#febuwhumpday8

[cupcakeslushie]

Febuwhump Day 8: Why Won’t It Stop?

How many days has it been? Kendra only pauses the constant feed when she comes in the room to gloat.

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[whumpinthepot]

@febuwhump 2024

Day 8. “Why wont it stop?”

—

Whumper presses the button on Whumpees shock collar, but it malfunctions and doesn’t turn off. Instead of a little zap like Whumpee is used to, they’re being electrocuted until whumper can find some rubber gloves to safely remove the device. The damage done is probably severe, and almost kills Whumpee. Its bad enough that Whumper considers using a different form of punishment from then on.

[frosteaart]

febuwhump day8: "why won't it stop?"

[corazondebeskar-reads]

remember what you're staring at is me

jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader

originally for Febuwhump 2024 Day 8 - found footage | Febuwhump masterlist

words: 2.9k

summary: A videotape is left on your porch one morning, and it changes everything about your budding relationship with Joel Miller.

warnings: Jackson!Joel, some dark!Joel, some soft!Joel, we love a man who contains multitudes, ambiguous ending, I wish I had made this a much longer one shot but oh well, references to The Hospital Incident, oral (f & m receiving), implicit p in v

dividers by @saradika-graphics

You find it on your porch one morning in an old paper bag. Someone’s written right onto the brown wrapping with black crayon—”you need to know the truth.” It seems rather dramatic once you peel back the paper to find a videotape. 

It's not high quality—the footage is fuzzy and crudely edited together. But there’s just no mistaking the man on the screen. 

Joel and Ellie came into your life when they arrived for the second time in Jackson. You had heard the gossip the first time, but never met the pair. 

You met him fairly quickly when he swung by with a torn jacket, gruff and blunt but polite. Steady. “They, uh, said to ask you about some mending?” 

“Sure thing,” you say easily, smiling at the very handsome stranger. “Let me take a look.”

It was a casual thing, the sewing, and you liked it that way. You didn’t make anything, didn’t haul things to the market. You spun the wool for those who did craft things, and then you kept to your little projects at night.

The push and pull of the needle was the meditation you needed to keep going every day, even now, even safe here in this bubble. Something productive, something to keep your trembling hands busy and your mind blank. 

And in return, you got company and conversation. Most folks knew your services could be bought with a warm drink or baked good, a promise of a favor you’d never call for.

“How long?” he asks, voice flat and serious, but it didn’t prick at you, didn’t land as rough as it set out. 

“Not long,” you muse, looking over the tear—a knife gash of some sort, and the thin lining that peeked out. “Ten minutes if you just want it sewn up, or if you give me a day, I can get it properly stuffed.”

“Sewn, please.” 

Please. You like that. Manners at the end of the world. 

“You sure? Be a lot warmer if I fill it out.” 

“I don’t—” he scowls at the ground. “I barely have anythin’ to offer ya for the mending.”

You want to tell him it’s on the house, call it a welcome basket, but he’s holding out what he does have to offer and your jaw drops just a little, lips parting to make way for a soft, pleased “oh” that has him straightening up. 

“I can find somethin’ else,” he says.

“Oh, no. That’s… amazing,” you say, taking the jar into your hands and popping the lid. They certainly aren’t potent, not like you remember, but oh, you could die from just the faint smell of the cinnamon sticks. “This is… more than enough. I’ll owe you, I reckon.”

“I dunno about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Seriously,” you say, eyes wide. You set the jar on the counter. “For that, I’ll get the whole thing done tonight.” After all, the delay had only been so you could go to bed. 

“Y’ain’t got to do that, I don’t mean to be a bother.”

You brush him off and start gathering your supplies. If you steep the thread in tea for a bit, you think, you might be able to get close to the color of the fabric.

He turns down a cup when you offer but does take a seat at the table. He’s as stiff as your late husband’s favorite bourbon, but the blunt edges grow a little duller when you don’t try to keep up small talk.

The bright overhead light casts him in shadow, deepening the circles under his eyes and drooping his wrinkles in inky black. But his eyes are bright and curious as he watches you start to add unspun wool from your stockpile into the jacket, trying to shape and layer it evenly through the inside. You have to make a couple incisions but keep them tight to the hemlines and existing stitching.

The thread dries quickly with the hearth raging and he speaks for the first time as you weave it through the needle’s eye.

“What’s that?” 

“It’s a threader,” you say, offering it to him to see after you’ve pulled it loose. “I, um. I’m not as dexterous as I used to be and I can’t say my sight’s as keen, either. Makes it easier to use these damn tiny needles. Luckily, it wasn’t a very in-demand item when people were raiding shops.” 

“Huh,” is all he says, sliding it back across the table to you. 

The stitching is quick and rote. You’re used to people pouring out their life stories and desires and drama when they sit at your table or on your sofa, feet kicked up on your coffee table while you sew. 

But this silence with Joel is warm, too. You’re almost regretful the job didn’t take longer.

You stand up and he follows, pushing his chair neatly back into its place. He takes the coat and runs a gentle finger across the original wound.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. 

You give him a wan smile, never having found those words to settle right in your skin. “Nice meeting you, Joel,” you say instead. “You know where to find me if you need anything else.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and lets himself out. 

You lock the door behind him and wonder why you feel so energized. That tea was decaf, after all. And a little fuzzy, if you were totally honest, but you weren’t going to dump it down the drain just over a few fibers. 

One day when he comes, it’s with a bundle of thick socks and another, smaller jacket. Not a difficult job, but the gift he brings to trade knocks you off kilter so hard that you have to sit down.

“Not sure if it’ll be any use to you, but figured you’d know someone who can use it if you don’t,” he says, looking at the floor.

You’ve gotten to know him a little better, though his visits are few and far between. But he’s gotten more comfortable around town, more interested in following that wild daughter of his than hiding away. 

Sometimes, he’ll even sit at your table in the mess. You’d even go as far to say that the two of you were friends.

So you can tell what he’s trying so hard not to project. He’s nervous.

It looks almost like a desk lamp with its sturdy base and bent wooden arm, but in place of a shade and bulb is a hoop. You recognize it immediately and your stomach swoops. It’s an embroidery stand and you might faint just from that, just from having a steady way to hold the fabric tight as you sew. 

