#my whumptober sequence is all over the place

[meetinginsamarra]

Self-rec Thingy

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. spread the self-love ❤

Thank you for the tag @raina-at

It feels like betrayal to my beloved children 😉 to pick five but here we go.

The Perfect Place 

Sherlock needs a flatmate and already has the perfect person in mind. Now he only needs to convince his object of desire to move in and also find out if he desires Sherlock as well.

I am so in love with my second newest fic! Written daily for some of calais_reno's mayprompts 2024, it evolved into a hilarious funny cringefest with pining idiots and snarky comments made by the narrator. I grinned/laughed all the time while writing and people in the comments said they did, too. 10k words.

The Curious Case of the Casablanca Killer 

Deemed a three at best, the case of an invisible burglar in a historic cinema who stole nothing only caught Sherlock’s attention because he was bored. Also, he wanted to do John a favour. In the end, this proved to be a real stroke of luck. Otherwise, Sherlock would have missed an intriguing mystery that quickly ramped up in complexity.

I am very proud of this one! My first real 100% case fic. It took a lot of plotting and about a year to complete. It started as a gift for my friend and beta reader @peageetibbs , a short idea for a murder in a cinema since my friend runs a real cinema with a group of people in real life.

I have imagined that a lot more people would be eager to read this (ngl I am disappointed about its hit count development). Sherlock solves a complicated case, lots of hints and clues, all is logical and an epic chase sequence at the end. Established friendship, no smut. 56k words. Go read!

Learn My Scars 

After being thrown down and strangled, Sherlock leaves John in the restaurant, angry and deeply hurt. When John follows Sherlock to 221b, he learns that Sherlock's scars have not been acquired by “gallivanting around” for two years.

Very proud of this one, too. It has been written under a huge amount of stress. Written for whumptober 2022, it was posted daily for 31 days with sometimes really long chapters of over 2k words. Looking back, it feels like I've written all my spare time and doing little else for six weeks. It was insane and it was great.

It has the most kudos and second most hits of my fics, 38k words.

Sherlock comes home after the hiatus. My S3 fix-it fic starts at the restaurant scene and goes very differently afterwards. Johnlock endgame, lots of hurt/comfort and tales of what happened to Sherlock while being away, including a long part set in the Serbian cell.

The 13th Book 

Summoning a demon was actually quite simple if you could avoid getting killed in the process. Therefore, only the powerful, the desperate or the stupid would attempt it. John Watson was likely the first, definitely the second but hopefully not one of the third kind.

A magical realism AU. Sorcerer John summons a demon, Sherlock. It happens very differently than it's been expected. Not a lot of actual magic but enemies to friends and an epic bromance ensues. Funny moments, no smut. 26k words.

My AU world interweaves with BBC Sherlock universe and incorporates "Inspector Columbo" and "On the run elements" and this is the reason why I've picked the fic for this list. I made real still-life arrangements for each chapter and photographed them. The pics are posted in the fic. I am a bit sad that there are not so many hits on this one.

Wretched and Divine 

Dr. John Watson is on call at the A&E when he attempts to treat a very special patient. Instead he finds himself a very special treat.

My first ever posted fic. The punklock AU different first meeting is still very well-written (so I believe) for a first! It's funny, in character, on point and John is so in for a surprise! 5k words.

I love the punklock theme so much that this one spawned a sequel and I wrote another 3-part series with punk!Sherlock.

+++++++

Tagging @keirgreeneyes and everone who wants to share (I forgot who's already been tagged).

[treemaidengeek]

Ten First Lines Game

(Stolen from @theleakypen because it sounds fun! I played slightly fast & loose with "first line" based on the grammatical structures of some fics. Too brain fog to tag so if you think it sounds fun too, /punts)

Rules: post the first sentence of your last ten fics. If you haven’t written ten fics, share as many first-sentences as you have.

1. Wen Zhuliu should have been dead.

His throat bore an ugly collar of scars from where Yu Ziyuan's son--the one whose golden core he knew he had destroyed--had hung and electrocuted him with his mother’s Zidian.

(Pluck the sun from the sky and swallow it whole (The Untamed))

2. Usually there is a bit of plain bread and water. Some days I see no one at all and receive no food.

(The Hospitality of the Qishan Wen (The Untamed))

3. Meng Yao knelt on the rough stone below Wen Rouhan’s throne, a guard's sword biting painfully into the back of his neck, and prayed that he had not made a grave miscalculation.

(Nevernight (The Untamed)

4. Changcheng slept, haunted by fractured nightmares.

(Whumptober: Don't Get Kidnapped (Guardian))

5. –a man under a fallen cornice, can’t feel his crushed arms or legs and trying very hard not to panic about it–

–a woman sprawled among the rubble, couldn’t find her laptop, without the servers the past ten years of her life’s work remained only on that one stupid machine, it all happened so fucking fast–

–a child hurting so bad, doesn’t understand what he did wrong, should have cleaned his room like Mommy told him and never ever yelled at her about how stupid and mean she was, now he didn’t know where she was and it was his fault–

–a man lying in a mess of broken glass and blood, nerves screaming, his cell phone just out of reach, he couldn’t pass out without messaging his wife or she would never–

"Hey. Hey, Xiao Guo."

(Whumptober: Magical Exhaustion & Protectiveness [went til I actually hit a sentence XD] (Guardian))

6. "Kneel."

"Fuck you."

(Whumptober: Forced to Kneel (Guardian))

7. Lan-er's fingers flew over the guqin strings, faster and faster. The skin at the nape of my neck prickled.

(Whumptober: Possession and Protectiveness (The Untamed))

8. Closing his eyes did nothing to block out the grunts and strangled cries coming from across the hall, but Jae Chan did it anyway. ( Whumptober: Screams From Across the Hall (While You Were Sleeping [kdrama]))

9. Da Qing ran.

Dixing's cobbled streets and rocky ground were ripping up the pads of his paws.

(Whumptober: Nowhere to Run & Caged (Guardian))

10. The Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus curled up into a fetal position inside her bone cocoon and fumed.

(Whumptober: This Wasn’t Supposed to Happen (The Locked Tomb))

Bonus round:

Jin soldiers sprawled all around them in the dark, their pale robes stained with fresh mud and fresher blood.

Jin Guangyao's heart pounded in his ears. He couldn't remember what had happened.

(unnamed WIP in sequence with Nevernight & Pluck the Sun From the Sky)

This was really interesting! Structurally my habits are all over the place, except that the point is to set the scene, draw the reader into the moment, & often introduce a character. Technically speaking my first sentences ran from a single word (kneel) to several paragraphs of fragments. Several of them are short sentences that really rely on their follow-ups to complete the idea.

