#Day 09

[messenger-of-babel]

With You Again

Summary: Luis made you a promise, and that was that he would come back no matter what. (Luis x reader)

Word Count: 2.8K

Notes: I 👏 LOVE 👏 LUIS. I was so excited to get a chance to write for him so I hope I did him justice. Warning for potentially incorrect Spanish? I checked twice to be sure, and it's basics, but please please let me know if something's off. Minor language.

Ahhh Luis how I miss you TT.

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Luis Serra had always been an enigma of a man.

You couldn't fault that, after all it is what drew you to him in the first place. Sure, maybe it had started out with the intentions of being a one-night stand, a mere hookup. You mean, who could resist the way he looked bathed in the dim lighting of the bar, one arm thrown over the back of the bar stool, other hand tapping the table twice as he asked for a refill. The way that his eyes caught your gaze, sizing you up like prey, causing a charming grin to flash your way.

Sure, that is what had brought you in, but that's not what made you stay.

You stayed because you didn’t realise how warm those arms could keep you at night until you had slept in them. You didn’t realise how soft those fingers against the table could be until he was running them through your hair while you watched TV on your couch, massaging your scalp softly after a long day. His eyes may gleam like a predator, but after the moonlight's gone they soften like an unfurling cat, warm and comforting. The way the smile that screamed 'mistake' could melt into a soft grin when he laughed.

However, for all of his soft edges, there was still a cold shadow that clung to him. You could see it in the way his eyes clouded over on nights you'd been having a few too many glasses of wine, his gaze cast out the window. The tense purse of his lips when you asked him to share about his day at work, the anxious chuckle and flirtatious direction when you asked about his family.

"You want to know more about me, eh cariño?" he'd chuckle, pet name rolling off his tongue like honey. "I'm flattered."

He'd tell you the barest of bones, times about living with his grandfather in a rural village back in Spain. You hadn't pushed when you came up against his resistance. People had skeletons in their closet, that much was to be expected. You just couldn't help the gnaw of worry that dared to ask how many you'd count if you opened that door.

That was the way you ran your relationship, and for one whole year it worked fine. He'd go to work, a small university science lab he had signed up for. Apparently, he had some big wig science gig before meeting you, but he said he wanted something smaller, something less stressful.

"Needed a change of pace." he said to you over breakfast one day, but his jaw was tensed and his eyes flickered back to his food after only a moment.

So, when you came back home one night, you had expected him to still be holed up on the other side of the city. What you hadn't expected was the form of your boyfriend, half-dressed pulling your apartment to shreds. As you walked into the carnage of the living room, a pang of fear springs into your lungs when you see his shirtless form changing into new clothes, his body language anxious and wound. A brief second passes and your mind can only assume that he's cheating, why else would he be in a rush half naked? However, when his eyes meet yours, they're clouded in a different kind of guilt.

"Mi Vida." he greets softly, hands still busying themselves but eyes softening the way they only do for you. Your mouth moves silently as you scan the overturned couch, books thrown over the rug. "What the hell is going on?" you breathe out, eyebrows pinching together. Luis comes in front of you, grabbing your arms softly and sliding his hands up till he grips your wrists. His warm hands cover your own in a single motion, rough callouses of his thumbs pressing into the soft centre of your palms. "Lo siento," he murmurs, bringing his face closer to yours. You can't help the way that blood rushes to your ears, and your breath comes out in soft exhales, warm against his lips. "I didn't want you to worry. I didn't think you were going to be back so soon."'

"Well, I was." you say back softly. "And too late, I'm incredibly concerned."

His lips twitch into a small smile, the candle of mirth in his eyes sputtering weakly. "You care too much about a man like me, cariño." he says softly, tone warm.

 "I care just enough." you defend. "Now tell me what is going on."

He dips his head forward, kissing you briefly as he pulls away. "One for the road." he says, eyes sad despite the smile he sends your way. Your blood freezes. Maybe you would you have done better to catch him cheating.

"Are we breaking up?" you ask, incredulous and voice on the rise. "Are you leaving?"

He's still scavenging things to throw into a duffel bag on your coffee table, flipping through books. "I'm not cheating." he says firmly, eyes meeting yours. "Never that. So don't mistake it. But..." he says quieter as he shoves a paperclipped stack of folders into the bag. "I do have to go."

The zipper squeals as he slides it harshly, throwing his eyes to the bedroom before back to you. He sighs. "Mi Vida, I…I'm not as good of a person as you think I am." he murmurs softly. "There's things you don't know about me, things that would make you run for the hills faster than I could catch you."

His eyes look up to meet yours, searching. "But you make me want to be better, no- you make me better, cariño." he says, voice growing in passion. You come around to stand back in from of him, determined. "Then tell me. Tell me what's going on, I can help."

He shakes his head. "I'm doing this for you. I'm doing this for all the people I've hurt. I would never be able to forgive myself if something happened. Let’s just say I, uh, have some loose ends to tie up." he says, hand on your shoulder. "Things back home that I have to fix."

"Back home like…your village back home?" you ask curiously. He winces at that but eventually nods.

"See, when I left, I didn't look back. I didn't leave in a very…favourable fashion let’s just say. But the people there are suffering or have suffered all because of me. Something I did." he says, tone heavy. "I can't…I can't just ignore it. I have to make it right. If I'm to be with you, I need to make it right." he says. There's conviction in his voice, his hand tightening slightly but not enough to hurt.

"Luis, you don't need to do anything." you reply, placing your hand delicately over his. He just shakes his head again, exhaling softly through his nose.

"Please," he says, voice quiet. "I want to be the man you deserve, cariño. I have to go back." he murmurs. The tone manages to bring tears to your eyes, and your do your best to not let them mist over.

"You make it sound like it's going to be dangerous." you chuckle, but there's no humour to it, smile falling a second later. "Oh, Luis," you breathe out. "Just what have you gotten into?" your fingers go up to trace his cheek, and he tilts his face into your open palm. He offers you a weak smile in return. "Nothing I can't handle." he says back in that flirtatious tone you love, making you roll your eyes. They land on the duffle bag, and your shoulders sag.

"You're really leaving huh?" you whisper, and he nods solemnly.

"Aye, cariño. I am." he confirms, stepping back from you. You feel like you should be screaming or crying, anything but the feeling in your chest. It’s warm but heavy, constricting your lungs. It doesn't feel real, like a thick blanket was cast over your emotions. You are only able to do one thing, which is a short nod. His eyes soften slightly as your dejected look reaches him. "It's not forever. Not if I can help it. I'm going to change." he reassures you.

You head into the bedroom silently, the decor faring little better than the living room. You wish you were able to conjure the voice within yourself to scream at him, tell him that you didn’t want him to change. That you wanted him to stay the same Luis who loved you all the same, who woke you up early in the morning with coffee and kept you up all night in bed. There's files and documents scattered about that you've never seen before, hidden around the apartment. The paintings, the pillows, the mattress, all hiding places now clearly revealed by him on his rampage. You step over all of it, instead heading to check something at the bottom of the closet.