But that isn’t all. He shows you how to turn the peg that loosens the grip of the handle on the side, a raw hewn thing that doesn’t match the worn stain of the stand. You’re burning, head spinning, and the fuzzy darkness at the edges of the world stop you from focusing on the gift. 

The carved handle, he says, with hands curling around either side of you, has been partially hollowed to accommodate the end of the magnifying glass. You can raise and lower it with the peg and rotate the handle to use the other side of the glass.

“Joel,” you say uncertainly. He doesn’t really seem like he’ll want the attention drawn to it, but you have to know. “Did you make that?”

“Nah,” he scoffs. “Just added the glass is all.”

“Just added the glass,” you echo in a whisper. But you know he doesn’t mean he only attached it. He made the entire attachment and fit it onto the stand. 

His ears are red and he won’t look at you. 

You set a cautious hand on his arm where it reaches across your shoulder, still resting on the table. He’s caging you in from where he leaned over to demonstrate. “Joel, this is incredible. This is… this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Ain’t a big deal,” he mumbles but he doesn’t shake off your hand. “Just saw it and thought it might be useful.”

You feel emboldened by his kindness, so you curl your hand around his bicep. “Can I thank you?”

He looks down at you now, seeking something that he must find, confirmation in your blown out pupils and parted lips, and nods. 

He doesn’t break away as you slip from the chair to sink onto your knees or when your fingers loop around his belt to pry it open. 

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” you say, voice tight. 

He shakes his head. “You’re not.” His voice is the rumble of thunder breaking a tense summer night. 

You don’t bother removing his belt, simply knocking it open to reach for his zipper. 

You’re about to tug his pants down when the door opens. 

“Hey sugar,” Tommy drawls, “all my fuckin boxers have holes. Can you help a guy out? Promise they’re cle—“

His loud mouth gave just enough warning for Joel to pull his shirt down over his belt and for you to fumble at rolling the cuff of one pant leg up just so, reaching for a pin. 

“Oh hey, Joel!” Tommy says happily. “Finally fixin’ those ratty old things?” 

It’s a fucking miracle that he’s in these jeans, his favorites. Actually, it’s not, he wears them all the time, and they’re just a little too long so the bottoms are torn up. 

“Guess so,” Joel scowls. He’ll have to finally let you hem them now. 

“Just leave ‘em on the table, Tommy,” you say around the needle between your teeth. “And tell Maria to stop bein’ so rough with them.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “She can’t help it, sugar. I’m irresistible, see?” He claps his brother on the back and takes his leave. 

You slump a little, sighing as you set the needle on the table before moving to resume your activity. 

But Joel steps back. “I should get goin’,” he says. The line between his brow is cavernous and his lips are tugged down at the corners. 

“Oh. Okay,” you say, and pull yourself up with a hand clutching the table. 

“So. Thanks again,” he says. And then he’s gone. 

You let yourself drop dramatically into a chair, groan growing as it turns physical when your tailbone hits the seat wrong. 

You’re rubbing your forehead and thinking about going to bed to give yourself a pity orgasm when the door opens. He’s quiet and cautious, but he pushes the door shut behind him and locks it. 

“M’sorry,” he says. “I…”

“It’s okay,” you say with a tired smile. “I understand.”

“No, you don’t,” he says, offering you a hand. 

You take it and let him pull you to standing. 

His other hand finds your waist. “I was bein’ a coward.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

“Darlin’, you couldn’t,” he says. His arm slides further around, pulling you to him in a gentle embrace. He looks down at you through heavy lids, watching the way your lips part just a little. “You still want this?”

You bring a hand up to cup at the hair that curls down the nape of his neck. “Please,” you whisper. 

He matches your motion, cradling your head in his palm as he dips his head to kiss you. He wastes no time, licking into your welcoming mouth, seeking out the earthiness of the tea still lingering on your tongue and the sweet shiver of goosebumps prickling across his skin as you wind your fingers into his hair.

“Shit,” he mumbles when you break away for air. “What do you want, baby? What can I have? You gotta tell me now, before I can’t think straight.”

“You can have whatever you want, Joel,” you say, hot breath brushing his swollen lips before he presses them to you again with a growl.

It’s a much quicker kiss, and he breaks away to drop to his knees and push your skirt up to your hips. You have to lean back with both hands clenching the edge of the table not to fall over in shock.

He nuzzles against the soft cotton of your panties and groans at the smell of your wet cunt. He mouths at it gently over the fabric before hooking his finger around the gusset and pulling it aside to part your lips with his tongue. 

“Not fair,” you gasp as he feasts. “I was supposed to—supposed to do that for you.”

“You said whatever I want, darlin’,” he says against your pussy, chasing the taste of you. 

“Fuck,” you pant. “Fuck.” 

“Gimmie one and I’ll let you suck my cock if ya want it so bad,” he says, plunging two thick fingers in and basking in the way you squeal and squirm. He doesn’t give you a chance to adjust, pistoning in and out like he’s trying to win a race. 

It works, with his tongue on your clit and his fingers against that soft, secret part of you that no one has touched before, you gush around where he spreads you. “That’s it,” he croons, “good girl. Good fuckin’ girl, give me another.”

“You said—”

He cuts you off by sucking on your clit and your hips rock, wobbling the table as he takes another from you anyway. 

“Couch or bed?” he says, tugging your panties down your legs now that he’s sated the immediate urge. 

“Don’t care,” you say.

“Alright, bed,” he says. “Wanna do this right.” 

“Don’t think you could do it wrong,” you say, a lazy, sated smile on your face and a lightness to your eyes that he thinks he could get addicted to. 

He does let you suck his cock, and thinks maybe he could die happy from the warm, wet of your mouth and the way you look up at him like he’s the only thing in the world. 

At that moment, he is. You had resigned yourself to keeping your little crush a secret until it faded, too fond of him to risk it, but here? Now? Now that you’ve had him, you don’t think you can ever go back. 

He’s gentle in a way you can’t quite name. It’s not that he’s soft with you, but just aware. Like he knows where you’re capable of meeting him and settles there. He makes room for himself in you like you’d done for his coat, opening you up and stuffing you until you’re warm and full and renewed. 

He doesn’t leave you to stitch yourself up, either. He buries his face in your tits and holds you tight after, cleans the both of you up with a warm towel, and kisses you before he leaves.