[of-wounds-and-woes]

Whumptober 2022 | no. 6: Proof of Life

Ransom video | I’ve got a pulse | Screams from Across the Hall

Home and Away 4104

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

[fingons-rad-harp]

Whumptober Day 9 — Eluréd & Elurín + presumed dead

requested by @jaz-the-bard my beloved

masterlist

Warnings: ANGST, offscreen character death, presumed child death, referenced murder, the Fëanorians are their own warning, depression

Word Count: 573

A/N: I wrote the first part of this as a dream sequence for Lone Wanderer, but ended up taking it out when it didn't really fit the tone. I've been looking for an excuse to work on it again so this was fun! Set in the aftermath of the second kinslaying.

“I cannot find them anywhere.” Nelyafinwë sounded afraid, and it was that that made Makalaurë look up from where he was seated, cleaning the blood off of his swords.

“Cannot find whom?”

“The twins.”

Makalaurë shot to his feet. “What do you mean? I sent them to make a headcount of Mor—of Carnistir’s people, to see who is left. Where could they possibly have gone?” They had already lost so much. Three of their brothers were dead, he could not take it if—

“What?” Nelyafinwë looked confused. “No, not Ambarussat. I meant the twin sons of Dior. A few of Tyelkormo’s soldiers threw them into the woods, and there is no trace of them.”

Makalaurë sighed in a mixture of relief and exasperation. “They most likely escaped with the others.”

“No.” Nelyafinwë shook his head. “They were not anywhere near the others. They must be terrified—Káno, they are only six!”

“And you think seeing us will make that any better?”

“At least with us they would survive.”

“Until those same soldiers decide to kill them again.”

Nelyafinwë’s face hardened. “I have already dealt with them.”

Makalaurë’s mouth felt dry. He dragged one hand down his face. “Þá. I will help you look for them.” There had been far too much death already. “Certainly we have not sunk so low as to allow children to die.”

“Then we would truly be lost.”

They already were, Makalaurë knew, but he didn’t say it. They needed to believe that if they could just fulfill the Oath, then it would be over.

They both knew it was false hope.

He followed Nelyafinwë into the woods of Doriath. Everything was dark, not even the light of the Moon or Stars shone through the dense treetops.

They searched in silence for hours uncounted, until a glint caught Makalaurë’s eye. He crouched down to get a closer look.

It was a lock of silver hair, tangled around a bramble as though it had been ripped out.

“One of them must have fallen into the bush,” said Nelyafinwë, his gloved hand giving no regard to the thorns as he pushed them aside to reveal a spattering of blood.

“Then we must hurry,” Makalaurë said. “The scent of blood will attract many dark creatures.” He took the harp from where it was strapped to his back, inwardly cursing himself for not thinking of this sooner. His fëa was exhausted from singing of death and destruction, from taking so many lives only hours ago, but he forced himself to move his hands over the strings, singing a song of finding and safety and rescue, invoking the spirit of Aman, the light of the stars, the assurance of being in the arms of one’s mother.

The melody sounded haunting even to his own ears. He no longer knew of those things, he no longer remembered what it felt like to be safe, to be happy. His voice was transparent and hollow, the words empty and meaningless.

As the notes flowed out of him, he closed his eyes and reached, dipping his senses into every corner of the forest. He could hear the birds, rodents, insects, and larger mammals running throughout the wood, away from the song that was meant to attract them.

He could not hear twin elflings seeking escape, seeking to run, to get away from the murderers that had invaded their home. In their place, all he heard was silence.

Translations:

Þá - yes/i will

fëa - soul

@whumptober2021 @whumptober-archive

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Whumptober 2021

Prompt #9: Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated

Three days after Rios had dragged himself into this godforsaken cave on this godforsaken planet, he was ready to accept that he would die here. Lips parched, his broken leg grotesquely crooked and swollen and his heart laboring muddily in his chest, he looked at the vast, purple night sky he could see through the cave’s opening.

Space.

No one would miss him out there when he was gone. Not on a single one of those blinking stars or on any of the invisible, innumerable planets strewn across a canvas that was bigger than anything the human mind could fathom.

He was a blip in that vastness. Something that ended, unnoticed, in a teeming endlessness that never would.

It was okay.

An ache pulled at his chest that could be regret or just his cardio-vascular system beginning its shut-down sequence. He couldn’t be sure. And he told himself that he didn’t care.

Rios closed his eyes and waited for the pain to release him forever.

xxx

Heaven was bright. In fact, and to Rios’ utter puzzlement, it was equipped with circular ceiling lights that made his eyes water when he opened them.

Wait.

He blinked. When his vision cleared a little and he lifted his head - how odd, he really hadn’t thought headaches were a thing in heaven - he found himself the object of observation of five blurry, similar looking… uhm…

Things finally clicked into place.

“What are you all staring at?!” Rios barked, somewhat hoarsely, at the five emergency holograms surrounding the biobed he was currently occupying.

Crisp and annoying as usual, the EMH pointed a medical tricorder at Rios’ head, drawing circles in the air with it as he studied the readings.

“Neurological function intact,” he stated. “He is just a little confused from the medication.”

Rios rolled his eyes.

Emmet, for once not radiating a hangover, crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Nosotros pensamos que estabas muerto.”

We thought you were dead.

Rios didn’t quite know what to say to that.

Gotcha? I’m sorry? Too bad, you’re still stuck with me?

He was still trying to gather his bearings. His head hurt, his whole body felt sore, and his leg was throbbing away under a blue-glowing reconstructive matrix. Whatever pain meds he was on, they were making him loopy, and his brain couldn’t quite wrap around the fact that he was in La Sirena’s sickbay and not dead in a cave.

“Well,” he finally said, gruffly, “It looks like rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

“We were worried about you,” the ENH burst forth, his face beaming. He clasped his cheeks with both palms as if he had to keep his grin from splitting his face.

“The long range biosensors did nae report any signs of life from yer signature anymore,” Ian, the ship’s holographic engineer, explained in his thick, pragmatic Scottish. “Until Emil and I found out that these bawbags were just messin’ with the signal.”

“Ian reconfigurated the sensors, and by the time we had your signature it was almost too late,” Enoch blurted, revelling in the drama of the retelling. “But Emmet transported down to get you, Emil managed to revive you, and here you are!” He spread his hands in a joyous tada! gesture. “Safe and sound back on La Sirena!”

Emil pointedly cleared his throat.