Luis comes to stand by the doorframe, now covered in a button up that was draped on the back of the overturned couch. "Cariño?" he calls curiously, eyes worried and face pinched. As you open the closet you can see he hadn't found the box, and your shoulders drop in relief. You pull it out and stand back up, coming over to him. The wrapping is simple. A large, cream coloured box and lid, slightly dusty from sitting there for months.

"For you." you softly offer, holding it out for him. "It was for our anniversary next month. But if you're leaving…" your voice finally wobbles and the tears threaten to burn again. "You…you are coming back, right?" you ask, salty water slipping forth finally. He pulls you into a hug instantly, his heart breaking as he sees you struggle. "I will do everything I can to come home, cariño." he murmurs firmly. "Please know that."

He takes the box gingerly, eyes crinkling in the corners as he takes in your gift. He puts it on the bed and removes the lid, pushing the wrapping paper aside as he picks up your gift. He turns it over in his hands, lips parting in awe. "Mi Vida..." he says, a grin forming. "You've outdone yourself."

In his hands is an embossed leather jacket, colour gradient shifting in the low light. The embossed parts on the shoulders are a light golden colour, highlighting the filigree design that curls onto the back as well. Two sets of buckles and straps sit low so he can adjust it, and the collar is flat and neat.

"I got it custom made." you say softly, heart soaring as he tries it on and gestures with his arms.

"It fits like a glove," he smiles at you. "How do I look?"

A soft smile crosses your face as you come to him, smoothing the lapels down. "I think you look, incredibly, incredibly handsome." you beam. He makes a look of mock offence. "Only handsome? What about incredibly daring? overwhelmingly sexy, eh?" he teases, making you roll your eyes.

"Oh yes, I'm practically ripping my clothes off." you joke arms coming to rest on his shoulders as your arms circle his neck. His teeth flash dangerously as you say that. "Don't tempt me." he teases, ducking his head down to steal a kiss from you.

You slip a hand inside the pocket on the front, pulling out a piece of paper between your fingers. His eyes trace it as you flip it, showing him the photo of the two of you from your first date. He had taken you out dancing but one of your shoes had broken only a few hours into the night, so you had both ended up at his place downing a few bottles of wine over conversation. Your cheeks are flushed and eyes hazy with wine, glass still raised to your lips despite the smile you're wearing. He's got a lit cigarette trapped between his pointer and forefinger; eyes surprised as you snap the photo. Luis's eyes crinkle in warmth as he looks at it.

"You said you didn't any photo that night," he says, lips tilting upwards. "You little liar."

You shrug, patting the pocket you pulled it out of. "I wanted it to be a surprise. So, you could carry around a memory of us."

His hearts warms and he can't help but spin you around. "You really are too good to me," he murmurs into your hair, placing a kiss there.

"I wanted to get you something you'd actually wear. Something fitted and made with all the love I could put into it so it would be like a hug whenever you wore it. I added something too, it's not very good but…" you say, pulling up the collar to point out the wonky brand etched into the underside of it, pointing out the rough stitches of your initials together. "I wanted it to be able to hug you when I can't." you say softly. Luis's eyes mist up before they close softly.

"Te amo," he whispers. "Te amo mucho. I promise. I promise I'll come back. In some way or some form, I’ll be with you again." he slides the photo back into the jacket and pats the pocket. "After all, I got a piece of you with me now, eh?"

He spends the night with you, his hands refusing to be anything but intertwined with yours despite their penchant to wander. His lips brand across your skin like a starved man, his body committing yours to memory. He was gone in the next morning, apartment put back together as much as it could be and bed cold when you rolled over.

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and the anxious pit only grew. It made you stay up, looking to the door every night as if he'd come waltzing in, shit eating grin on his face and arms open and expectant.

One night when you do get the knock your heart leaps into our throat, forgoing the slippers in favour of dashing to the door. You open it with eagerness, pulse rapidly thumping in excitement to scold him. To chastise him for making you wait so long, for taking his sweet time away from you.

it isn't Luis.

It's a solemn looking man on your apartment doorstep, eyes cast down and fingers fiddling awkwardly with a piece of crumpled paper in his hands. The man clears his throat, and when he speaks you can pick up his American accent. "Is this the residence of Luis Serra?" he asks quietly, and your heart falls seeing the paper he now holds to eyesight. The paper with your address, written in Luis's familiar chicken scratch.

No.

No no no.

you shake your head in panic but collect yourself and eventually nod. "Yeah." you force out. "It is."

His face flickers with recognition, falling sadly. "I see." he says softly, before reaching for something in his pocket, pulling it out with a closed fist. He hovers it over your shaky one, and something cool drops into your trembling palm. Uncurling your fingers, tears drip down your nose as you recognise his silver rings, flecked with dark copper specks.

"He was my…my friend." the man starts, head bowed. "He saved us. We wouldn't have made it out without him."

You don’t hear the words, the subtext ringing in your mind.

He's dead. Luis Serra is dead.

You manage to stutter out a thank you, leaving the two of you in an awkward silence as he stands in the doorway. "I tried to get his jacket." the man softly says, straightening himself to leave. "He said he wanted to give you something of his, but he refused to take it off. He…he said he wanted to feel you with him when he went."

That’s enough to pull a sob from you, and the man looks away guiltily. "I'm so sorry for your loss." he murmurs, before he takes his leave and you shut the door, sliding down it. You cried into the rings clutched in your hands, shaking. You slipped them onto your fingers, the cool metal too big to sit properly. You clench your fists in a prayer, trying to control your breath. Your thumb rubs across the grooves of the metal, some patches worn from Luis carrying out the same motion.

Luis didn't come home.

but sitting on the floor of your apartment living room with tears down your cheeks, thumbs spinning his favourite rings, you remembered what he told you.

In some way or some form, I’ll be with you again.

You laugh with no joy, fingers digging into the metal. You only had his rings, but that was all you needed to know he was in the room with you.

[crossingthedreams]

promise — javier peña x f!reader

a/n: as a latin american woman who works with human rights (hey, now you know something you didn’t!), when I first watched Narcos I wanted to kill the producers. it’s a very north-american-centered production, even with all the accurate content. but it did grow on me, and the acting is superb. I loved javier’s character, and i’ve been wanting to write something about him. and tbh, this sounded like something that would happen. it’s short, because it hits close to home for me, but I might write stuff like this in the future. anyway, here’s (late, obv) @angstober day 09 — promise. 

summary: sometimes, a person breaks their promise. and isn’t that the biggest fucking tragedy?

word count: 369

warnings: angst.

“You promised, Javi”, you spoke, tears streaming down your face. “You promised no more investigations, no more violence, no more. You promised me”. 

You were fully aware your voice was sounding more and more choked. You didn’t want to wipe away the tears, you couldn’t. You barely had the strength to talk, let alone move right now. 

Once more, Javier was leaving. This time, for God knows how long. After he had promised everything would be alright, that everything would work out. 

You weren’t unreasonable, you didn’t expect him to solve all the problems you’d ever have. No, you just expected him to be there — there at birthdays, Christmases, Easters, and all that crap. That’s all you wanted from him, and apparently, that was too much to ask. 

He had said he would take you with him, that the two of you would stay together, but you couldn’t go. You refused to be his little wife keeping his home clean and neat while he was risking his life everyday. Not because there was anything wrong with housewives, but because you and him agreed on something else. You leaving your home and work to be closer to him while he put himself in danger every single day was not part of that agreement. 

