Caduceus and Vandran.  Caleb wouldn’t be working until his concussion was at least mostly gone, and Fjord knew he wouldn’t work until Caleb could be left alone again.  He was suddenly far more thankful for all the horrible overtime shifts he had been working.  

The first two weeks were the worst.  

Caleb struggled with the effects of the concussion most, the fogginess in his mind was something he wasn't used to.  He was forgetful and unbalanced to the point of Fjord insisting on helping him every time he had to walk more than a few steps.  It didn’t help that he couldn’t watch TV without an instant headache or read without getting nauseous.  Fjord tried to make things as easy as he could, but Caleb was irritable and frustrated by it all.  He couldn’t even take a shower without at least leaving the door open in case he got the spins.  

“I hate this Fjord, I hate it”  

“I know love, it’s got to be frustrating, but-”

“But nothing, this is the worst.  I just want to read or sleep normally!  Is that so much to ask?”

Fjord just sighed, wrapping an arm around his shoulder gently and pressing a kiss to his temple.  The helpless feeling was something he was rapidly getting used to.  

The snappish behaviour continued, only getting worse as time went on.  It got to a point that Fjord just stopped talking, as anything he said seemed to set Caleb off.  He didn’t blame him of course, Caleb was used to being independent, he was used to working and reading and writing... he couldn’t do any of that.  And if he took it out on Fjord well... Fjord was still battling the guilt of leaving him in the hospital by himself all night.  It was worse when the nightmares started, Caleb would wake sweating and shaking and absolutely refuse to let Fjord near him.  Fjords own nightmares he kept to himself.  

Things started to look up as Caleb’s concussion symptoms lessened and he was able to do more on his own, but Fjord still hovered.  He tried to hide it as well as he could, but the image of Caleb in the hospital, of the black and purple bruising that had covered his skin... well, that sort of thing is hard to forget.

Four weeks had passed, and Caleb had been given the okay to sleep lying down again, and they were finally getting the cast off his arm.  The doctor had been very pleased with the progress his ribs were making as well.  They lay in bed the night the cast came off, Caleb lifted his arm up into the air and flexed his fingers.  

“Must feel nice”

“It feels... lighter” he sat up, turning to looked at Fjord and chewing his lip “Fjord...”

Fjord sighed, sitting up and pulling Caleb close, he knew that face.  

“Whatever you’re about to apologize for, don’t”  

“But-”

“Nope” Fjord popped the P before pressing a kiss to Calebs cheek “nothing to apologize for”

“I was awful to you; you were just trying to help”

“You were frustrated and had a literal brain injury Cay.  I can’t imagine how... how shitty that must be, and I’m the one who should be apologizing anyway”  

“If this is about the phone thing again-”

“You were alone in there, after getting in a massive accident”

It was Caleb’s turn to sigh as Fjord settled them back in bed and Caleb pressed in as close as he could to Fjords side.  It was hard not to just roll over and hold him properly, but his ribs still had healing to do and Fjord would be damned before he messed them up.  

The next morning while Fjord was making breakfast, Caleb walked into the kitchen looking excited.  

“What’s up?”

“Turn around”  

Fjord set the pan onto a cool burner and turned, raising an eyebrow curiously as Caleb stepped in close.  Caleb slid his arms around Fjord’s waist, holding tight as Fjord wrapped his around the smaller mans shoulders.  He rested his cheek against the top of Caleb’s head, taking a deep breath as the comfort of having him close washed over him.  

“I realized I didn’t do this yesterday” Calebs voice was muffled against his shirt “I wanted to, because I couldn’t before and... gods it feels so nice”  

“I missed it too”  

They stood like that, just holding each other, until the toasted buzzed and pulled them back to reality.  

The day of Calebs six-week checkup arrived in a buzz of excitement.  If the x-rays came back clean, Caleb could go back to his life.  Fjord knew he was desperate to get back to work.  The concussion was nearly gone from what they could tell, he had been able to read without feeling sick for nearly a week now and the bathroom light was no longer the enemy.  If his ribs were healed to a point that the doctors were no longer concerned...  