“‘Safe and sound’ is not quite accurate.” He glanced at Rios’ vitals on the monitor. “While I can confirm that you are on the mend, Captain, I’m afraid recovery will be a lengthier process. Necrosis of the injured tissue in your leg had set in when we recovered you, and it does make things a little… trickier.” He put emphasis on the last word, like someone poring over a puzzle that, for once, gave them a bit of a challenge. “But of course we will make your stay in med bay as comfortable as possible.”

On cue, the Hospitality Hologram stepped closer to the bed. So close, in fact, that Rios could smell his elegant aftershave and recognize every hair in his neatly trimmed brows.

“Which brings us to a few changes in med bay I took the liberty to initiate,” the EHH drawled smarmily, “like the installation of a sound system mimicking the performance of your… ah… record player and a selection of books I picked for you based on your personal taste.”

He gestured at a tastefully selected small shelf that had conveniently been set up within Rios’ reach and was filled with existentialist literature and a collection of Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales.

Rios stared at the holograms and opened his mouth. His intention was to deactivate the whole lot of them, but the words stuck in his throat.

When he’d told himself that no one was going to miss him when he was dead, he hadn’t given a single thought to his crew. And, as much as he liked to deny it, these five were his crew - an engineer, a doctor, a navigator, a tactical officer and… a concierge with a penchant for interior design.

They’d gone to the greatest lengths to find him. When they had, they’d saved his life. And now they were all standing by his bed to welcome him back.

“Uhm… muchas gracias,” he eventually found himself saying, feeling sheepish.

The holograms exchanged surprised and skeptical glances. A moment of awkward silence ensued.

Then Enoch leaned closer to the EMH and whispered into Emil’s ear: “I think you should lower his meds.”

Emil nodded in agreement.

(You can also read and comment on this fic on AO3:)

[just-horrible-things]

Whumptober 30 - Recovery

[Warning: this is not soft. Amadeus belongs to @asklordcaptaincastronova ]

“Ariadne?” For a moment she can’t place his voice. “Are you still with me?”

She looks up. Amadeus’ green eye is full of concern. His fingers are gentle as they slip into hers. The gloves are soft against the dulled senses of her artificial hand. Familiar. She takes a deep breath. This is reality... isn’t it?

She studies his face, searching for any hint that this is false. She spent so long amongst the visions, seeing whatever the daemon made her see, feeling whatever he made her feel. Even now, this could be Tacitus, wearing her memories of the Rogue Trader like a mask.

“Memories again?” he asks. He knows what that’s like, of course. “It’s alright, I’m here. You’re here with me.” Ariadne nods hesitantly. He certainly sounds real. The soft whirring of the rotors inside her reconstructed chest feels real. So does the dull not-quite-ache from the heavy limbs that don’t yet feel quite like hers. If she was dreaming, she would dream herself whole, wouldn’t she? Not trapped inside the simulacrum flesh that he made for her, the salvage from the wreckage the daemon made of her body... it must be real. It must.

She tears her eyes off his face and looks around. The room is exactly as it was, everything where she left it. Nothing of hers, of course. But the things he got for her are here. The drawer half-open where she couldn’t be bothered to fully close it after taking out the morning’s clothes. The lamp by the bed, in case she wakes afraid of the dark - it’s never bothered her, but the thought is nice. The latest in a sequence of abandoned mugs, on the corner of the desk...

“More recaf?” he asks, tracking her gaze. He gives her hand a brief squeeze before getting up. “You look like you could use some more recaf.” She nods. “Please...” The stimulant doesn’t have the effect it used to. She’s been too afraid to ask exactly how much of her brain needed replacing. But it still helps a little. And it’s comforting.

Soon the hot mug is pressed into her hands - and look, she doesn’t need help to hold things any more. She’s adapting to the cybernetics, if slowly. It’s yet another grounding point. She wishes she could take a deep breath, but she can’t. The ventilation system inside her chest pulls air in at a fixed rate. Still, she’s coming back to herself. She drinks deeply, and is glad that the artificial taste receptors are good enough that at least the flavour is just like before.

“I’m sorry,” she sighs. “It’s okay,” he reassures her, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. “I’m sorry it happened to you.” “I just... it’s hard to believe that this is real sometimes. Why would you - why would anyone spend so much on me, after I-- after--” It’s still strange how her voice doesn’t tighten with stress or choke up with tears. There’s just a faint warble, an unnatural distortion as the emotion gets into the signal. She ought to be glad, she used to hate that loss of control, but... it doesn’t feel like her voice. “It’s okay,” he repeats. “I mean, it’s not as if money is an issue. What else would I spend it on? Another golden statue of myself?” “Indoor lake?” she suggests weakly, forcing a smile. “Well, the expense wouldn’t really be the issue there so much as the space. I’d have to compromise on cargo hold or living quarters...” She can’t quite bring herself to laugh, but she leans her head against his shoulder fondly. The fear and doubt are starting to ease. “I have considered it,” he adds. “Of course you have. Fishmonger.” “Well, even cryo-storage can’t quite match keeping them live for freshness...”

She drinks the bitter black recaf and lets his words wash over her. She has so many regrets. So many things are wrong and will never be right again. But maybe they can work it out. Maybe she can make something of her undeserved second chance. With Amadeus. She might not understand how he can still want her but she is grateful.

“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten what we were talking about,” she admits. “It wasn’t important. Would you care to go for a walk, maybe? We could visit the arboretum again, or the observation deck.” She nods. It’s good to get out of the room. He smiles at her and takes her hand to help her up.

And the floor drops out from under her. And the world dissolves into madness and kaleidoscopic colour. The daemon’s cackling fills her senses.

Amadeus is gone. No, he was never there. Ariadne cries out without words, reaching desperately for the memory. If she had a physical form, she would collapse. But she is nothing more than a tangle of emotions and fraying thoughts in the corrosive madness of eternity.

~You believed it!~ Tacitus crows derisively ~You really believed it!~ She doesn’t know if he made her believe ~Not this time, Interrogator. That was all you!~ or if they’ve repeated the scenario a hundred times, fine-tuning until she could believe Tacitus cackles. ~Smart girl.~ but all she can feel is grief as the illusion is ripped away from her yet again.

Of course it wasn’t true. ~But you fell for it, poor dear.~ She will never be forgiven. Not by Amadeus, not by the God-Emperor, and certainly never by Tacitus. He will never let her leave this place.

~I would love to forgive you.~ And now his thoughts thrum with regret. ~But I don’t know if I have that capacity any more. I am what you made me. And I don’t think it is in my nature.~ She doesn’t deserve it anyway. She feels the daemon feed on her guilt and self-loathing, and disgust ripples through her as it sighs in contentment. ~You made me this way.~ Despair is bitter. She just wants to go back. Undo all her decisions.