You loved him. Right now, you had to love yourself more. 

The promise he made was no good, and it was the very last straw. Because as he was leaving, you saw it in his eyes that he expected you to forgive him and go with him to a different continent, to fight a sovereignty-defying semi-imperialist nonsensical war in another country that would kill more innocents than guilty. You wouldn’t. 

Because even if the promise he made you was breakable, the one you made yourself wasn’t. You wouldn’t create a life in which you’d be scared to wake up everyday and regret corroded you inside out like it did your mother, and her mother before her. 

Javi had hugged you before leaving, and the smell of him still impregnated your nostrils. You both were doing what you believed to be the right thing. Too fucking bad it cost your relationship in the proccess. 

[221beloved]

"Don't do that!" - "But..."

(Link to ao3)

Sighing John opened the front door of 221 and hurried to step into the warmth, leaving the constant drizzle of the day behind.

It had been an exhausting day at the clinic. Since it was getting colder – and wetter – noses were running and throats itching, and on top of that John had treated three crying children. Three of them. Not that he had something against kids, but once they were crying, it was hard to stop them. At least when they were at a clinic.

But his shift was over now, and he was looking forward to a warm living room, a fire, a steaming cup of tea with some snacks and a cuddle with his love.

A smile was manifesting itself on his lips while he climbed the stairs, taking in the comforting smell of his home, of his life.

When he opened the door to the kitchen, however, he stopped dead, his eyes narrowed, and he glared at the man in his dressing gown, bent over the kitchen counter, a biscuit on its way to his mouth.

“No!” John growled, his voice low and dangerous, and Sherlock froze. His head turned slowly towards John and big, round eyes met his, blinking innocently.

“Don’t,” John pointed his finger at him. “Don’t do that!”

He took a step into the kitchen, peering behind Sherlock and confirming what he’d feared.

“This is the last biscuit, isn’t it? The very last of the biscuits I’ve bought three days ago, for me, by the way, and from which only you’ve been eating over the last days, skilfully distracting me whenever I planned to have one myself. You are not eating that last biscuit!”

Sherlock blinked at him, then his hand started moving again, bringing the biscuit closer to his mouth.

“No!” John shouted, and Sherlock froze again.

“But…”

“Ah ah, I bought them. You buy your own, or at least let me have some the next time. This one there, it’s mine. So don’t you dare!”

Sherlock just continued to blink at him, John stared back. Sherlock blinked some more, John didn’t falter.

Then Sherlock’s expression became determined, and before John could realise what was going on, the biscuit was gone, disappeared into Sherlock’s mouth.

John could only gape for a moment, while Sherlock straightened and smirked at him.

John’s brows drew together. “How dare you… well, you’ll see.”

With that he turned on his heels and marched down the stairs to knock at Mrs. Hudson’s door.

When he came back up not three minutes later, he was carrying a tray loaded with flour, sugar, eggs, milk and other ingredients needed for baking.

“There,” he said, almost dropping it on the kitchen table. “You’re baking now. Biscuits. And you won’t get a cuddle until I’ve eaten one.”

That seemed to get through to the detective, who’d been extremely unimpressed until now. He gaped at John, mouth hanging open, eyes wide, looking seriously betrayed.

John shrugged and turned to go into the living room.

“I told you not to do it.”

He settled down into his chair, thinking about reading some pages, when he saw Sherlock stomping towards him. He positioned himself directly in front of John, towering over him, arms crossed behind his back.

John looked up at him. “What, I thought you’d be busy right now?”

Sherlock bent down towards him, tilting his head.

“You didn’t say anything about kissing. Only about hugs and cuddles.

John opened his mouth to protest, to clarify that a cuddle included the things that came with it, such as kissing, when Sherlock’s lips touched his.

And John was helpless. He’d longed for this touch of lips all day, for this soft caress of warm skin, for the hot breath, and oh, for that slick tongue to drive him mad.

His resistance crumbled almost immediately, and before he knew it he was grabbing Sherlock by the lapels of his dressing gown and pulling him down onto his lap.

“You cheated,” John panted after what seemed like an hour of kissing.

“You cheated too,” Sherlock mumbled, tucking his head under John’s chin, his cheek pressed against John’s chest.

“You didn’t bake them yourself, you just bought them.”

“There I thought you’d rather bake them yourself than leave the flat.”

There was silence for bit, then a mumbled, “Well, you might have a point there.”

John chuckled.

“I guess I should be baking then…”

Sighing Sherlock lifted himself up from John’s lap.

“You damn well should be,” John grinned. And he got up as well to follow Sherlock into the kitchen.

Just for support, of course.

--

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[ojbrush]

ojtober 9 . brush and medibang paint testTHIS IS GENUINELY SO UGLY IDK WHY I THOUGHT THIS WAS GOOD WHEN I MADE IT but oh well

[dazaidoodle-daily]

𝙳𝚊𝚢 : 𝟶𝟿

🥕𝘉𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘺𝘻𝘢𝘪🥕

[shrinkthisviolet]

Summary:

Cisco's finally uncovered why Barry was acting so off that night: he was Savitar all along, manipulating him. But now the key question arises: what does Savitar want?

So…I know I said the other oneshot would be a standalone, and it still mostly is, but thanks to @alittleflashvibe's tags on their lovely reblog of my prompt fill (especially this one: "#and the morning after i've got chills just thinking about it"), I got inspired to write a little Savisco follow-up with an Angstober prompt! This isn't the morning after per se, but it is sometime after that night, and Cisco has at this point figured Savitar out.

This fills the @angstober prompt "Promise"!

[scaryfangirl2001]

Soft Games (fanfic, 1757 WC)

@flufftober

The crack of the bat echoes through the stadium, a sound that had once filled Will with hope but now only brings a bitter taste to his lips. The Wolf Trap Shrikes are down again, another strikeout sealing their fate. The Baltimore team's fans roar in triumph, their cheers a mocking symphony that drowns out the disappointed murmurs from Will's side. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms, as he stares at the scoreboard. Another loss, another day of disappointment.

"Hey, Will," Bev calls out, her voice cutting through the noise like a knife. She jogs over to him, her ponytail swinging behind her. "Let's go grab some milkshakes. It's not the end of the world, right?"

Will forces a smile, though it feels more like a grimace. "Thanks, Bev, but I think I'll pass."

Bev frowns, her brow furrowing. "Come on, Will. You need to unwind after a game like this. We all do."

He shakes his head, his eyes scanning the crowd. "I just... I need some time alone, okay?"

Bev sighs, giving him a pat on the shoulder before turning to join the others. Will watches her go, his gaze drifting back to the stands. That's when he sees them — Hannibal's lavender eyes, piercing and intense, locking onto him from across the field. A shiver runs down Will's spine, but it isn't fear; it's anticipation. He knows what's coming next. Without another word, Will turns and slips away from the group, heading out the exit.