Fjord sat in the waiting room while Caleb was in the x-ray, drinking the horrible hospital coffee and wishing for some of Cad’s tea.  The nurse who had been on duty the night of Caleb’s accident came out to get him, smiling encouragingly.  He was led down the hall to one of the small consultation rooms, the nurse opened the door and Fjord stepped in.  He barely had enough to register the X-rays up on the light screen before Caleb had thrown his arms around Fjord's neck, knocking the air out of him.  He caught Caleb instinctively, wrapping his arms around his chest and steadying them both with a laugh.

“Good news I guess?”  

He looked over Calebs head to the doctor, who was smiling indulgently as he nodded.  

“All clear, his ribs look good as new.  Just keep an eye on any lingering concussion symptoms and hopefully we won’t see you any time soon”

“Thanks doc, really”

Fjord managed to steer Caleb out of the room, shuffling them so that he was tucked under Fjord's arm as they walked.  They got to the parking lot and Caleb pulled him to a stop before he could open the truck.  Fjord turned, and Caleb wrapped himself around him again.  Fjord chuckled, burying his nose in the long ginger hair and reveling in the simple pleasure of holding him tight.  

“It feels good to have proper grip on you again”  

Fjord kissed the top of his head, giving him a squeeze.

“Damn right it does”  

[cherryhawks]

febuwhump day one : lost

warnings: hypothermia, mentions of kidnapping 

a/n: here is day one of febuwhump! these are all going to be penny parker one-shots, and i am going to try to write for every single day. please leave me feedback! i would appreciate it so much!! 

read on ao3

Penny woke up feeling cold and uncomfortable. She blearily opened her eyes, lifted her head, and looked up at her surroundings.

She was in the middle of a forest. In the pitch black of night. 

“Where am I? How did I end up here? What happened to me? Why can’t I remember?” were the thoughts racing through Penny’s mind. She needed to figure out how she got here, making a list in her mind of how her day went. 

1. Wake up and eat breakfast with Aunt May

2. Take the subway to school 

3. Stay after school for Decathlon practice 

4. Take the subway back home

5. …

Then...nothing. Penny couldn’t remember what happened after she got off the subway. 

“Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic.” Penny thought. She just needed to look at her surroundings and make a plan! That shouldn’t be too difficult. 

The first thing she noticed was the cold. 

It was the middle of winter, so no surprise there. It was probably freezing outside right now. But, at least she was still wearing her winter jacket. Wait! She should still have her phone in the inside pocket! The phone was a brand new StarkPhone that Mr. Stark had given her because her old phone had been “not reliable enough and looked as if it would break into pieces if you just tapped the screen a little too hard.” Surely, a StarkPhone could work even in the middle of nowhere, right? 

The phone was still in the pocket, and Penny breathed a sigh of relief at that discovery. She pulled it out of the pocket, unlocked it, and...no reception. 

Okay, so, maybe she just needed to get up and walk around. She had to get some reception somewhere. She struggled to stand up off the ground, knowing the temperature was affecting her and causing her body to slowly shut down especially since the spider bite doesn’t allow her body to thermoregulate as well as it used to. If she was getting out of this forest, she needed to get out of here soon. 

(a/n : there are a bunch of sirens going off where i live and idk what they mean like wtf is going on they are so EERIE anyway continue the story sorry for the interruption)

Penny began to walk towards the lighter brush of trees. Because...that means she would be closer to the edge of the forest? A thicker blanket of trees means she would be walking more towards the middle of the forest? Penny didn’t know if this logic was correct (aka the author doesn’t know if this is correct and is too lazy to look it up). Anyway, she was going to stick to the sparse blanket of trees. 

Penny held up the phone while she walked, hoping to get some bars soon, so she could call Mr. Stark. He could help her; he would be able to track the phone, find exactly where she is, and get here quick in his Iron Man suit, and everything would be okay. They would go back to the tower, watch a movie, and drink a steaming mug of hot chocolate. Penny just wanted to be in a warm, safe place and forget that this is happening. 

Still no bars. 

Penny was scared. Really scared. She was lost in an unknown place, having no clue how she ended up there, and was completely alone. 

And, on top of that, her phone was about to die. She needed to get reception soon. 

Penny was shivering intensely, and it was becoming more difficult to walk. The trees looked so menacing in the dark, and she swore she could her chittering and footsteps all around her. Her nervousness was growing. 

One bar. 

Oh, thank gosh. It wasn’t a lot, but one bar could definitely allow her one call. Penny clicked Mr. Stark’s contact. 