Neither of you want him to go, but he’s got Ellie at home and won’t—can’t—worry her by not coming home. Not without warning. Next time, he whispers, and it carries a question and a promise. 

There is a next time. And another. And another. You think you might be in trouble. You do far less mending jobs once your evenings are taken over by Joel. You still take them, darning socks on the soft with your feet in his lap, or basking in the way he looks proud and satisfied when you use the stand to fix up bigger projects. Some of your favorite nights are when he sits and strums his guitar while you sew, just two people finding peace by creating it themselves. Together. 

So when eight months later, that tape finds its way into the VCR you’ve only used twice, you’re more than familiar with the bulking shape of him. The way his hair sticks up when he runs worried hands through it. The grip of those hands, sure and steady.

He finds you there on your third viewing. You didn’t even hear him come up the porch, didn’t realize the sun was starting to crest over the mountains, that he’d be coming by with breakfast just like he promised.

The little Joel on screen is working his way to the operating room. You’ve stopped flinching at each crack of the gun or collapsing body. 

“Where the hell did you get that?” 

You do startle when he speaks, unaware that he’d been watching you watch the tape for a minute. His voice is low and slow, something lurking beneath the baritone that trips an alarm. 

This isn’t your Joel. This is that one, the one from the TV. 

He moves like a jaguar, slinking and graceful. “Where,” he snarls, breath curling off your clammy skin, “did you get this?” His hand curls around your shoulder at the base of your neck. 

“It was on my porch,” you whisper. 

His fingers dig in a little where he holds you in place. “Try again.”

“It’s the truth, I swear. I didn’t know what it was.” 

“How much did you watch?”

“All of it,” you whisper, though it feels like the click of a lock.

“Goddamnit, baby. Why’d you have to do that?” 

There’s an actual click, the unmistakable flick of a release. 

“Joel, please,” you say, voice breaking. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“I can’t take that chance,” he says. 

He still hasn’t brought the knife close to you, though, so you hazard a glance over your shoulder. You wish you hadn’t. He’s gone, his sweet eyes dead to the world, no whisper of his gentleness to be found. 

“I swear, please. You can trust me.” 

“Can’t trust anyone in this world, darlin’. You shoulda realized that by now.”

*title from "Through Glass" by Stone Sour

[kabie-whump]

♡ Febuwhump Day 8 - "Why won't it stop?" ♡

@febuwhump

Content: ritual torture, angel whumpee, praying, begging, bondage, cults, knife, blood, poison

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The stone altar was cold under Solstice’s bare back. Chains held their body prone and chafed away at their already worn wrists and ankles. They couldn’t see the ring of cloaked figures watching from the shadows but they could feel their presence like a chill on the back of their collared neck.

The ritual master stepped into the candlelight slowly, reverently, his knife held out in front of him. Solstice tuned out the chanting that rose from the shadows, knowing from experience that allowing those eldritch words to pierce their mind would only make the pain worse.

“Mother,” Solstice whispered. “Please. Save me.”

The knife’s tip reopened old wounds, carving out the same sigils as always.

“Save me,” they repeated, this time in the language of celestials. “Please, Berronar. My divine mother. I have been nothing but faithful.”

Praying didn’t carry the same weight anymore. Not after the cult took their wings away. But they had to try.

Solstice screamed as the ritual master dripped a hot black oil into their wounds, lighting a fire in their veins. The chanting grew louder until it filled their ears and they could feel their celestial essence being ripped away.

It wasn’t until the ritual had ended and the cultists had left them alone on the altar that Solstice could use their cracked voice to pray again.

“Please,” they whispered between exhausted sobs. “I don’t understand. You made me. My parents told me I was a gift from you. Why are you letting this happen? Why doesn’t it stop?”

There was no answer. There was never any answer.

“Just… just a sign. A sign that you’re listening. That you care. That’s all I ask for. Please.”

Nothing.

“Please!”

Their voice echoed back in the empty chamber as they melted into a fit of devastated crying.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Next

Solstice (angel whump) taglist: @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @hauntedroseart @sapphicccici

[kybercrystals94]

They All Fall Down

Read there on AO3!

Febuwhump 2024 | Day 8 | Prompt 8: “Why won’t it stop?”

Rated: G | Words: 1572 | Summary: Stuck in their barracks on Kamino, the cadet Batch try to survive the slow, painful death of boredom. [Character Focus: Cadet Batch]

ADVISEMENT: All training simulations have been canceled for the day, and training rooms are closed. All cadets are ordered to stay in their designated living quarters until further notice. Any and all disturbances during this mandated down time will be dealt with swiftly and with the utmost severity.

Tech reads through the message for the dozenth time, searching for any loophole that he and his brothers might be able to wiggle through to get out of their barracks. They are only scheduled to be cadets for one more standard week. It seemed unfair that they would be held to the same limitations as cadets freshly released from their tubes.

However, the mandate still stands, and Tech’s messages for further clarification have been ignored. It seems they are trapped.

“Hunter,” Wrecker whines, drawing out the last syllable in Hunter’s name to a ridiculous length. “Crosshair won’t stop staring at me.”

Having managed to develop a migraine within the first hour of their imprisonment, Hunter says something from under the pillow he’s sequestered himself to, but his words are suffocated into senseless mumbling.

Crosshair sighs lazily from where he is laying sideways on his bunk, head dropped over the side so that he is looking out at the room upside down. “Stop being such a tubie, Wrecker.”

“I don’t like you staring at me.”

“I’m not staring at you. I’m staring straight ahead.”

“Yeah! Which is at me!”

“If you are sitting in my line of sight, then yes, I’m staring at you. If it bothers you, move.”

“You move! I was sitting here first!”

“No.”

“If you won’t move yourself, I’ll help you,” Wrecker decides, standing up threateningly.

Crosshair smiles. “You just try. Let’s see what happens.”

“May I remind you that disturbances during this time will probably result in lockup,” says Tech.

“Lockup would be better than being stuck in here with him,” Wrecker says, jabbing a finger in Crosshair’s direction.

“Funny, I was about to say the same thing about you.”

“That’s it!” Wrecker yells.

“Hey!” Hunter barks, sitting up and throwing his pillow at Wrecker. His squinting against the light of the room effectively makes him look angrier. “Knock it off, or I’ll turn you both in myself to get some peace and quiet.”