~Would you like to play pretend? We can go back to when it was nice and simple. Just you and me and the rack, and me begging you for mercy?~ No, she doesn’t want that. Yes, of course she does. She hates how much of what she experiences is false. But she hates the truth too. She wants oblivion, maybe, but she doesn’t want to be consumed. If they must ‘play pretend’ she would rather an illusion like that than one that is just raw torment because she is weak ~Everyone is weak with enough suffering.~ but she doesn’t deserve to get what she wants. She wants to just be left alone with her futile penance, but she desperately wants to be distracted from the pain.

~Do you really think he would want you back? After everything you’ve done?~ No, of course not. No, she doesn’t understand how she fell for it. No one could want her, no one but Tacitus - who just wants her as a toy. ~It’s more than that.~ She knows, and that’s not better. ~But on some level you do think he could forgive you, or you couldn’t have believed.~ She doesn’t have the will to examine the implications. She is stupid, and weak, and the hope hurt just as much as the despair does. She regrets everything.

~Poor frail mortal mind. Let’s play pretend, I’ll make it all better.~

[aelaer]

300

Tumblr’s algorithm picked up my last whumptober post and that unexpectedly rocketed me up to over 300 followers (welcome new folks, I haven’t had a chance to even look at y’all yet). But really it’s quite flattering. (I think at least 10% of them are pornbots, but beggars can’t be choosers.)

So I guess in uh, celebration/woohoo, I’m just gonna post snippets from my WIPs (outside of the whumptober ones as those are coming out in the next couple days) which… well, it’s something. :3 Yes it all has to do with Stephen, I’m going one-trick-pony mode right now and it’s a friggin blast.

This is long and has WIPs of art too, so cut cut cut bellllooww.

The farking Doctor Strange/Sherlock crossover that’s been at 80% complete since July and still has no title

However, before Sherlock got caught up into the cloak once again, he forced his eyes to the man’s hands. A lot could be discovered by someone’s hands.

And what hands they were. His eyes involuntarily widened at the sight of the ragged, and in some places hypertrophic scars on the back side of each finger. He quickly looked to the other hand; they were there, too. Clearly they were crushed in some sort of accident, but an accident that left him upright and without any hint of a limp. It was possible that they were caught in some sort of machinery, but both at the same time? Statistically speaking, a car accident was more likely. A car accident that damaged the bonnet of the car and crushed his fingers between the steering wheel and the dashboard, more than likely leaving permanent nerve damage. Unfortunate.

The age of the scars showed that they were healed over, but their nature made it difficult to determine how long ago they were received. With the overall lack of fading, however, it was likely that the damage occurred within the last few years. He could not see his palms and determine anything from there, but the callus upon his right middle finger determined which hand he wrote with. Or once wrote with, at any rate. His hands could certainly be worthy of further study, if only to attempt to determine their surgical history.

Upon his left wrist was, of all things, a wristwatch. He narrowed his eyes. It was a Jaeger-LeCoultre and it was not a counterfeit by any means, but it was not a model he recognized. It looked very similar to the Master Ultra Thin Moon only just released; was this an early prototype for a new model? Even as the question fluttered through his mind, he immediately chastised himself for his stupidity. There was clear wear on the band that spoke of it being worn for years, never mind the cracked face. 

Custom-made, he eventually concluded, though even that answer did not quite sit right with him. Regardless, it spoke of a man who had wealth— or used to, in any case. The wear and damage on the watch told a new picture now, but he seemed to still be connected to some form of influence. His clothing was of a very rich quality, and that was not including the unique cloak. Perhaps he was now connected with someone in the Greater Tibetan area, or someone of wealth in the Indian subcontinent. Or from there, at any rate. 

He let his eyes go up the length of the man’s sleeves. Cloth bands decorated the forearms of his otherwise seemingly-plain shirt, likely made of wool and hemp. He indulged himself and studied the embroidery on the edge of the cloak again. He received no further information concerning its origin and make beyond what he had already determined, but there was something about it that was absolutely enchanting.

But enough lingering; he finally turned his body to lay on his side and brought his eyes up to meet the bearer of this very odd ensemble of attire.

And he saw himself.

Within the Shadows (villain!AU) sequel that finalllyyy has a title, Inhibited Lodgings (I think this one is about at 85%! So soooonnnn)

When one of the nurses came in with dinner, Stephen hardly acknowledged him. The nurse set the tray on the overbed table and, after a quick, “Eat while it’s hot!” left the room.

Stephen ignored it. He continued his obsessive perusal of the tablet, shaky fingers managing to steady enough to click link after link after link.

Stark came in an hour later and the tray was still untouched. He quirked his brows up. “Y'know Doc, if you don’t eat, Doctor Cho is going to be very stern with you and you’ll feel terrible after that.”

He raised his head from the tablet at the sound of Stark’s voice, blinking. “What?” He then looked at the tray of food. “Oh… right. I forgot that was brought in.” He looked at the now stone-cold chicken and broccoli with a small grimace.

“I’ll have them make you another plate. Send that info up, FRI.” Stark sunk into one of the chairs beside the bed. “What has you so distracted, anyway?”

Stephen turned the tablet around to show him his screen, which had a list of all the Billboard Hot 100 and Billboard 200 for all genres in 2011. “I only considered yesterday that there might be differences in music between my reality and this one. A check to see if my favorite artists existed here turned into something of a full day project.”

Stark was clearly interested. “No kidding. Did you find any differences?”

“Dozens. In some ways it’s amazing that it’s only that many across hundreds of artists and songs, but I cannot imagine not having Rocky’s training montage paired with ‘Eye of the Tiger.’ ”

“I know I’ve seen a couple of those films, but I couldn’t tell you the name of any training song off the top of my head,” he said. “But I’d probably remember a song with that name.”

He nodded. “Exactly! I can live without the 'Macarena’ and 'Kung Fu Fighting’, but that song made that sequence legendary.”

Stark’s lips twitched in amusement. “I’ll take your word for it. Anything particularly good from your reality that you found missing?”

“I’m still debating if losing all of Journey’s discography is worth never having to hear 'Don’t Stop Believing’ again.”

Time Travel Pseudo!villain Stephen aka Freakin Carmen Sandiego (yes, this is gonna happen. But it’s not happening until those two above are completed, and it’ll be written concurrently with the rest of the villain!Stephen series, as I suspect it will be on the longer side. The outline’s 4 pages long…)

He walked over and crossed his arms as Bruce replayed the video; it was definitely a better quality than the pixelated mess of everything else he’d seen so far. Even with the high-definition, though, the man’s fully-black outfit made him difficult to see against the night sky, and his face was completely covered by what looked like both a mask and hood. He’d be all-but-invisible without the glowing lights all around him. A gasp suddenly ran through the crowd, and the camera swiveled to look at the Palace of Westminster, now bereft of the tower. A few shouts then broke through, and the camera footage swung back to the night sky, but the man was gone.