It only took one ring for him to answer. 

“Penny, it’s about time. Do you know how many times I’ve called you? Your aunt is freaking out, kid,” Mr. Stark lectured, “Where the hell are you? May said you never made it home.” 

“M-mr. Stark, I-I-I think I’m lost. I need h-help.” 

Penny could barely speak. She knew that wasn’t a good sign. 

“Okay. I can find you, don’t worry, Pen, alright? Just stay on the ph-”

Her phone died. 

Penny let out a sob. This was it. Mr. Stark wouldn’t be able to track her if her phone was dead. She knew she was experiencing symptoms of hypothermia. She wasn’t anywhere near the edge of the forest. She was going to die here. 

Penny was trying to keep walking; she was really trying. But, her legs wouldn’t listen to her brain? They weren’t moving anymore? Why wasn’t she moving anymore? When did she lie down? 

She wasn’t shivering anymore. Does that mean she’s not cold anymore? Maybe she doesn’t actually have hypothermia. Maybe she just needed to rest for a minute...

Penny didn’t know how much time had passed when she hears a sound. She can’t exactly make out what it is, but it sounds a bit like...the clanking of metal? 

And, then, there’s someone holding her, delicately picking her up. 

“Hey, honey, I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay. Just stay awake, okay? Please, don’t close your eyes.” 

Penny tried to look at who was holding her, but everything was blurry, and it was getting harder to stay awake. She was beginning to see black dots all across her vision. This person told her to stay awake, though, so she needed to try. They sounded worried, and she didn’t want them to be worried. 

Penny tried to keep her eyes open, but the darkness seemed more inviting. She couldn’t help but to close her eyes. Penny’s last thought was I’m sorry. 

Penny woke up feeling warm and comfortable. She blearily opened her eyes, lifted her head, and looked up at her surroundings.

She was in the medbay. She had been saved. But, how? How was it possible that someone had found her?

“Hey, kid.” Penny turned her head. 

“Hey, Mr. Stark. What’s up?” Penny asked, attempting to lighten the mood. 

Mr. Stark softly smiled. “Well, you were kidnapped, taken to the middle of the woods, left alone there, and almost died from a severe case of hypothermia. But, other than that, everything is just fine.” 

“Wait, how do you know I was kidnapped?”

“You don’t remember?” 

Penny shook her head. 

“After I found you and brought you back here, we had to wait awhile for you to recover, so I began to look into why you were in the woods in the first place. I figured you wouldn’t have gone out there all by yourself, especially without your suit and a fully-charged phone.” He jokingly glared at her. “So, I hacked some city cameras and saw someone grabbed you. Must have used some special knock-out drug if it worked on you. I’m still trying to find them.” 

“Wow,” Penny said, taking in all the information, “That’s weird.” 

“You just found out you were kidnapped and on the brink of death, and that’s all you can say?”  Mr. Stark jokes. 

“Wow, that’s really weird, Mr. Stark.” 

“Kid, you’re killing me here.”

“Wait, so you’re the one who found me in the woods? You sounded like a worried dad.” Penny giggled. 

“I did not sound like a worried dad.” 

“...” 

“Okay, maybe I did. Just a little bit.” 

[fastcardotmp3]

“You have to eat. Non-negotiable.”  “Come up with an acceptable way for me to do that, and I’m all yours, big guy,” Eddie swings his head around, slashes out with the edge of his smirk, and doesn’t care that the humor behind it will never reach dead eyes again.  » Steddie // Rated M // Kas!Eddie // 2.2k » Febuwhump #2: "Bite down on this" & Obedience » Febuwhump Masterlist

read on ao3 // preview under the cut

“We can’t keep doing this, Ed.” 

The dark of the forest is heavy like a blanket, wrapping around this half-rotted porch and going on for what seems like forever in every direction. It’s different at night, these woods, even though Eddie knows the paths through them like the back of his hand after years of kicking rocks around Hawkins. 

It’s not his Hawkins anymore though, is it? It’s not the place a thirteen-year-old Eddie hitchhiked to in search of an uncle he’d only met twice, not the place where he’d made a friend for the first time by way of Jeff. 

Neither of them know he’s alive yet. 

Neither of them know about the ways he isn’t. 