Crosshair huffs and rolls his eyes while Wrecker has the decency to look properly chastised.

Wrecker picks up the weaponized pillow. “Want this back?” he asks Hunter meekly.

Hunter glares at him for several long moments. “No,” he growls before falling back on his bunk and pulling the covers over his head.

A laden hush follows the outburst for approximately five standard minutes.

“You’re still staring at me.”

Tech jumps up and courageously puts himself between his feuding brothers. “We should do a quiet, group activity.”

“Like what?” Crosshair asks dubiously, rolling over and pushing himself up.

“We could play sabaac!” Wrecker suggests excitedly.

Tech casts a weary glance at Hunter’s bunk. “I don’t believe that game would qualify as quiet,” he says.

“What then?” Crosshair stands up and stretches his limbs.

Tech goes and gets the deck of cards. “I’ve been researching some other card games that are more appropriate to quiet environments. Allow me to teach you.”

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

“Tech, do you have any twos?”

“No. Go fish.”

Wrecker groans and picks up a card from the draw pile. He looks at the card and grins wildly. “Ha! This is the card I wanted. Take that, Tech!” He puts down the set of twos in front of him triumphantly.

“While we are playing individually, I am not actively seeking your demise, Wrecker. If I’d had a two, you would have received it with no argument,” Tech mutters.

Crosshair chuckles. “That’s not how I’ve been playing.”

Tech throws the nearly graduated sniper a look. “Yes, I know that you’ve been actively cheating. Despite the simplicity of the game.”

“It’s not cheating, it’s house rules,” Crosshair says.

“They can only be house rules if the whole house agrees, which Wrecker and I have not.”

“Yeah, Cross! Play right or we’ll kick you out of the game,” Wrecker scolds far too loudly, then claps a hand over his mouth.

The three cadets look apprehensively over at Hunter’s bunk and breathe a sigh of relief when the lump that is their sleeping brother doesn’t move.

Crosshair hisses, “Fine. I’ll play by the dumb rules.”

“Thank you, and your opinion is noted.”

They play three more rounds of the game before they become bored. Wrecker suggests some house rules to change up the game; however, his idea is immediately shot down when Tech and Crosshair realize he is basically describing sabaac.

“If you didn’t get so loud whenever we played, maybe Tech wouldn’t have banned it,” Crosshair says irritably.

“I did not ban it, I just recommend we not play it…” Cutting a glance to Hunter’s bunk, Tech lowers his voice to add, “under the circumstances.”

Wrecker fusses with the cards. “How much longer will we be stuck in our barracks?”

“I’m estimating until late meal,” says Tech.

“That’s not for hours!”

“Shh!”

Hunter shifts and sighs, but seems to remain asleep.

“Maker, Wrecker, why do you have to be so loud all the time?” Crosshair mutters.

Wrecker frowns. “I’m being as quiet as I can.”

“I believe that is accurate,” Tech agrees. “He has been several decibels quieter than his average levels.”

“See?” Wrecker crows.

Crosshair rolls his eyes. “We’re so proud of you.”

“What should we do now?” Wrecker asks. He takes two of the cards and leans them against each other, making a triangular structure.

Tech watches with interest, then smiles. “I have an idea.”

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Hunter wakes to the soft chirp of a notification on his data pad. He blinks his eyes open, surprised by the quiet in the barracks. It is never this quiet unless his brothers are gone. Maybe he had slept through the mandatory lockdown, and they had gone to late meal without him. He wouldn’t put it past them, especially after threatening to send them to lockup. Not his finest moment of leadership.

He sits up, rolling his shoulders back to alleviate the stiffness. His migraine is mostly gone, just a lingering ache behind his left eye. He can live with that. Turning to swing his legs over the side of the bunk, Hunter freezes when he sees it: a tower of cards.

And he’s not alone after all.

Crosshair is sitting on Wrecker’s shoulders, reaching up with a card in each hand, poised to place them at the very top of the card palace that nearly reaches the ceiling. It is intricate in its design, with levels and pillars. Hunter is impressed.

“Just a little to the left, Wrecker,” Crosshair says, almost under his breath.

“Carefully,” Tech adds from where he stands across the table from them.

Wrecker shuffles to the left.

“There, good,” Crosshair whispers.

Hunter finds himself holding his breath as Crosshair reaches out and places the cards with the delicate care of an artist.

Hunter grins, reaching for his data pad and taking a holopic. This will be evidence the next time his brothers claim they can’t figure out how to play nice long enough to get anything done.

“That’s it, we did it,” Tech says, “We’ve used every card in our possession to make this structure.”

“We should take a holopic of it,” Wrecker says, almost softly.

“I did,” Hunter says.

He honestly didn’t mean to startle them. He thought that the trained soldiers had seen him sitting up, known they were being observed – even if they hadn’t acknowledged him. He supposes, in hindsight, he shouldn’t have made any such assumptions.

Wrecker nearly jumps out of his skin, which sends Crosshair, still perched on the giant’s shoulders, flailing to keep his balance. Tech whirls around to face Hunter, eyes wide. And all the sudden, combined, swift movements are the house of cards’ demise.

They all watch in devastated anguish as the cards tumble and flutter in soundless destruction. The silence continues long after the last card lands.

Hunter has never felt so small in his entire life.

Tech recovers first. “We knew it was a short-lived endeavor when we undertook the challenge,” he says bravely, but the assurance is thin.

“Would’ve been nice if it lasted longer than two seconds after we finished it though,” Crosshair grumbles, finally slipping down from Wrecker’s shoulders to loom over the carnage.

“I am so sorry,” Hunter says, standing up. “I really didn’t mean to scare you.”

Three sets of eyes look at him, conflicting emotions dancing across their faces.

“We weren’t scared!” Wrecker protests.

Tech averts his gaze. “Correct. We just thought we had inadvertently woken you. We were…surprised.”

Crosshair folds his arms over his chest. “I knew you were awake.”

“Right,” Hunter says, shifting uncomfortably. He holds up the data pad. “I really did get a holopic though.” He looks down at the screen, a notification symbol in the corner. He clicks on it. “And hey, the mandate has been lifted! We can leave the barracks now!”

“Yes, it was lifted two hours ago,” Tech says dismissively, kneeling to begin picking up the scattered remains of what might as well have been their hopes and dreams.