The cool night air hits him as he steps outside, the smell of damp concrete and rain-soaked earth filling his nostrils. He quickens his pace, darting down a narrow alleyway that leads away from the stadium. His heart pounds in his chest, a mix of adrenaline and something else, something warmer. He can hear Hannibal's footsteps behind him, the older man's presence a shadow that clings to his every move. Will ducks into a doorway, pressing himself against the cold brick wall as he waits for Hannibal to pass by. The seconds tick by like hours, each one stretching his nerves taut. Finally, he hears Hannibal's footfalls slow, then stop.

"Wi~ill," Hannibal's voice is low, almost a whisper. "I know you're here."

Will holds his breath, his mind racing. He feels the heat of Hannibal's gaze on him, searching, probing. He waits until he's sure Hannibal is close enough, then lunges forward, grabbing the older man by the collar and slamming him against the wall. Hannibal's back hits the bricks with a thud, but he doesn't flinch. Instead, a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face.

"You love playing games, don't you?"

Will presses his body against Hannibal's, his hands tightening around the fabric of his shirt. "Shut up," he growls, barely above a whisper. "You don't get to talk right now."

Hannibal's smile widens, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oh, but I do, Will. I always do."

Will's grip tightens, his fingers digging into Hannibal's skin. "Not this time."

Hannibal's laughter is soft, almost tender. "Such fire in you, my dear boy. It's intoxicating."

Will's jaw clenches, his teeth grinding together. "Don't call me that."

Hannibal's hand comes up, his fingers brushing against Will's cheek. "Why not? It suits you."

Will jerks his head away, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Stop it."

Hannibal's hand moves lower, tracing the line of Will's jaw before sliding down to rest on his neck. "Or what, Will? What will you do?"

Will's eyes blazes with fury, his hand moving to wrap around Hannibal's throat. "I'll make you regret it."

Hannibal's eyes darken, his smile fading into something more serious. "Try me."

Will's fingers tighten, his thumb pressing against the pulse point in Hannibal's neck. "I dare you."

Hannibal's hand tightens on Will's neck, his grip firm but not crushing. "Do it, then."

Will's breath catches in his throat, his mind racing. He feels the tension between them, a coil ready to snap. He leans in closer, his lips brushing against Hannibal's ear. "You want this, don't you?"

Hannibal's breath is hot against his skin, his voice a low growl. "More than anything."

Will's hand moves lower, his fingers slipping under Hannibal's shirt to trace the muscles of his abdomen. "Then let's do this."

Hannibal's hand slides down to cup Will's ass, pulling him closer. "With pleasure."

Will's breath hitches, his body reacting instinctively to Hannibal's touch. He can feel the warmth and comfort of Hannibal's presence, the familiarity and safety it brings. He presses his hips against Hannibal's, feeling a sense of connection that goes beyond the physical. Hannibal's hand moves to the waistband of Will's jeans, his fingers deftly undoing the button.

"So eager," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.

Will's hands roam over Hannibal's chest, his fingers tracing the lines of muscle beneath the fabric. "Only for you."

Hannibal's hand slips inside Will's jeans, his fingers wrapping around his waist. "Liar."

Will's head falls back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Maybe."

Hannibal's mouth nips at Will's neck, his lips brushing the skin before pressing a gentle kiss. "Say it again."

Will's hands fist in Hannibal's shirt, his voice breaking. "Please..."

Hannibal's hand moves to cup Will's face, his thumb brushing against his cheek. "Good boy."

Will's body relaxes against Hannibal's, his heart pounding with a mix of emotions. "You're insane," he whispers in a weak voice.

Hannibal's laugh is soft, almost affectionate. "And you love it."

Will's eyes open slowly, his gaze meeting Hannibal's. "Maybe I do."

Hannibal's hand moves to the small of Will's back, guiding him towards the shadows at the end of the alley. "Let's find a better place to talk."

Will follows without hesitation, his body humming with a different kind of excitement. They reach a rusted metal door at the end of the alley, hidden behind a stack of old crates. Hannibal produces a key from his pocket, unlocking the door with a soft click. He pushes it open, revealing a narrow staircase that descended into darkness.

"After you," Hannibal purrs, sending a different kind of shiver down Will's spine.

Will quickly steps inside. The stairs creak under his weight, each step echoing in the silence. The air grows cooler, the smell of mildew and damp concrete filling his nostrils. He can hear the faint drip of water somewhere below, a sound that echoes through the basement like the ticking of a clock. At the bottom of the stairs, Hannibal flicks on a light switch, illuminating the room with a dim, yellow glow. Will's eyes widen as he takes in the scene before him. The basement is small, barely large enough to fit the table in the center of the room. The table is covered in white cloth, pristine and clean, with a set of cushions laid out on it.

Will's breath catches in his throat for the second time, his pulse quickening as he takes in the sight. His mind is a whirl of thoughts, each one more comforting than the last. He turns to Hannibal, his eyes gleaming with a different kind of intent.

"Take off your jacket," Will orders, his voice low and commanding.

Hannibal's lips curve into a slow, knowing smile as he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over a nearby chair. "As you wish."

Will's gaze travels down Hannibal's body, taking in the sight of the older man standing before him, hands at his sides, waiting. A warmth spreads through him, his heart beating with a sense of connection. He steps closer, his hand reaching out to trace the line of Hannibal's jaw.

"Lie down," Will commands, his voice dripping with authority.

Hannibal's smile widens, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. He obeys without hesitation, stretching out on the table with his arms at his sides. Will's heart races as he watches Hannibal lie still, his body relaxed and open. Will's fingers brush against the cushions, feeling the softness beneath his touch. He picks one up, running it between his fingers as he considers how best to make Hannibal comfortable. 

"Hands above your head," Will orders in a firm voice.

Hannibal complies, lifting his arms and allowing Will to place the cushions under his head. Will steps back to admire his work. The older man lies on the table, his body relaxed and open, his eyes locked onto Will's with amusement and affection. Will's breath hitches, his body humming with a sense of connection. He reaches into the front pocket of Hannibal's bag, pulling out a small, soft blanket. The fabric is warm and comforting. Will's fingers tremble slightly as he holds it, the weight of the blanket familiar and reassuring.

"Ready play a different kind of game?" Will asks, low and gentle.

Hannibal's eyes darken, his smile lighter yet serious. "Yes."

Will's grip tightens on the blanket, his mind racing with possibilities. He can feel the warmth pooling in his heart, the connection building with every passing second. He leans in closer, his breath hot against Hannibal's skin.

"Then let's see what kind of comfort we can find," Will smiles in a voice thick with emotion.

Hannibal's breath hitches this time, his body relaxing in anticipation. "Do whatever you want, Will."

Will's eyes blaze with a new intent, his hand moving to cover Hannibal's torso with the blanket. He climbs on top and wraps it around them both, the warmth and comfort enveloping them. They lie there, chest to chest, the world shrinking to just the two of them. In that moment, Will knows there's nowhere else he'd rather be. Hannibal's fingers tighten around Will's wrist, guiding him deeper into the warmth of the blanket. The air grows cooler, the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves thickening as they move further from the stadium lights. Will's heart pounds in his chest. There's comfort and something warmer, something that makes his blood sing with a sweeter kind of excitement.

They eventually move to a quiet corner in the basement, a place where the world seems to fade away. Will wraps the blanket around them again, the soft fabric transforming into a cocoon of warmth and safety. Hannibal's hand searches for Will's, their fingers intertwining as they lie together, the world outside fading to a distant memory.