Even in the dark of night, Eddie can sense the differences, though. The smell of it gone sour; the eerie sort of silence that comes along with the usual summer wildlife being either killed or chased off by bigger things with sharper teeth. 

Sharper teeth. 

“Eddie.”

“I heard you,” he says without moving from his perch on the steps, staring out into the faint rustle of what leaves remain on the trees. 

It’s like a melody, the whistle of wind. It’s accompanied so beautifully by the sigh that falls from Steve Harrington’s lips, only to be interrupted by the creak of the porch, of the steps, as Steve moves forward and lowers himself into the empty space beside Eddie. 

“You can’t keep avoiding this,” Steve says on a breath. Eddie wishes for a horizon beyond the trees, some way to see the place at which the world ends. “You’re just gonna end up hurting yourself.” 

“By whose metric?” Eddie scoffs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees so his face is out of Steve’s direct eye-line, masked by the fall of his hair. 

[fastcardotmp3]

“Nancy Wheeler, twenty-one years old. Nancy— Wheeler—” a pained sound, clawing from the back of her throat, “Nancy Wheeler, twenty-one, from Hawkins, Indiana. Wrongfully imp–imprisoned. For whistleblowing— illegal acts of— human— experimentation—” » Ronance // Rated M // Hurt/Comfort // 2.2k » Febuwhump #1: Helpless & Solitary Confinement » Febuwhump Masterlist

read on ao3 // preview under the cut

The fog so filled to the brim with hopeless want that she can sometimes hear their voices echoing off of the walls, sometimes hear Steve’s optimism or Jonathan’s caution; sometimes hear her brother’s ferocity or Max Mayfield’s determination. 

Sometimes, most of the time, she hears Robin. 

“You have to be more careful about this, Nance. If they find out how much you have on them–” “They’re going to find out. That’s the point.” “The point is moot if you end up dead along the way!” “The point is that too many people already are!”

She hears Robin. 

“Please come back to bed. It’s colder without you.”  “I’ll be there in just a minute. I had this thought…” “It’s three in the morning.” “I know, just–” “Nancy. C’mere. Come back to me, yeah?” “...Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

She hears Robin.

“You are strong but you are not invincible.” “I’m whatever I need to be to get this done.” “You are not invincible, Nancy Wheeler. Come back to me.”

And it’s echoing and it’s loud and it’s hard, it’s so fucking hard to hear her voice but not feel the warmth of her calloused hands, to not feel her wrap Nancy up in her arms from behind, those dry lips pressing to the spot just behind her ear. 

[fastcardotmp3]

“A person doesn't get those from being trampled,” Eddie keeps on going, keeps digging their communal grave, “you weren't just trampled in the panic, did-- did the mall even-- no, it burned, we saw on TV, but--” “Eddie, stop.”  » Steddie // Rated T // Pre-S4 // 2.3k » Febuwhump #3: Rope Burns & "You lied to me" » Febuwhump Masterlist

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“I think you should stay here for a few days,” he breathes, thumb chasing the tear that drips when Steve squeezes his eyes shut against the suggestion. He’s lying on his good shoulder facing Eddie. He can smell the remnants of the chain smoking Eddie had been doing out the cracked window during the hour or so he had thought Steve was sleeping. “I think maybe you shouldn’t be home alone for a little while.” 

Steve hums at the back of his throat, broken and crackling with the force of holding himself back. He wants to crawl into Eddie’s lap, straddle him and kiss him as deep and as long as he ever has, because it’s ending. He knows its ending, but he can’t stop it, so he has to just make do with the moments he has left before it all—

“Here, can you take this off to sleep?” Eddie nudges a finger between the strap of Steve's sling and the place it digs into his collar bone, like he's checking the tightness, like his biggest concern is Steve's comfort. “Come on, sit up and I'll help you with it.” 

Steve lets himself be maneuvered, relishes in it in a way that only doubles down on the pit of guilt bubbling with toxicity in his gut. It feels good, feels steady, and even still Steve needs Eddie to know that, “you don't have to do this.” 

Eddie isn't looking at him, focusing on moving slow as he figures out the buckles on Steve's sling and eases it away from his body. Those eyes though. Those eyes are big enough to feel captured by them even without their direct attention. 

“Yes, I do.”