“Where’d he go?” Tony asked as he leaned over Bruce and pressed both the replay and mute button.

“Uh, according to witnesses, after Elizabeth Tower vanished, he darted under the bridge— probably at the end with the screaming there— and disappeared.”

“I thought that was Big Ben,” he muttered, pressing replay again.

Bruce shook his head. “No, Big Ben’s the bell in Elizabeth Tower. I knew someone in college— British— who got rather annoyed over that misnomer. Really annoyed, actually.” He made a face to himself.

Tony, however, was busy squinting at a bit of the footage he had paused. “Does it look like he has a sort of— something— on his chest?”

The physicist leaned in and squinted alongside him. “Yeah. I’d say it almost looks like one of your arc reactors, but I don’t think your arc reactors do this.”

“But it could still be a power source,” Tony answered. 

“Definitely,” Bruce answered. “It looks almost like he’s pulling from it.”

“That makes no sense, but a lot of this alien tech is nothing like anything that exists on Earth right now. I’d be interested in figuring out how it works.”

Bruce continued to peer at it. “So would I,” he said. “If you can keep it from S.H.I.E.L.D long enough to do so.”

Tony makes a face. “They have the scepter to play with. They can have it when I’m done.”

“You’re going to have to catch him first,” he pointed out.

“Pshh, after Loki, this’ll be easy-peasy. We’ll have him caught within two days.”

ARTS (just the two Stephens for now)

I didn’t have time last weekend to work on digital Stephen, but he’s still a lot farther ahead than when I last posted here sooooooo. (I won’t have time this weekend either, so… he’ll come sooner or later).

Annddd I figured out what my ugly yellow corner square is gonna be. I’m doing fan art for a fan fic like a real nerd. Bringing out the prismacolors again. Right now I’m still in the ‘messing around with line art’ phase. I plan to do this while I’m at tabletop gaming on Sundays.

And that’s that for WIPs. Now I need to go work on ficlets.

[rhinozilla]

Whumptober Day 19: Asphyxiation

Summary:  Gavin interrogates a suspect and gets more than he bargained for.

(With some references to my fic Protect and Serve)

--

The interrogation seemed to be going nowhere. ‘Nowhere’ being that seemingly wasted time of Gavin asking the suspect questions, and the suspect giving increasingly snarky answers.

Much of a hothead as Gavin could be, Fowler had only known him to lose his cool when the suspect wasn’t giving him anything. And yeah, he looked irritated by the suspect’s cyclical, smug answers, but he wasn’t getting heated. So he must have been getting something that Fowler wasn’t able to see through the glass of the interrogation room. As it was, he stayed in the viewing room, arms tightly folded, feeling the prickle of impatience crawling up the back of his neck.

The suspect, identified as Marshall Hyde, was the first break they’d had in months in the case of the new drug kingpin who’d set up shop in Detroit. There was infuriatingly little information that they’d been able to get so far, so Fowler could only gnash his molars as he watched Gavin send the lowlife through a fourth round of questioning.

One minute, it seemed they were in for another lengthy session of Hyde trying to be as unhelpful as possible to get a rise out of the officer.

The next minute, Gavin managed to retort with something that had the opposite effect, apparently hitting the bastard’s Instant Rage button. In a flash, Hyde was on his feet, yanking his cuffed hands from the loop bolted to the table like it was nothing, and then he was launching himself across the table at the detective.

“Shit!” Fowler took a step back, hitting Tina on the shoulder to get her on her feet. “What the Hell?”

A human couldn’t snap through those cuffs like that…but Hyde had been ID’ed as human when they brought him in. Fowler dismissed his disbelief as quickly as it appeared. The ID didn’t mean shit; that was clearly an android. The suspect known as ‘Marshall Hyde’ had taken Gavin off guard and tackled him to the floor.

Tina leapt out of her chair, cursing the whole way, as she flew out into the hallway and input the code to get into the interrogation room to assist. Through the viewing glass, Fowler could see Gavin trying to break Hyde’s grip and knock him off, but Hyde may as well have been a ton of bricks, pinning him down and wrapping both hands around his throat. He started to squeeze.

“Chen!” Fowler hurried out after Tina, seeing that the keypad on the door lock was red. “Open it!” he demanded.

“It’s not accepting the code!” she snapped, attempting it again. “He’s hacked it somehow and locked us out!”

Fowler nudged her back toward the viewing room. “Intercom Connor; he’s in the building somewhere. Get him to override it and unlock the door!”

Tina scrambled to the viewing room to access an intercom link, and Fowler could hear the sounds of a struggle coming through the door. Cursing, he punched in his master code, hoping it would be strong enough to break whatever lock that Hyde had put in place. The keypad remained red, rejecting his code.

The intercom crackled over the bullpen.

“Attention: 51. Code 2-0-2-1,” Tina rattled through the speakers.

The intercom went quiet again, and a beat passed. The red keypad remained for a moment, then abruptly flashed to blue as, wherever he was, Connor accessed the lock and initiated an override.

Text scrolled across the screen of the door pad.

RK800 Remote Access: Unlocked.

Thank fuck.

Fowler didn’t wait for the door to automatically open. As soon as it was open enough to get his hands in, he grabbed the edge of the door and shoved it the rest of the way open. Hyde’s back was turned to the door, too focused on choking the life out of Gavin, who had stopped thrashing on the floor and gone still.

“Get off him,” Fowler demanded, drawing his gun and aiming at him. “Now!”

Hyde turned, staying on top of the unconscious officer, but he glared back at the captain. Fowler took a menacing step closer.

“Move away,” he ordered again.

Hyde snarled, like some kind of animal, and then Tina and Connor were flying into the room after Fowler.

“He’s an android,” Connor informed.

“No shit!” Tina barked, drawing her weapon. “Take him down!”

Tina closed the door behind her, trapping the dangerous android from escape, and Connor attacked first, jumping the unarmed android and wrestling him off Gavin. Both rolled a few feet away, and Tina swept in between the altercation and Gavin. Fowler holstered his gun and crossed the room in two quick strides before kneeling down.

“Gavin! Reed, wake up!” He gave him a shake.

Gavin’s head turned as he started to come back around. A ring of red was forming around his neck where the hands had crushed his airway.