Hunter puts his data pad aside and begins to help gather the cards. “Maybe we can build another one?”

His brothers sigh in unison.

“It will simply not be the same,” Tech verbalizes.

END

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A/N: If you squint, you can see where I sprinkled the whump in this story XD If you need specifics, I'll just say this: migraine & devastation over lost card tower.

[l3ominor]

Febuwump day 8: "why won't it stop?"

Someone was shaking his shoulder- Flower- Zelda. She was saying his name over and over again- she sounded like she was about to cry.

Wild kept watching, silent and frozen, as tendrils of gloom began rising up from the ground, like evaporated blood. The sky began to lighten with the red glow, clouds starting to race.

No no no please no- please… after everything we’ve done… please not again… the thoughts raced through his head as fast as the clouds streaked across the sky.

More people were yelling in the background. The others. Time. Fairy was also shrieking, but it was fainter, farther away. Several people were yelling for him and Zelda, yelling for answers.

Please… just let it go away… I can’t… I can’t do this again…

The moon reached its zenith, and the light around it swelled, enveloping the world. The moon seemed to devour the sky, and Time screamed. Streaks of darkness, like the opposite of shooting stars, fell from the sky, dropping all across Hyrule.

Then it faded.

The moon shrunk, returning to its pale white color, so small. The clouds stilled, the gloom faded, and the air cleared. Silence fell over the world, like a suffocating curtain of finality

[what-the-whump]

Febuwhump 2024 | Day 8 | Why won't it stop

Mighty Morphin Power Rangers | 1x35 | The Green Candle Part II | 1x50 | Return of an Old Friend Part II | 2x07 | The Green Dream| 2x08 | The Power Stealer | 2x09 | The Beetle Invasion

[hotcheetohatredwastaken]

Febuwhump day 8 -- "Why Won't it Stop?"

“Why won’t it stop?”

The tearful declaration shouldn’t have surprised Time, but yet it did. The group’s veteran had been plagued by nightmares for what seemed to be weeks now, the cause of this affliction completely unknown and its solution just as elusive. At first, he’d hidden it from the group of heroes—then, when the bags under his eyes became too prominent to explain away, he’d taken the other’s worry in stride, joking with Warrior about how he liked coffee as black as his soul, waking Wind up early so that he too could suffer the curse of watching the sun rise over the trees. Then that occasional sleepless night stretched into two, and three, and four in a row. Now, he was exhausted, too exhausted to even be bitter about the situation, and some of those snarky walls came down with him.

The heroes had a watch, set up so that two people were up at all hours of the night, switching out so that everyone got a decent amount of sleep while the camp remained safe and guarded. Recently, that duty had expanded to accompanying Legend in his nightly vigils by the campfire, where he was always found to have drawn from his bedroll after that first hour of rest was interrupted by nightmares. Legend hadn’t even noticed their silent system concerning his care, which worried Time all the more.

He wondered what kind of nightmares could be making their prickly, battle-hardened veteran awake from his dreams gasping and trembling like a child, hour after hour, night after night. The rest of the heroes didn’t know what to think of it, either. They averted their eyes and squeezed his shoulder or pressed hot chocolate into his hands before they retreated, giving him his space to sort himself out. Pride was a tricky thing, and Legend was nothing if not fiercely prideful—to see him this way put them all on the wrong foot, and they were all afraid of making the wrong move and pushing the veteran to decide he’d make them share in his suffering with his harsh tongue.

“I… I just… why won’t it stop?” Legend nearly whimpered the words. He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. “I want it to stop.”

“I know, I know,” Time soothed, carded a gentle hand through his damp, greasy hair. Another thing that Time was surprised about, but knew that he shouldn’t have been. Just a few minutes earlier, Legend had shot up in his bedroll with a strangled gasp—as he did every night—in the wake of one of his nightmares. He’d stolen over to the fire, trailing a blanket behind him like a ghost, and just stood there and blinked down at Time as if trying to determine if he was real or not. Time, on instinct, had lifted an arm to invite Legend to sit next to him—and before he knew it, the kid slammed into his chest like a cannonball, curling up in his lap. Time took it in stride well enough, though he could already imagine Malon’s delighted squeal when he relayed the scenario to her in some letter later, when all of this was over. Because this spell would end, and their vet would be alright again, eventually. “Just close your eyes for a little bit, you have to get some rest. Even if you can’t get back to sleep, it’s okay to just relax for a bit.” 

The long rehearsed and repeated words fell empty off of his tongue. Legend’s little disbelieving scoff was enough of an answer to that advice. Gee, Time, don’t you think he’d already thought of that? Sleeping and resting and relaxing? But Legend didn’t voice that snarky comment, and Time wished he would have, if only to imitate a reminder of their normal, sassy veteran, only for a moment. Instead, he rubbed at his eyes, sniffling, and curled tighter around himself.

“I just… how did you manage it, Time?” Legend said, his shoulders raising. His blond bangs, tipped with that odd pink that he seemed to favor, obscured his eyes. Still, one of his hands clenched in the fabric of Time’s tunic, and the lines of his shoulders were tense. “You… you got married… you got out of… of this life of adventuring and fighting monsters and… and all of that stuff. Got yourself a house, a family, a… a life, outside of… adventure, or whatever.” He turned his face away, his tone hesitant, like he was worried about angering Time with his next words: “Malon… don’t you worry she’ll be… taken?”

“What do you mean?” asked Time, keeping his tone light. His heart sank nevertheless, because he knew exactly what the kid meant.

“Well, just like… you’ll get too comfortable, and then something’ll happen, and you won’t be ready because you let your guard down and you hurt those you love because you got too close?” Legend sat up with a start then, scrubbing at his face. He turned away from Time, hugging his arms around himself as he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling. I’m sure I’m not making any sense.”

“No, no, I understand you. Are you thinking of someone in particular? Perhaps that ‘roommate’ of yours?” Time asked, his tone teasing. “I’ve met him before, that little bunny hood of his was always so goofy.”

“Yeah… so goofy…” Legend said dreamily, and wasn’t that a sign of his mental state. “And my family and this one girl I used to know and just… everyone. I… I’m sorry, Time, I don’t mean to be putting this all on you.” Suddenly, Legend seemed to come back to himself, and a slight blushed tinged his cheeks. He swiped a hand up through his bangs and pushed himself to standing, averting his eyes. “I’m really sorry, Time, being tired just makes me blab. I think I’ll go back to bed, see if I can’t get another few hours.”