“Ed—”

“Wayne had the news on and the death count kept going up and you weren't answering your phone and—” he cuts himself off, gripping the sling in his lap where he sits criss-crossed facing Steve and halfway slumped in on himself, chest all but heaving, “I'm doing this. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Steve croaks, unable to do anything but agree in this quiet bubble of vulnerability Eddie has built between them. 

[fastcardotmp3]

Robin stops mere inches in front of Nancy, bends at the waist to be at eye level as she raises a hand and lets the gentle pressure of her fingertips trace across the apple of Nancy’s cheek.  “There’s magic woven into you, Nancy Wheeler.”  » Ronance // Rated T // Immortal!NancyxDragon!Robin // 2.8k » Febuwhump #14: left for dead, “no…not like this” & not allowed to die » Febuwhump Masterlist

read on ao3 // preview under the cut

“So, are you a witch?” asks the girl with hair like fire and a tongue to match. She goes by the name of a boy without an ounce of shame. She bruises her knees and brags intelligence. She is living a life Nancy might have in a different time. 

A life she is somehow, impossibly, still living. 

“What makes you think I’m a witch?” 

“You live in the woods and you saved Will,” she points out like it’s obvious. 

“I found Will. Your friends saved him.”

“Same, difference,” Max shrugs. “But why else would you live out here? So far from everyone else? If you’re regular?”

“I don’t have to be a witch to not be regular,” Nancy can’t help the breath of amusement that cuts through her voice. Can’t help feeling it either. 

Can’t help that enough time has passed to make it hurt less, if not entirely absent of the hurt even still. 

“Are you even human then?” Max asks, a glimmer in her eyes, a spark in the curiosity that envelops her like an aura. There’s no malice to her search for knowledge. 

There’s so much wonder, like a girl behind the counter in her family’s shop so many years ago, books hidden in her skirts, cracked open behind the register. 

“Endlessly so,” Nancy smiles, and she feels an old, forgotten glimmer return to her own aura as well. 

[fastcardotmp3]

“Go— go help them. Finish this, Mike, it's okay—” “Shut the fuck up,” he snaps and finds that he means it. He doesn't know how his hands remain steady and he doesn't know whether or not they're vulnerable to any incoming threats but he does know that she can't continue on that train of thought because, “it's not okay. We have to get you inside. Now.”  » Nancy & Mike // Rated T // Sibling Bonding Via Near-Death Experiences // 2.3k » Febuwhump #13: "I love you" & "Help them" » Febuwhump Masterlist

read on ao3 // preview under the cut

He’s half present and distracted when the thing gets to its feet, puts him in its crosshairs, and leaps, which is why it’s not his spear which takes it down before it can get its claws in. 

Which is why it’s not even his own flesh where those talons go to tear. 

She doesn’t call out to him, doesn’t say duck, but he recognizes the cry of pain from her lips accompanied by a click of an empty clip and that deafening snarl and even as tired as he is, he acts on autopilot before he even registers entirely what’s happened. 

Mike whirls around where he stands, sets his aim and sends his spear flying down the open maw of a demodog, watches long enough to be sure it’s been properly struck down, sharp tip pointing out the back of its skull, before striding forward and yanking the thing free to let it bleed out in the dirt and only then, only then does that cry of pain sink in. 

Only then does the sound of her labored breath ring true in this reality. 

Only then does his gaze land on his big sister bleeding and prone on the ground at his feet. 

And Mike has assimilated pretty well to war, at least he thinks so. He’s gotten good at fighting back, used all the excess bitterness in his veins to keep going on spite alone when the nights get too long and daylight rots away. 

He knows how to be there for his friends, knows how to look at a situation and find a way out, knows that he can take care of people even when things don’t go their way but— but he freezes. 

Right here and now? So close to getting back behind their barricades? Mike Wheeler freezes. There’s no time to freeze, no such thing as a moment to process, but he’s pretty sure the clock stops on his life right then and there because he looks at her and all of a sudden Nancy is— Nancy is human. 

She’s no longer armor and bullets and sharp tongue; she’s not the soldier who keeps them all on track, not the leader who, despite his stubbornness, even Mike knows he ought to listen to. She’s not any of it suddenly, none of that strength and bite, because he looks down and sees the blood pooling out of her neck beneath the weak press of her own hand and she is, simply enough, his sister.