“That’s it,” Fowler urged.

Gavin coughed once, opening his eyes and staring up at Fowler with a blank look. Then they widened, and he coughed again, grabbing at the ground around him. The next cough was harsh and painful, and he gagged as he tried to pull in air.

“Easy.” Fowler put a hand on his chest, encouraging him to stay down while he caught his breath. “You’re all right.”

“F-fuckin’…” Gavin wheezed, coughing again and sucking in a greedy pull of oxygen.

Fowler glanced over to the other side of the interrogation room. Connor had Hyde on his front, one knee pressing into his back and a forearm around his throat. He was pulling the other android’s head back far enough to prevent Hyde from initiating a self destruct sequence: something every android associated with this new drug ring had done when they’d been apprehended. He and Tina got Hyde to his feet, with Hyde cussing and struggling the whole way.

Connor kept an iron grip on the other, looking to Fowler. “Does Detective Reed require assistance?”

“I got him.” Fowler jerked his head toward the door. “You take care of that asshole.”

“Yes, sir,” Connor replied, shoving Hyde through the door to be placed in holding.

“I’ll get someone from medical in here,” Tina said, holstering her gun and looking down at Gavin with concern.

“Nope…” Gavin groaned, shakily getting an elbow under him. “Screw th-that. M’fine.”

“Bullshit,” Fowler stated. “You lost consciousness. You’re going to medical.”

Gavin swayed on his one elbow, and Fowler hooked his forearm under his shoulder, hoisting him upright in a sitting position and leaning his back against the wall carefully.

“Chen, get some water,” he ordered.

“On it,” she ducked out of the room to obey.

“And you,” Fowler poked Gavin in the shoulder, “just pipe the fuck down and breathe for a minute.”

Gavin was still gasping in broken pulls, and he closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the wall.

“Sure thing,” he croaked out, coughing again. He opened his eyes but didn’t move his head. “That was a fuckin’ android.”

“Yeah,” Fowler said as Tina skidded back into the room with a cold bottle of water from the break room. “You can get under someone’s skin faster than anybody know, human or android…What’d you say to set him off?”

Tina twisted the lid off the water bottle and handed it to Gavin. He took it and held it up to take a drink, but he didn’t shrug off Tina’s hand at his elbow, steadying his shaky grip as he took a sip. Gavin swallowed and grimaced, holding the cold bottle against his neck where the bruises were forming.

“Connor confirmed Hyde was using a Jacobi Screen to mask his vital signs as human,” Tina said, smacking her hand to the side of Gavin’s boot. “We’ve got him locked up now.”

Gavin cringed and stubbornly shifted. “Get me off the floor.”

Tina scoffed and looked Fowler. He raised his eyebrows and nodded once. They each took an arm and helped hoist Gavin up to his feet. His knees wobbled.

“Sit down. Here.” Fowler gave him no choice, steering him to the chair beside the table.

Gavin sank onto it heavily, clearing his throat one more time before looking at the captain.

“Hyde slipped.”

Fowler narrowed his eyes. “What’d you get?”

“He is one of Ogden’s inner circle…Was. She won’t have anything to do with him now that I cracked him.” Gavin stated.

Fowler and Tina both straightened up. Fowler folded his arms and leaned in closer.

“She?”

“Yeah.” Gavin finally assembled a smug grin, covering up the pain in his throat. “She.”

It was a start.

Fowler smirked and clapped a hand on Gavin’s shoulder.

“Good work.” He watched Gavin shift the cold bottle from one side of his neck to the other. He glanced at Chen. “Get him to medical.”

“Yes, sir.” She nodded, poking Gavin in the arm. “You’re lucky you’re such an annoying bastard, or we wouldn’t have even gotten that much.”

“Hey,” Gavin complained. “I’ve been abused enough today. Cap? Come on.”

Fowler snorted and stepped over to the door. “She’s right though.”

Gavin frowned. “That’s,” he coughed again, grimacing and touching his neck, “—that’s fair.”

[band-geek-727]

Dragged Away

#whumptober2019

hoo boy this one got away from me

--

They were no match for Alphamon.

Despite Daisuke’s ability to create miracles, despite Ken’s unwavering faith in his partner, in his friends, they had all fallen.

When Ken came to, he was being dragged across a smooth, metal floor.

The person dragging him had a long, even stride. Footsteps echoed around the space, wherever they were.

Ken forced his eyes open. He found himself looking up a nondescript metal ceiling. A quick glance around offered no further clues to his whereabouts. Was he still in the Digital World? It seemed likely… he couldn’t imagine he’d be dragged along so roughly if someone from the real world had come and saved him. His hands seemed to be bound, and his arms ached from where they were stretched above his head. There was a splitting pain in his side, and his head spun. One of his legs stuck out at an unnatural angle.

He tried to twist around to see his captor, hissing from the pain in his side. Carefully, he tipped his head backwards.

“G-Gennai-san?!!”

The person carrying him looked down and smiled.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Ken’s mind reeled. The figure looked like Gennai, sounded like Gennai, but the voice was all wrong, low and smooth and filled with malice. The eyes were wrong too; they held none of Gennai’s warmth and mischief, and the smile was sly rather than sincere.

The person who looked like Gennai stopped. Ken couldn’t tell what he was doing, but there was a series of soft beeps and then the sound of a door whooshing open. Ken found himself dragged forward once more, too exhausted and disoriented to try and resist.

Gennai came to a halt and dropped Ken’s arms unceremoniously, his footsteps echoing as he walked away. With tremendous effort Ken was able to lower his aching arms in front of him, bringing his hands close to his chest and curling on his side. A gash on his left arm was crusted over with dried blood. His left leg was definitely broken. His side throbbed with a dull pain, but with his hands bound he couldn’t easily check the wound. There was the hum and beeping of machinery behind him, but Ken hardly noticed. Panic flared inside him. Where were the others? What had happened to them? He couldn’t imagine they were in much better condition than him.

And the digimon? The last thing he remembered was Paildramon dissolving into particles of light.

His stomach heaved. He couldn’t lose Wormmon, not again.

And it wasn’t just him this time. It was Veemon, Hawkmon and Armadimon, Iori, Miyako, Daisuke…

Tears gathered in his eyes and he squeezed them shut, forcing himself to take a deep breath. It would do him no good to panic. If he could keep his wits about him, maybe he could find a way out of this. He had to. He had to find his friends and save them.

Carefully he lifted his head and glanced around. He’d been deposited in the middle of a large, square metal room, dimly lit by a glowing control panel. Not-Gennai was standing in front of it, his fingers dancing over screens and buttons, the meaning of which Ken could only guess at. Beside the control panel stood a metal chair with cuffs on the arms and the headrest.