"Thank you, Will," Hannibal whispers with genuine gratitude.

Will's heart swells, his body humming with a sense of connection. "Anytime, Hannibal. Anytime."

The men have found a different kind of comfort, a bond that transcends beyond the physical, a connection that will last a lifetime.

[merlinfromberlin]

So You Know I Care

As Ratchet waits for Bumblebee to wake up after being tortured at Tyger Pax, he makes a promise.

Warnings: Coma, Nightmares, Aftermath of Torture & Violence, mentions puking but no graphic description, Engine Rumbling Chronology: Pre-Canon - Tyger Pax Wordcount: 1003 words

Set in the same universe as my story Make You Feel Alright, but can very easily be read as a stand alone.

Written for @angstober - Day 09: Promise. Prompt list can be found here: X

Story below the cut or on AO3.

Ratchet’s vigil had been long, solitary and harrowing. 

He had not left the medbay, not left Bumblebee’s side, in more than a decacycle at this point—not even to recharge or refuel. Instead, he had been sustaining himself on short, fitful naps and what little energon First Aid and Optimus brought with them every time either of them came to check on Bumblebee. Others had visited, too, but Ratchet could barely recall them, their presence or absence irrelevant as his sparkling remained in stasis.

Once it had become obvious that the yellow bot would not wake any time soon, Ratchet had been offered to link the software monitoring the youngling’s vitals to his HUD. This way, the senior medic could have left the room to take care of himself and still monitored Bumblebee’s current status. He would have known as soon as First Aid, who had been assigned as the young bot’s primary physician once Ratchet signed off duty to stay with him, when the youngling began to wake. Nonetheless, he had refused, instead opting to remain with his sparkbyte at all times. Everything else would have felt traitorous. 

First Aid had argued at first, but, even though the young mech had grown into a fine medic in his own right, masterfully adapting to the role this War had pushed onto him too fast, he had faced no chance against Ratchet’s particular kind of stubbornness. It had bested many a bot before First Aid and it would best many more after him. Once the physician had truly set his mind on something, especially when it concerned his patients or family unit, he could no longer be swayed from it. So, in the end, the junior medic had given in and allowed Ratchet to remain at his sparkling’s side, accepting that not even the call of Primus himself could have removed the old bot from his post.

Sitting at his sparkbyte’s medberth in solitary silence, Ratchet was unable to stop his thoughts from drfiting back to the surgery that had started his vigil. When Bumblebee had been brought to him in the triage centre at Tyger Pax, his small frame had been littered with evidence of the torture Megatron had subjected him to. Every dent, every cut and laceration had told its own story at the same time that it added to the kaleidoscope of cruelties his sparkling had endured at the servos of the warlord. Most brutal and damning of all, however, had been the hole in Bumblebee’s mangled, torn throat where his voicebox should have sat. Ratchet had barely been able to keep himself from purging at the sight of it. Thinking of the kind of brutal force needed to inflict such a wound still made him nauseous.

With the memories had come doubts, too. In the triage centre, Ratchet had done his best to push aside his overwrought caregiver protocols and focus only on the medical task in front of him—keeping the patient, even if he happened to be his sparkling, alive and as intact as possible. Still, he had been uncharacteristically anxious, almost panicked, in the OR. Now that he was looking back at his actions with the privilege of calm consideration, he could not stop thinking about the things he could have, should have really, done differently, done better. Maybe, if he had been a better medic that cycle, if he had only been a medic, not a worried caretaker, he could have salvaged more of his sparkbyte’s voicebox.

As Bumblebee’s small servo suddenly twitched in his, Ratchet hastily looked up. The young bot had not woken up as the medic had allowed himself to hope for just a moment. Instead, his faceplate was distorted in fear as his optics flickered without a trace of lucidity. His intake was moving silently, mouthing whimpers and whines he could no longer voice. His antennae were pressed painfully flat to his helm. The medic froze, unable to move as he watched his sparkbyte with ever-growing horror.

It had always been exceptionally easy to tell when Bumblebee was having nightmares. Even as a sparkling, before he had learned to trust Optimus and Ratchet with his fears and insecurities, they had always been able to tell when the little yellow mech faced bad dreams. He would not be particularly loud, he rarely ever was, but as soon as his recharge turned sour, Bumblebee would cry and sniffle and whimper, alarming his caretakers that something was wrong.

Now, the little bot was utterly silent, unable to voice his distress because Megatron had ripped out his voicebox and Ratchet had failed to fix it.

A small tremble running through Bumblebee’s frame pulled the medic back into the present. He softly pressed the small yellow servo he was still holding in his own as he leaned forward and rested his forehead on the youngling’s. Carefully, Ratchet wrapped his EM field around the little bot and softly began to rumble his engine in an attempt to soothe his sparkling. Both were shaky at first, but grew steady after only a few nanocycle.

The only thing Ratchet did not do to try and calm him was talk. The sweet nothings he would usually murmur to Bumblebee appeared horridly hollow in the face of the violence that had been inflicted upon him now. How could he ever tell his sparkbyte that everything would be alright again now that the medic failed to make him alright?

It took a bit, but finally Bumblebee fell back into peaceful recharge, his bad dream fading in a way that the waking nightmare he was still unaware of living in would never allow. Even as the little bot calmed, Ratchet remained in his position, curled protectively over his youngling’s frame as he vented heavily. When he ultimately managed to lift himself up again, brownish-gold coolant was streaking down his cheeks.

“I promise you, sparkbyte," Ratchet mumbled later, once his tears had subsided. "I will never again fail you like this. You will be alright."

[kamryn1963]

Summary: When Camille is dying, she asks Al and Trudy to promise her something.

@angstober Prompt 9: Promise

“Hey you”. 

Camille looked up from the book she was reading, smiling as she took in the sight of her friend. 

“Well look who the cat dragged in”. Camille teased as Alvin Olinsky entered the room, taking a seat on the edge of her hospital bed. 

“You called us”. Al replied with a roll of his eyes but he was also smiling. 

“Where’s Trudy?” Camille asked next, noticing she hadn’t entered the room with Al. 

“She went to grab coffee, she said she’d be here in a minute”. 

“A coffee for me too I hope?” Camille asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“Your doctor allow that?” Al joked, barely avoiding the punch Camille aimed at his shoulder. 

“Oh shut up. Like you’ve ever followed medical advice before. And besides, I’m already dying and it’s not because of the coffee”. Camille replied just as Trudy arrived, carrying a tray with three coffees on it and a bag of what looked like pastries. 

“Glad to hear everyone is happy here”. Trudy said sarcastically, only catching the tail end of what Camille said. She took a seat on one of the chairs after setting the tray down, reaching over to embrace Camille. 

“Hey”. Camille whispered, as she rested her head on Trudy’s shoulder. 

She knew the conversation was about to get much more serious, that is why Camille had asked them to come after all, but right now Camille was enjoying this moment. 

Soon they pulled apart, and after everyone had their coffee and muffin, Camille knew she had to start speaking. 

“What did you want to talk to us about, Cam?” Al asked before Camille could start talking. She sighed, avoiding eye contact as she fidgeted with the sweatshirt she was wearing that she’d stolen from Hank. 