“Stay.” Time caught his elbow. “Just for a second, please.”

Legend allowed him to pull him back down to sitting, though he looked like he wanted to die about the whole thing. Time shifted on the log, gathering himself up with a steadying breath. Then he spoke.

“I do worry about Malon. And I worry about the farm, and Zelda, and all of Hyrule. Now I worry about all of you boys, too, that I’ve gotten to know each and every one of you.. I worry that something will happen while I’m gone, or I’ll die off in some corner of the timeline and she’ll never know, or that something will happen to one of you boys and I’ll be left to live with it. And I… the only way I’ve gotten through it is being able to talk to Malon,” Time confessed. “She’s my rock, fiery woman that she is.”

Legend took this all in silently. Time rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling awkward all of the sudden.

“Do… do you think that you’d be able to talk about any of it, Leg’?” he ventured. “I’m not one to press about secrets, but something’s clearly bothering you. Maybe if you got some of that off of your chest, you’d be able to sleep?”

Time braced for some acidic retort when Legend opened his mouth, an apology for overstepping already sitting on the tip of his tongue. Instead, the kid let out a choked little sob, and it all came tumbling out. Another surprising show of trust, another surprise that shouldn’t quite have been one. Out came disjointed tales of a fish, and a dream, and sitting with his uncle in the tunnels underneath his castle. Tales of how, every time he tried to help people—every time he even got close to them—he somehow made everything worse, and death followed after. Time didn’t have any advice for him, but he listened, and eventually, Legend had worn himself out enough that he managed to doze off in his lap.

Morning found them in the same position. Time stared at the sun as it began to rise in the eastern portion of the sky, and he begged it to rise a little slower, so that the vet could get just a few more precious minutes before it woke him and reset this awful cycle.

But Hylia had never been very kind to her heroes. And the sun rose, Legend awoke, and another restless day started.

[em-writes-stuff]

"Why won't it stop"

day 8 of @febuwhump

whumpee, caretaker

766 words

warnings: past abuse discussed, cursing, insomnia, nightmares

~

Caretaker closes Whumpee’s door, making sure to stay quiet as they turn the knob so he stays asleep. They sigh in relief after a few moments of standing still, their ear close to the door. They walk down the hallway and collapse on the sofa, barely able to remember to plug their phone in before falling asleep. 

Whumpee wakes with a start, he pushes himself up with his elbows and frantically looks around the room. 

The nightmare that woke him is quickly disappearing from his memory and all that remains are the phantom hands tracing over his skin. Through his hair, over his chest, his arms, nails digging into his legs. He pulls his blanket tighter around himself and taps rhythmically over his heart with his thumb. 

Slowly, his heartbeat and breathing slows enough to the point where he can convince himself he’s safe. He takes inventory of the room. 

A bed, with no one else on it. A small dresser with a few knicknacks displayed on top, all of them his. There’s a jacket wrapped on the back of a desk chair and the curtains are open, letting moonlight filter inside. A pile of his clothes are in the corner and there’s nothing else. He’s safe, alone, and able to relax a little. 

Whumpee lays back down, pulling the blanket up to his chin and rolls onto his side and curling his legs up to his chest. He bites on his bottom lip to keep from sobbing and tears well in his eyes. 

There’s a knock on his door and he shoots up, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Yes?”

“Hey, it’s Caretaker. Can I come in?” they ask softly. 

Whumpee clears his throat and pulls the blanket over himself. “Yeah, sure.” 

Caretaker slowly pushes the door open and smiles warmly. They walk into the room and sit on Whumpee’s chair. 

“Did you sleep well?” 

It’s a useless question, Caretaker knows it, Whumpee knows it, they both fucking know it. But they asked. Maybe he should tell the truth? 

“As well as I can. Better than last night, I think.” he says, forcing a smile. 

Caretaker tilts their head and bites their cheek, “I thought we agreed on no more lying.” 

Whumpee looks at his hands and frowns. “I can handle it. You don’t need to know everything that happened to me.” 

And Caretaker wants to believe him, they want to nod and accept him at his word. That he can handle what he’s dealing with alone. But they know him. And from the few things Whumper said before he was arrested…he can’t handle it alone. 

Caretaker shakes their head and scoots closer to Whumpee, ignoring the way Whumpee leans back and pulls the blanket tighter around himself. 

“You don’t have to tell me everything. Nothing you don’t want to talk about. But if you’re suffering now? I need to know so I can help. Please, just let me help you.” they say, voice breaking. 

Whumpee stares at them, brows furrowed. He knows he should tell them about the nightmares. That they’re not just flashes of things that used to happen. That he can’t remember what they’re about for more than a few seconds. That even if he could remember, he definitely wouldn’t want to. But all that comes out of his mouth is, “Why won’t it stop?” 

“What stop?” Caretaker asks. 

Whumpee takes a shuddering breath and starts picking at the cuticle on his finger. “Everything.” he looks up and Caretaker’s inching closer to him, an infinitely worried expression on their face. “Not like that. I don’t want to- It’s just. I don’t get any sleep because every time I lay still enough, I can feel Whumper’s hands on me. They’re not…it’s always gentle. And Whumper was never gentle. But I know that…I know it’s them. I just know it’s them and I don’t know how I know because-” 

He stops and looks at Caretaker and takes a deep breath. Caretaker’s cheeks have tear tracks running down them. “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?” 

“I’ve been here a week. Before that, there were two places that threw me out as soon as they realized they couldn’t ‘fix’ me with a few days of hard work. I didn’t want to risk it.” 

Caretaker leans forward and this time, Whumpee makes an effort not to move. They hold their arms out and Whumpee nods. 

He doesn’t hug them back, but for the first time in a very long time, he can feel the warmth of someone else and he doesn’t want to run off. 

[librathefangirl]

Febuwhump 2024: Day 8 - "Why won't it stop?"

[whumpncomfort]

Febuwhump Day 8: Panic

daredevil 2x02

[stardustloki]

Rough sketch featuring Commander Fox for febuwhump day 8: "Why won't it stop?"