Ken shuddered to think what that chair might be for. With another deep breath he looked around. There was nothing else in the room, and the only way out appeared to be the hallway from which they’d just come.

Ken closed his eyes. The situation looked dire, but he would find a way out. He had defeated a Mega when he was only eight years old. He had resisted the Dark Spore when he was twelve. He was older now, and wiser, and he could certainly outsmart the strange figure wearing Gennai’s face.

The beeping stopped and footsteps echoed back to him. When Ken opened his eyes, Gennai was crouching in front of him, hands on his knees and that grin on his face.

Ken glared. “What do you want from me?”

Gennai laughed, low and menacing. “Now now, we’ll have none of that, Digimon Kaiser.”

Ken’s blood ran cold. His hands trembled. The back of his neck itched. When he spoke, he couldn’t quite keep his voice from shaking.

“Do not call me that.”

The Gennai clone clicked his tongue. “Of course, of course. You’re not that person anymore. You’ve seen the error of your ways, haven’t you?”

Before Ken could respond, the figure reached over and touched the restraints on his wrists. They clicked open and vanished in a burst of pixels.

Ken blinked. Why would his captor bother releasing him? Was he so foolish… or perhaps so confident in Ken’s inability to fight back? The latter certainly seemed likely; Ken placed his freed hands on the floor beneath him but couldn’t summon the strength to push himself up.

“So, here’s how this is going to work,” Gennai was saying. “I have a plan for this world, and for your world. Everything is in order, except for the final piece.” His tilted his head, and his grin stretched unnaturally. Ken shivered. “You have the missing piece I need, Ichijouji. And you’re going to give it to me.”

The back of Ken’s neck itched again. He resisted the urge to clamp his hand over it and scowled up at his captor, injecting as much venom into his voice as he could when he spat back, “And if I refuse?”

The Gennai lookalike simply smirked at him. He stood and turned in one fluid motion, then snapped his fingers.

A panel at the other end of the room slid open. A pair of Gotsumon entered, but they looked all wrong. Their eyes were glowing red and lifeless, and a dark purple energy swirled around them. Between them they carried…

“Daisuke!”

Daisuke was thrown roughly to the floor. His head jerked up and Ken gasped. Unlike his own wounds, Daisuke’s seemed fresh. He was bleeding from a gash on his shoulder and a blow to his head. Blood was smeared across his face, as if he’d tried to wipe it away. One of his eyes was swollen and blackened. His hands were unbound, but there was a dark metal ring around his neck that made Ken feel sick to his stomach.

“KEN!” Daisuke tried to stand, but the Gotsumon to his left put a hand on his wounded shoulder and slammed him back to the ground, making him howl with pain.

“Daisuke!” Ken pushed himself up and made to dash for his partner, but his broken leg gave out underneath him and he sprawled across the floor.

Daisuke tried to wrench his shoulder free but the Gotsumon pushed harder, pinning his wrist down as will. The Gotsumon on his other side grabbed his right arm and wrenched it behind his back.

Ken’s eyes filled with tears. “Please… please, stop!”

The being who looked like Gennai was laughing. He knelt and grabbed Ken’s chin in one hand, forcing Ken’s face up towards his. “Understand, Ichijouji? You give me what I need, and I won’t have to destroy the Child of Miracles.”

“Let him go, you bastard!” Daisuke growled. “Ken, don’t listen to him!”

Ken watched as Daisuke struggled against the Gotsumon, despite the obvious pain it caused him. Daisuke never stopped fighting, never stopped giving of himself for his friends. He wouldn’t give up, not until his dying breath.

The tears flowed freely down Ken’s face. “I-I can’t…”

Gennai sighed. “No? What a shame.” He snapped his fingers.

The Gotsumon twisting Daisuke’s arm heaved him up into a sitting position. The other one dropped Daisuke’s wrist. It moved silently, robotically, as it closed its hands around Daisuke’s throat.

Daisuke gasped, his eyes going wide as he thrashed, his free hand flying up to grip the hands at his throat, but it was useless. Gotsumon were solid rock. Already Daisuke’s face was turning blue.

“STOP IT!” Ken cried, his voice hoarse and ragged. “Stop, please, I-I’ll give you what you want, I’ll do anything, please!”

Another snap of Gennai’s fingers and the hands at Daisuke’s throat fell away. The Gotsumon holding his arm released him and he slumped to the floor, gasping and coughing.

“There now, was that so hard, Kaiser?” Gennai asked. He reached down to stroke Ken’s hair. Ken flinched away from the touch.

Daisuke lifted his head. Tears cut through the dirt and blood on his face. “Ken, d-don’t…”

Gennai waved his hand. The Gotsumon turned. Each one grabbed one of Daisuke’s legs and dragged him away, back the way they had come.

“Wait!” Daisuke cried. He reached out his hand, his fingers splayed. “Ken!”

“Dai-!” Ken reached back, praying for a miracle, willing the distance between them to close.

Gennai grabbed his outstretched arm and wrenched it behind him, making Ken cry out as he was dragged away across the room.

“NO!” Daisuke shouted. “Let him go! Ken, please… Ken-!”

Daisuke’s pleas were cut off as the wall panel slid seamlessly back into place, but Ken could still hear his voice fading as he was taken away.

“Please,” Ken sobbed, all trace of defiance drained from his voice. “Please, I’m doing what you want, y-you said you wouldn’t hurt him!”

“Did I?” Gennai’s wicked grin was back. “Interesting… I seem to recall promising only not to destroy him.”

Ken had only a moment to ponder the horrifying implications of those words before he was lifted and thrown roughly into the metal chair. He gripped the armrests instinctually and the cuffs clamped down on his wrists. The third cuff secured itself around his head, holding him fast against the back of the chair.

His heart was pounding in his ears. Daisuke’s voice echoed distantly back at him.

Gennai was back at the control panel. He tapped out some kind of sequence, then, seemingly satisfied, he glanced back up at Ken. His eyes were wide, his grin manic.

A needle pressed into the skin at the back of Ken’s neck.

The Spore burned.

Ken screamed.

--

You know Gennai could have just thrown Ken in the chair right from the start, he just enjoys torturing people.

I started whumptober to break my writer’s block, and it seems to be working! It’s been a long ass time since I was able to just sit down and write, but this whole prompt came so easily. It feels amazing to be able to write like this again.

Also eff digimon tri.