“I’m dying. I know that you guys know that. It’s just a matter of time at this point”. Camille had to take a deep breath at that. It didn’t matter how many times she said it out loud, it still didn’t feel real. 

She was dying. Camille was going to die sooner than later. 

“It’s okay, Camille. Take your time”. Trudy urged, her voice gentle as she squeezed Camille’s hand in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. 

“I need you guys to promise me something? Promise me you’ll look after Hank, Erin and Justin when I’m gone? I need you guys to do that”. Camille asked, tears welling in her eyes and both Al and Trudy went silent. 

Neither of them were surprised at the request. Not at all. But they also knew it’d be almost impossible to promise Camille that. Grief always changes people. 

But after exchanging a quick look, Trudy and Al knew they needed to try. Camille needed to hear that more than anything right now and that was obvious. 

“Yeah, we will. Will look after them, Cam. I promise”. Al replied quietly. 

The weight of what they just promised hit Al and Trudy hard but they needed to try. 

For Camille.

[weilaverdui]

Angstober day 9: The Catch

POV: You messed up with underwater mafia.

[astaldis]

@angstober​

For the Whumptober prompts 15 "Childhood trauma", 18 "I see what's mine and take it" and the Angstober prompts 9 "Promise" and 15 "False Hope"

Chapters: 43/46   Words: 50,991 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski, The Witcher (TV) Rating: Teen and up Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt of Rivia & The Hansa | Geralt's Company Members, Milva/Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, /Jaskier, Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer of Vengerberg, Angoulême/Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon Characters: Geralt of Rivia, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Maria Barring | Milva, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Jaskier | Dandelion, Angoulême, Original Female Character(s), Fringilla Vigo, Anna Henrietta, Yennefer of Vengerberg, Leo Bonhart, Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, Boreas Mun, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Emhyr var Emreis, Stefan Skellen, Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: Friendship, Monsters, Interactive Fiction, Reader-Interactive, Choose Your Own Adventure, Witcher Monster MAYhem Prompt Event 2024, The Hansa | Geralt's Company, Adventure, POV Geralt of Rivia, augustofwhump, Geralt of Rivia Whump, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach Whump, Phantom pain, Geralt's bad knee, Mystery, spooky forest, eerie ruin, dark tunnels, archive warnings depend on the path you take, if applicable there are archive warnings in the text before you choose a specific path, Blood and Injury, Sick Character, therianthropy, minor spoilers for the tower of the swallow, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Spoilers for The Lady of the Lake, Beauclair, Stygga Castle (The Witcher), Empress Cirilla, REGIS IS THE BEST, no beta we die like Leo Bonhart in one of the paths, Found Family

Summary: On their way to rescue Ciri, Geralt and his Hansa come by the ruin of an old castle. It is a bit eerie, but should they stay the night there anyway or rather move on toward the forest? You decide!

Interactive Choose your own adventure Hansa fic with different options for the reader to choose from!

Excerpt from the chapter:

"Geralt, I've found your Yennefer." Regis has appeared next to them out of thin air. "She's downstairs."

"And Ciri?" Geralt asks, wiping his bloody blade on a satin curtain.

"Sorry, I haven't been able to locate her yet."

"Then we'll split. Milva, you come with Regis and me. Cahir, take Angoulême and Ola and comb through the upper stories. I know that Ciri is here somewhere. Get her to safety, if you find her."

Cahir nods. 'I will find you,' he promised Princess Cirilla on Thanedd. It is why he has followed the Witcher across half the continent. Now is the time to fulfil this promise.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

It does not take long for them to find her. She bursts into the huge, round room with the marble statue of a veiled, unknown goddess in its centre that they have just entered through the other door. Her eyes grow wide at seeing him. The black knight of Cintra. She freezes with sudden panic.

Warning: Graphic depictions of violence below the cut

"Angoulême, Ola, help me bar the door!" the knight shouts, and his friends jump into action. To her surprise, they rush past Ciri at the soldiers who have been following her through the corridors and are pouring into the room. The flaxen-haired girl jumps at one of them and cuts his throat with one strike of her curved sabre. The black knight cuts another one's head clear off with one blow of his great sword, then slits open a third attacker from top til toe. The man's guts spill onto the tiled floor. Seeing this, the remaining soldiers retreat into the corridor. Pushing his sword through the last one left inside the room, the dark-haired elf grabs the heavy oak door.

"Out of the way, Angoulême!" he yells, and the girl jumps backward just as one of the attackers tries to stab her with a pilum. The tip of the spear cuts into her calf and she drops to the ground. Cursing, she draws an axe from her belt and hurls it at the thug, hitting him right in the face. Then the elf and the black knight close the door shut with a loud bang. Angoulême rips off the sleeve of her shirt and fastens it around the bleeding injury, hissing with pain. The black knight looks at the girl, his face darkening with worry.

"How bad is it?" he asks. "Can you stand?"

"It's nothing, just a scratch," she says, taking his hand and getting to her feet. "You don't think they can get me that easy? I'm not finished kicking those bastards' arses yet!"

The black knight smiles at the girl, a nice smile. Then he turns toward Ciri ...

[areyouokaypanda]

@angstober Day 9: The Catch

[the-sparkling-diamond-satine]

New Moulin Rouge! fic alert!

10. unwanted: Satine needs Andre's help with a situation that involves them both. Satine wants to keep the matter private but unfortunately they're overheard.

Angstober 2024 (10/10/24) @angstober

Hello and welcome to Angstober 2024! I'm going to try and write a short fic for each prompt, we'll see how I do!

happy (or not) reading!!: angtober prompts + links to fics below the cut:

1. not again: Something awful has happened to Satine again. She tries to make sense of it in the aftermath.

2. countdown: On December 31st, as the rest of the world prepares to ring in the New Year, Christian sits with his wife in her final moments.

3. broken mirror The Duke gives Satine a present. She uses it for a purpose other than the intended one.

4. moments: Nini, Satine, and a coughing fit.

5. better: Satine feels very alone, but perhaps that's not true.

6. nothing's gonna harm you (not while i'm around): Andre tries to take advantage of Satine at a party. Someone intervenes.

7. i'm stuck in a maze, i can't get out, but for you i think i'd lose myself (i'd change my name if you said you didn't like the sound: Nini is jealous; Satine misunderstands the reason.

8. the yard is a kingdom, secret to me (i don't want anyone else to see, hiding inside when i'm home: Satine experiences a first. In the absence of Satine having present parents, Christian helps her figure out what to do.

9. entanglement: Christian wants more than what they have currently for both himself and Satine.

[221beloved]

The Catch

They were running through the night, passing alleyways and climbing over walls. Sherlock loved the chase, he just loved it. He had solved the puzzle, solved the crime, he had found the person who didn't want to be found, and now he was chasing him, full of adrenalin, the blood pumping through his veins, Johns just a few steps behind him. Always behind him. The chase in the end was just a part of solving crimes, and he knew that one day, he would be too old for it, too slow to run behind criminals. But for now it was great, for now it was magnificent.