[thiawenwriting]

Febuwhump Day 8

Prompt: “Why Won’t It Stop?”

Fandom: Star Trek AOS

Warning: Nightmares; Previous Character Death

@febuwhump

Spock awoke with a gasp.

He lay there for several moments, heart racing. His body trembled with remembered grief.

It didn’t matter how much he meditated or what techniques he used, he had nightmares every time he slept.

Over and over, the memories replayed for the torment of his sleeping mind. The warp core. Jim’s death. The worst moment of Spock’s life.

It didn’t matter that Jim was alive now. The dreams didn’t stop. Logic failed him.

“I’m scared, Spock.”

Spock clenched his eyes tightly against the burn of tears. Why won’t it stop? Was he doomed to see Jim die every time he closed his eyes?

He rose from the bed with a sigh.

For someone of his rank, visiting hours were more suggestion than fact. And when it came to him and his captain, they did not exist. He would make himself presentable and then walk to the Starfleet Medical Center.

He needed to see Jim.

[just-here-with-my-thoughts]

Day 8: Found Footage

@febuwhump prompt Alt 3: Found Footage

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Tech, Omega, Wrecker, Hunter, Crosshair (mentioned), Echo Word Count: ~555 Click here to read on AO3

Synopsis: Tech discovers an old home video from their cadet days.

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

Omega tucked up against Tech's side, giggling into her fists at the video playing on the engineer's datapad. Tech's shoulders were silently shaking too, his lips quirked upwards in mirth at the antics on screen.

"What're you both laughing at?" rumbled Wrecker, and soon he too was absorbed in the holo, hunched over Tech's other side and guffawing along with the other two.

That much chaos attracted Hunter. "What's so funny to you three?" he asked, and Omega waved him over with a grin.

"Tech found a holo from when you were cadets," she said, beaming. "You all look so young!"

Tech chuckled in amusement. "I was about to delete an old data cache when I checked it for important files. Omega is highly amused by some of our antics."

Hunter lifted the datapad from Tech's hands, brow furrowing as he watched the holo play out. It was their old cadet room – the one with the bunk beds. Wrecker, a mountain of muscle even as a teenager, held Crosshair upside-down by his ankles. Crosshair was in his lower blacks, whip-thin and thrashing about in furious protest. Tech's uncontrolled laughter reverberated from behind the camera.

Hunter, unruly curls loose around a face inked only with line-art, clung on to Crosshair with arms and legs wrapped round him, an expression of fiendish delight painting his face as he tickled his older brother.

The scene played on a short loop, an inverted Crosshair spitting curses before dissolving into teary hysterics and begging for mercy. Young Wrecker, still sporting his scar, howling with mirth until he lost his grip and dropped Crosshair on his head. Cross and Hunter landing in a tangled pile of limbs and hugs and laughter. The camera coming closer as Tech moved to join the fray. Crosshair leaping onto Hunter for revenge, long fingers finding Hunter's ribs–

Hunter swiped the screen on the datapad. The video stuttered, then disappeared.

"Hunter! What the kriff?" swore Wrecker as Omega let out a dismayed noise.

Hunter chucked the datapad onto the opposite bunk, out of reach.

"It's a dumb old holo. Not an essential file. I cleared it from the cache."

"Hunter," protested Wrecker, but Tech stayed him with a hand on his forearm.

"Very well, Hunter," he said quietly. "I'll make sure that only essential data is left in the Marauder's memory banks."

They watched as Hunter disappeared into the cockpit. Then Tech reached across and retrieved the datapad, bringing it back to life.

"Is Hunter mad?" asked Omega, concerned. Tech gave her a reassuring smile.

"Don't worry, Omega," he said. "I can recover the file. I'll make sure it is stored in a separate data bank... and we can watch the rest of the holos another day."

"There's more?" squeaked Omega in delight, and Wrecker and Tech quickly shushed her.

"There are," said Tech with a quick smile. "We will watch them when Hunter is not around."

--

Hunter entered the cockpit and sat across from Echo, chewing on silence.

"Hey Echo," he asked eventually, without looking at the other clone. "How do you get by without Fives?"

Echo glanced over at him, unable to read the distant look on Hunter's face. He turned back to the Marauder's console, looking out at the star-scene streaming by.

"You just do," he said quietly. “You don't have a choice."

[adrift-in-thyme]

Day 8: Panic (Warriors & Legend)

Ao3 link

Cw for a panic attack and the Great Fairy acting creepy (it’s pretty much on par with Cia’s behavior from day 2)

————————-

It’s night by the time he sets out.

Warriors glances up at the sky as he walks. The moon shines serenely down on the town, its glow reflected in the puddles gathered on the cobblestones. A speckling of stars dots it, twinkling innocently like fairies.

Well, like some fairies.

He looks back down at his feet and swallows. He had felt it on the way to the town, a presence that never ceases to unsettle him. That of a Great Fairy.

The others likely would have felt it too, if not for their preoccupation with the injured Rancher. But he’s surprised that Legend and Wind hadn’t come across her in their search. Perhaps they were too preoccupied then too.

The cave looms off to the side, nearly hidden amongst a cloak of vines and Warriors steps off the path to head towards it. His heart begins to pick up its pace as he approaches, every beat reverberating in his throat. And the closer he grows, the more his hands tremble, betraying the dread within.

It’s been months since he has had to stand before a Great Fairy. Every part of him wants to turn back. If he returns to the inn maybe he’ll find Twilight out of bed, healed and grinning from another brush with death averted. But he knows that's just wishful thinking. He saw Hyrule’s expression and Time’s too—drawn and exhausted and bordering on hopelessness. He saw Twilight lying in bed, pale and weak, struggling to so much as remain conscious.

Even if Hyrule’s spell can work, the Traveler will doubtless wear himself out before it has the chance. Warriors balls his hands into fists, steeling his nerves. A Great Fairy can do anything—turn the tide of battle, grant special powers, heal the most severe of wounds. This is the only way.

With a deep breath, he plunges through the entrance. Two steps in and the fairy emerges, bursting from within the fountain with a shower of magic. She looks down at him, giggling in a way that makes his skin crawl.

“Welcome, courageous one,” she murmurs. “Come closer and tell me your plight.”

Warriors wants nothing more than to run for it, escape before the inevitable occurs. But he approaches the fountain instead, boots sinking in the moist dirt, fairies flitting out of his path. When he speaks his voice is surprisingly steady.