He ran around another corner and there he was. He threw himself forward, tackling the suspect down and burying him under his weight. The man wriggled beneath him and Sherlock had difficulties to hold him down. He could hear Johns footsteps coming closer, he only had to hold on for a few more moments, then John would be there, would help him to subdue the man and -... He could feel an abrupt movement from beneath him, a sudden pain in his side. He blinked in confusion. When he looked down his body, he could see the handle of a knife, the blade stuck in his body. He felt his limbs going numb, his mind and vision blurring from the body's protection mechanism. He rolled from the suspect, on his back to release pressure from the wound, and the suspect saw his chance. But as the man tried to stand and continue his escape, John was there, throwing him once again to the ground. Out of the corners of his eyes, Sherlock could see John knocking the man down, then hurrying to get to Sherlock's side. “Sherlock?” Johns voice was distant and Sherlock needed some time to realise that John was talking to him. He smiled and reached his hand out to John. “You've got him,” he said, his voice quiet and slightly slurring. “Sherlock, you're hurt.” John ignored him, his voice was urgent, almost distressed. Well, nothing new, Sherlock got hurt sometimes, silly John. He made an indifferent noise and waved his hand a bit. “No John!” John wasn't understanding. “You've got him,” he tried to point out, to clarify to John, how amazing he was. Well, he could just say it then. “It was brilliant,” he said, his voice more and more distant, his smile on his face widening dumbly. “You were brilliant! You were amazing!” John frowned, his gaze worried. “Sherlock? You're staying with me, are you?” Sherlock waved his hand again. Silly John, so silly again. “Of course I...” He trailed of. A moment later he continued: “Of course I'll stay. Why... why would I ever want to leave? You're so brilliant, so amazing... My... my John...” He felt so cold. He hadn't realised how could it was. His vision shrank, he could barely hear John when he spoke the next time. “Sherlock? Sherlock look at me!” His voice was frantic, why was John so upset? Maybe because it was so cold... But it was fine, it would all be fine. He felt hands on his shoulders, shaking him, but it was fine. He closed his eyes. John was here, everything would be alright.

Text me your tag preferences

@angstober

@missdeliadili @kettykika78 @topsyturvy-turtely @safedistancefrombeingsmart @blogstandbygo @7-percent @a-victorian-girl @lisbeth-kk @nathan-no @macgyvershe @whatsgoodmentalhealth

[babygirl-diaz]

Samtember Day 09: Carnival | King of Mardi Gras

841 words | Rated G | @samsseptember

((I chose Carnival as the theme))

It was a warm summer night and Joaquin arrived at Sam’s apartment in a car he borrowed from his friend. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror, straightened his olive jacket, and ran his fingers through his hair to make sure that it looked good. After deciding that he looked enough, Joaquin went to the door and rang the doorbell. 

When Sam opened the door, Joaquin’s breath was almost knocked out of him. He wore a white button-up shirt and black slacks, and he was perfectly groomed, as always. Joaquin felt his heart racing. “Wow, you look beautiful,” he managed to say. 

“Thank you,” Sam replied as he stepped out of the apartment. ‘You don’t look too bad yourself,” he added cheekily. 

“Thanks,” Joaquin chuckled as he led Sam to his car. 

“I didn’t know you could drive?” Sam said as he got in. 

“I’m from Arizona, Sam. It’s kind of a requirement to drive out there,” Joaquin replied and pulled out of the street. “This is my friend’s car, by the way. I never really needed one here in New York.” 

“How are you liking New York and the civilian life, anyway?” Sam asked. 

“I miss home. I’m not gonna lie. But I’m glad you’re here.” Joaquin didn’t mean for it to sound as flirty as it did. But oh well, the damage was done. 

Sam just laughed at that. So that was a good sign. “So, ready for a fun evening?” He asked instead. 

“With you, I am always ready for an adventure,” Joaquin replied, blatantly flirting with Sam again. 

“You’re really laying it on thick, aren’t you?” Sam asked. 

“I am trying to.” Joaquin didn’t look over at him and kept on driving. 

Random small talk filled the rest of the trip upstate. When they finally got to the fair and parked, Joaquin was immediately by Sam’s side when he got out. There were bright lights everywhere, as it was after dusk. They first browsed the place before stopping near the games. Joaquin tried Ring Toss at first but was absolutely terrible at it. He then tried his hand at whack-a-mole and that’s where he excelled. He won a giant brown teddy bear, which he handed over to Sam. 

“Oh, no, no, no, I’m not carrying this thing around the fair,” he told Joaquin. 

Joaquin turned his sad big brown eyes at Sam, who sighed and took the teddy bear. “So manipulative,” he grumbled under his breath, but Joaquin heard it anyway. He followed Sam through the fair with a pep in his step. 

Once they got hungry, the two of them had funnel cake and cotton candy like a couple of kids. 

“Do you know how many carbs these things have?” Sam asked as he ate the funnel cake. 

“No, do you?” Joaquin asked. 

“No, but I don’t care right now because I am having the time of my life,” Sam replied and gave Joaquin a smile that brightened his whole evening. 

After they finished eating and walked around, Joaquin dared to take Sam’s hand, who didn’t protest, so that was another good sign. 

“You wanna go on the Ferris Wheel?” Joaquin asked once they were near the brightly lit giant wheel. 

“Sure, why not?” Sam shrugged and dragged Joaquin along to stand in the line. Once they got to the front, Joaquin let Sam ‌take a seat while he talked to the operator. 

“What was that about?” Sam asked once Joaquin got in. 

“Oh, I was just asking him how old this thing was because it doesn’t look very safe,” Joaquin replied. 

“Not afraid of heights now, are you, Joaquin?” Sam teased, bumping his shoulder against Joaquin’s. 

“No, of course not! I mean, if I was afraid of heights, then I would never wear the Falcon suit.” 

“I know, I know, I’m just joking,” Sam chuckled and leaned in to kiss Joaquin’s cheek. 

Joaquin’s entire face suddenly felt very warm, and he looked up at Sam, surprised. 

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” Sam told him. 

The Ferris Wheel soon started going around and Joaquin slowly moved the teddy bear Sam had placed between them to the side and scooted closer to Sam. If Sam noticed, then he said nothing.

Once they reached the top, the Ferris Wheel stopped. 

“Um, Sam?” Joaquin called out. 

“Yeah?” Sam asked, looking over at him.

Under the bright lights of the Ferris Wheel, Sam looked even more beautiful. “Can I- uh- can I kiss you?” 

Sam burst out laughing, dwindling Joaquin’s confidence a little. 

“You gave the operator money to stop up here, didn’t you?” He asked. 

“How did you-” 

“That’s a classic trick. I bet the operator makes tons of money on the side.”

Joaquin blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Yes, by the way.” 

Joaquin looked up when he heard that. “What?” 

“You can kiss me,” Sam said, leaning in. 

Joaquin closed the gap between them and finally kissed him. He could swear there were fireworks behind them or maybe they were just in his heart. 

[emcscared-whumps]

WHUMPMONTH - 9: "Home Stretch"

Ao3 | Navigation Post

Limping | Dead on their feet | On the run

Using the wrong tool for the wrong job has consequences; Pete should not be using a cane, but he's too stubborn and rightfully paranoid about going back and using a crutch now. (Post canon)

I've had this idea in my head for a long time now, and this was the perfect excuse to write it. I told myself I wouldn't edit these much since I wanted to write them short and fast to improve my skill and ability to write even marginally faster than a snail's pace, but I ended up editing it anyway because the fixes stood out so much. There may still be typos. It is what it is lol

CONTENT and WARNINGS: Nonhuman whumpee, implied domestic abuse, misuse of a mobility aid and its consequences. wc: ~1.5k

Another long day dragged to a finish. Pete heaved an exhausted sigh, exiting the large glass doors of one of Candimor’s many high-rises. Although the day was done, he could not rest yet. He stepped onto the path, saying a short goodbye to one of his colleagues who strolled past him and in the opposite direction, and began his slow limp back home to Devonhurst.

It had been almost two years since Pete had last walked without a cane’s assistance, but to Pete, it felt like a lifetime… and he had barely healed at all.

A stiflingly warm breeze meandered through the street, rustling the leaves of the trees that lined the footpaths. The sun sat lazily in the sky, low enough to afford Pete their shade as he walked, but now low enough to allow the city to cool. Each one was alive with the chattering song of small birds that flitted from branch to branch, and occasionally across the path. Pete’s eyes followed each one as they flew by, watching them weave between the trunks and lampposts, and eventually settle on the path before hopping away when he approached. If he breathed his slow, steady rhythm, and kept his mind occupied, he could manage the pain that lanced through his bad leg and radiated through every joint on what was supposed to be his good side.

Clack, step. Clack, step. Pete grimaced. It had taken only a fraction of the usual time for him to begin struggling. Under him, his leg burned and ached with fatigue, while his hand struggled to take the weight surrendered by his bad leg. Each step, his wrist sharply protested, and the heel of his hand ached against the unforgiving handle of his cane. Each step, he hurt more and more until every joint from his ankle to his fingers yelled in a cacophony that nearly brought him to his knees.

He looked ahead; he wasn’t even halfway to the metro, he realised. His expression had twisted, brows knitting together and creasing the top of his nose, and his mouth drew into a hard, thin line. Only when people cast backward glances as they passed did Pete realise he’d slowed to a stop. Through the haze of heat and pain, he could just make out their concerned expressions before they continued on their way. His skin crawled. He wished they’d stop looking.

With his free hand, Pete rubbed his face and raked back wiry, reddish hair with his bony fingers. Even in the stifling heat, not a drop of cooling sweat beaded anywhere on his body, but that discomfort was tiny compared to the ache of his entire left side.

When I get back, I can rest. Don’t stop now, he told himself, pushing himself off again. His hand sung out in immediate protest. His breath hissed over his teeth when his weight sank automatically to his bad side. A numb, tingling sensation slowly crept its way down his fourth and fifth fingers, and up his arm, but he was getting closer, he couldn’t stop now.

Clack, step. Clack, step.

Again and again, the sharp pain in his wrist gave way to tingles. In his shoulder, an uncomfortable burning sensation like the one in his hip and knee built until putting weight on that side was almost as painful as putting it on his bad foot. Pete shook his head; nothing was as painful as that, he was just being stupid. He paused again, huffing, and massaged his cane hand. The tingling didn’t stop, but some of the strain melted away. The respite was fleeting. On the next step, Pete nearly collapsed. His wrist wanted to snap, his shoulder felt like hot sandpaper, his good foot ached as if bruised, but, under the loud dissent of his joints, a slow burn worked its way through his muscles that made it harder and harder to move.

With a frustrated grunt, Pete moved his cane forward. His good leg stubbornly threaten to buckle if he took even one more step. What he wanted was of no consequence to the world. It didn’t matter if he was tired, he had to get back. If he wanted to get home, he had to walk. He certainly didn’t have the energy to indulge the weakness that dragged his mind and body down, so he took the step anyway, ignoring his body’s warning.

When it came time for his good leg to move through and take his weight, it moved too late too slow, leaving Pete to crumple to the ground with an undignified, pained yell. He wanted to scream, curse, and cry into the uncaring pavement, pound it with his last working limb, but he didn’t. It took everything in him to keep his frustration from boiling over. He could never go home, not truly, but he’d accepted that fact the night he was caught, and made peace with it after he escaped. Another frustrated whine forced itself from his gritted teeth.

“Er, excuse me sir, are you alright?” came a voice.

Pete’s head snapped up to face the waiter peeking out the door of a restaurant. His cheeks heated—the façade was comprised mostly of glass, granting every nearby patron and employee a front-row seat to his barely-contained breakdown. “I’m f—f—fine,” Pete half snapped. “S—sorry, I—ye didn’t deserve that,” he said quickly, drawing his leg under him and picking up his cane. Pulling himself back to his feet proved harder than he’d anticipated, and only lead to more embarrassment when his leg refused to work. His cane was not enough to get him to his feet.

While Pete struggled, the waiter approached. “May I lend a hand, sir? We can offer you a seat if you need.”

Immediately, Pete wanted to refuse the offer, say he was fine and leave without another word, but deep down, he knew he was beaten, and that he had no choice but to rest unless he wanted to crawl or risk collapsing again. Foolish, prideful behaviour like that would only draw more attention; the last thing someone like him needed. …And… How quickly did he really want to return home to Kate? “I—,” Pete hesitated, “y—yes please. That… th—that would, that would be g-g-good, thank-k-k—thankyou.”

The waiter was strong—he didn’t tip or strain under Pete’s careful but heavy pull. He must’ve sensed how weak Pete was from the way he still allowed him to lean on his arm, but to his relief, he said nothing and walked him in to an empty table. “Take as long as you need, sir. We can offer a pot of tea and house-made biscuits, complimentary, of course. I’ll be back shortly with water for the table.”

Pete nodded, hoping his thanks was apparent. He wasn’t up for talking.

The waiter came and went, all the while Pete sat morosely at his table, hands around the now warm up that steamed in front of him. As he poured the tea from its little pot, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was all worth it, if he was ever going to make any progress. Every day felt more and more difficult to get through, and that for each step forward he took, he fell backwards ten more. First it was the escalating punishment with Kate, now it was his very ability to walk. His hand and fingers still tingled, no doubt the fault of a crimped nerve, and his good leg stubbornly ached, longing for warmth a good night’s rest, and reprieve from all the work he constantly demanded from it, as did his shoulder and back. Pete began nibbling one of two biscuits that sat on the saucer. This one was sweet and mellow, the subtle flavour pairing pleasantly with the blend he sipped alongside it.

If it weren’t for the kindness of people affording him respite like this, Pete didn’t think he would be able to do this much, or at the very least, still be alive. He sipped the tea again, his eyes stinging. The kindness was fragile; he knew well how quickly people could turn, and how important it was, especially now, to make sure none of them ever found out.

How long could he keep this up? How could he keep this up when he was running out of energy to even get out of bed?

Maybe… maybe when Timmothey finally got his café, things would be different. Maybe he wouldn’t have to go home to Kate anymore, instead, maybe, he could go home to Timmothey. Hopefully Pete could make himself last that long. For a chance like that, it was worth every agonising second of getting out of bed each day, and travelling to work and back.

“A—aye, sir, thankye,” Pete said when the waiter returned, and rested a finger on an item on the menu, “I th-think I’ll, I’ll g—get…”

…

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