“My friend is dying. I need you to heal him.”

The fairy nods. “I can sense it, the dark magic within him. Though he doesn’t fight alone, even their combined strength is not enough. It is already draining away his life force.”

“But you can save him.”

“Of course.” She smiles and runs a finger along his cheek. “For a price.”

Warriors clenches his hands even tighter, fighting to conceal their trembling.

“What is it?”

She laughs and the sound of it seems to echo about the cave. “Oh, courageous one, it’s you.”

There’s a bottle in her hand now, so large that someone much taller than him could fit inside it. And he knew this would be the cost, he knew it, but Warriors’ blood runs cold anyway.

“So,” the fairy says, tilting the bottle to and fro in her long-fingered grip, “do you still want me to heal your friend?”

Already, his lungs are constricting, his body tensing, ready to sprint in the opposite direction. But Warriors inhales a purposefully slow breath and looks her right in the eyes.

“Yes.”

“Wonderful! Then let’s begin!”

Warriors has mere seconds to brace himself before she brings the bottle down in a smooth arc, scooping him up effortlessly. His gut plummets as he falls and hits the bottom with an “oof.” Immediately he scrambles back to his feet, just in time to look up and see her pop on the lid.

It’s only then that he realizes he has no idea when…or if she’ll let him out.

She tilts the bottle, so he slides down to collide painfully with the side of it. With a leering grin, she leans forward to peer in at him.

“My, my, you are a pretty one. I might just keep you forever.”

Panic wedges itself in Warriors throat and he tries to stumble back, away from her searching gaze. But then she tilts the bottle once more and he ends up careening backward instead, slamming into the opposite side. Stars explode before his eyes.

“Careful now,” she croons, waggling a finger at him. “We wouldn’t want you to ruin that pretty face of yours.”

Her words are like a vice around his neck. Warriors drags in a strangled breath, struggling against the urge to fight his way out of this.

Just hold on a little longer. Just until Twilight’s healed.

But what if there is no end? What if she decides to follow through on her comment and keep him forever?

A cold sweat crawls across Warriors’ skin and he curls in on himself.

Magic is swirling about outside of his prison now, in a nauseating mini cyclone of pink. It only makes the bottle seem smaller, tighter. A cry rises in his throat, a desperate plea to be let free. But he closes his eyes and grits his teeth, and somehow, miraculously manages to hold it back.

Seconds tick by, turning to minutes that stretch into eternity. His breathing grows faster until he can hardly drag in any air at all, and his heart threatens to pound out of his chest. When he opens his eyes, the bottle seems to constrict further, glass pressing against his body, squeezing the life out of him. He shuts them again almost immediately and digs his nails into his palms.

He’s never going to get out of here. She’s never going to let him go. Forever he’ll be trapped, like a bug in a child’s collection, to be peered at and inspected and jostled about for enjoyment.

Something like a sob breaks past his defenses, and he hunches down further, pressing his forehead to his knees.

When at last the rush of magic stops and he feels her gaze on him once more, he can hardly get the words out past the tightness in his throat.

“I-is he alive?”

“Alive and well,” she replies with a smile, and relief rockets through Warriors. But her next words quickly squash it. “I believe I’ll keep you a bit longer though.”

Warriors stumbles up on shaky legs. “No. No! I fulfilled my part of the bargain. We-we’re finished.”

“What he said, lady,” a familiar voice shouts from far below. A glance downward lets Warriors catch a glimpse of a blue cap set on a head of pink hair. “He did his part. Let him go or you’ll regret it.”

The fairy laughs. “Oh, how you threaten, little one! Ah, well, I suppose if you insist. There’s no need for a fight, after all. I don’t wish to kill you.”

She uncorks the bottle and turns it upside down. Warriors plummets, hitting the ground with a dull thud. For a long moment, he can only sit there, trying to breathe. But then Legend puts an arm around his shoulders and hauls him up.

“Come on,” he says, as Warriors stumbles forward, still shaking uncontrollably. “We’re getting out of here.”

They make it out of the cave without event, though Warriors can feel the Great Fairy’s gaze on him the whole time. No sooner have they stepped out into the open air, than he collapses once more, weak with nauseating terror and overwhelming relief.

He’s free. It’s over. But with the Great Fairy still just behind him, it hardly feels that way.

Legend squats down in front of him, skewering him with a glare. “What was that?! I’ve never–you-you were just gonna let her keep you like a pet?!”

Any other time Warriors would find his overexcitement amusing. Right now, he finds it more exhausting. It’s more than enough trying to drag in each breath, he doesn’t need the veteran having a conniption fit too.

He stares down at his trembling hands and works to form the words to the question he needs to ask.

“Is Twilight, okay?”

“He’s fine now, thanks to you,” Legend replies, grumpily.

Warriors closes his eyes and chokes out a shaky exhale.

It’s over, he tells himself once more, as though that will make it any more real. As though that will drive the feeling of being trapped, pinned beneath her leering gaze away.

A hand comes to rest hesitantly on his shoulder. When he raises his head Legend has dropped to his knees beside him and is regarding him with an uncharacteristically soft expression.

“Are you alright?”

Warriors huffs a laugh he doesn’t feel. The panic hasn’t even begun to subside yet. “I’ll be fine, Vet. It’s not the first time I’ve been through that.”

“Not the first–” Legend springs to his feet again, outraged. “I didn’t even know fairies could do that, and yet–and yet you’re over here telling me they’ve done it to you before?! Those little…”

He mutters a string of curses beneath his breath, hands fisted at his sides, gaze trained murderously at the cave. For a moment, Warriors is certain he’s going to run off and slay the fairy, but then the veteran turns back to him. He stares down at him, miserable affair that he must be, and Warriors stares back, trying to read the emotions churning in those sharp eyes. He hasn’t even identified half of them, however, before Legend drops down again.

…and hugs him.

Warriors goes rigid with shock. He didn’t even think Legend was capable of accepting hugs, and for him to give on so freely…

“Vet, wha–”

“Don’t question it,” Legend snaps. “Don’t ask for me to do this again, either. This is a one-time thing because you look absolutely pitiful.”

A more genuine chuckle escapes Warriors, and he slumps forward, into the safety of the veteran’s embrace.