[aki-draws-things]

Hey, darling! I loved your latest fic translation on AO3 (and I promise I’m /absolutely/ leaving a comment today once I finish posting a few of the prompts you sent in 😘) but I kinda had to send in a Whumptober prompt? Had to lol. I’d love to see “hypothermia” — I was thinking maybe Francesco and Lorenzo are trapped somewhere at night in the freezing cold, and they both have to keep from freezing while helping each other? Just an idea lol, its fine if it doesn’t grab you! 💗 thanks love!

Sorry, it took me a while… But I hope you’ll like it anyway. If you have any other ideas, even outside the whumptober, send them my way

Find it on AO3 too.

“Ican’t believe I let you convince me.” Francesco took a newblanket out of the old wardrobe and threw it at Lorenzo without eventurning to check if he caught it or not, he just dug further inthe closet for heavier blankets. There wasn’t much left there,after all both him and Guglielmo stopped going to that house longago, no point on keeping anything there, for sure no point on keepingwinter clothes there. Now he wished they did, he wished they forgotsomething.

Thatwinter hold Florence in an icy embrace from the first days ofDecember. Now it was March and snow had fallen all day long. And herethey were, stuck in an empty, forgotten house in the middle of thecountryside, with snow piling up outside and no way to get warm.

“Icouldn’t predict it would have snowed again.” Lorenzo tried tosound optimistic, he always tried to see everything in the best way,even that.

“Ihate snow. And cold. - Francesco turned closing a long, dark brownfur cloak around his shoulders, there was something about that sightthat made Lorenzo’s heart clench. - And I hate you, Medici.” No,he didn’t, and they both knew it, he walked quietly to him, Lorenzowas only slightly taller than him, not much, just enough forFrancesco to have to lift his eyes to look straight at him. Lorenzosuppressed the urge to hold him, embrace him tight against himself,ask forgiveness for something it wasn’t his fault but apparentlymade him upset. Children could get upset over the smallest things, inthat moment Francesco was like a child, maybe it was because of theplace they were in, for all the memories it held.

Lorenzojust wanted a quiet place where they would have been safe for acouple of days, away from Florence and their families, together, andthat old house was the perfect hideout. Or, well, It was supposed tobe.

“I’msorry… - Lorenzo said holding out a hand to Francesco, inviting himcloser. Francesco sighed before closing the distance between them andputting his forehead against Lorenzo’s shoulder. - Next time we’llgo somewhere warm, I promise.”

Asthe hours went by the snow didn’t seem to stop, big, heavysnowflakes kept falling from the white sky and piled up on the road.Night was closing by and it was clear that returning to Florencewould have been impossible for the time being. Not if it keptsnowing.

Whennight fell, the temperature did the same; it was unbearably cold andeven Lorenzo was starting to regret his decision.

“Willyou tell me a story? So we won’t think of the cold.” Francescoturned to him, the cloak now draped around them both, with all theblankets they found scattered on the bed to cover them.“Astory?” He was shivering, even in his voice, he was tired and cold.And shivering. So was Lorenzo, he could feel it next to him.“Aboutthis place or… I don’t know, really. - Lorenzo smiled softlyturning his face to him and laying a quick kiss on his shoulder. - Ijust want to hear your voice.” It wasn’t such an odd requestif Francesco had to think about it, it wasn’t the first timeLorenzo said things like that, somehow he liked his voice, especiallywhen Francesco didn’t seem to appreciate it enough for it was toodeep and dark. - Like everything else surrounding him. - “It…It doesn’t have a story. - He said uncertain. He briefly closed hiseyes letting memories flood his mind with warm days and children’slaughters. - Mother took us here when she wanted to run fromFlorence, and from Jacopo. It was her house, our sanctuary. Our safeplace. Nothing could ever harm us here.” He gripped the cloak alittle tighter and lay his head on Lorenzo. “She said we would havebrought our wives here one day, and our children. She said we couldhave lived here, maybe. Away from the city and all its people.” -“She said she would have been there to wait for us.” He thought,but Lorenzo wasn’t interested in that, right? - “We could.Maybe. If you and Guglielmo want.” Francesco nodded slowly, forsome reason the cold wasn’t so piercing anymore. He wasn’t warm,he could feel it all too clearly, but he wasn’t even that coldas before. Just a lot more tired. So tired he couldn’t find himselfshivering anymore. Which was strange because he felt cold.“Could…Will.” Talking suddenly became hard, God, he really wanted tosleep. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and slipped a little more onLorenzo, safe as his arms tightened around him.“You’refreezing Francesco.” He muttered back something and didn’t move,too comfortable as he was. “I… I don’t think you should be thatcold.” He held him tighter, a hand moving slowly on his head,caressing the dark hair and his face, trying to warm himsomehow.“’t’s fine.” Francesco muttered sleepily. Hetried to open his eyes, to remain conscious and stop Lorenzo forworrying. He always worried for him even though he didn’t deserveit. Lorenzo was too kind with him, Francesco always wondered what hecould see in him to feel attracted, there were people a lot morebeautiful than him, he had a wife who learned to love him, a lovermost of Florence envied, and yet he chose him, it was to him he cameat night, him he held tight and kissed, to him he would whisperthings his wife should hear.“Don’t deserve you…”Lorenzo gently hushed him, even in the freezing cold his hands werewarm and soft against his skin. - He didn’t realize he was onlyfeeling them warm because he was too cold. - He fell asleep with hissoft voice whispering something against his skin, warm breathcaressing his cheek.“You’ll be fine, love, I promise you.You’ll be fine. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” The kiss wassoft, it was almost like Lorenzo wanted to warm him through it.Whenhe woke up, warm, in a bed he recognized as the one he slept in atthe Medici Palace, it was almost four days later and his brother wasjust a step away from detaching Lorenzo’s head from his neck. Helooked calm on the outside, standing on feet by the bed as Lorenzowas sitting next to him holding his hand, but Francesco knew hisbrother better than anyone else in the world and in that moment hewas planning of killing Lorenzo in the most vicious way he couldimagine. But only Francesco could read those eyes and he would dealwith them later. For that moment, just a little more, he turned toLorenzo and smiled squeezing his hand a little. There was a sequenceof endless apologies coming out of Lorenzo’s his mouth along withunshed tears.“You were dying because I wanted to spend a dayaway from home.” There was no point on denying that, he wasactually right, though Francesco wasn’t immediately aware ofthe real danger he had been in. He squeezed the hand tighter bringingback the attention on himself instead of the blankets, he didn’tspoke, still too tired, but smiled, and Lorenzo leaned in to place akiss on his lips.

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Whumptober No.8

Agnes presses her hands against the thick, transparent wall that’s come down between the biobed cubicle and the lab. Rios, dragging himself across the small space on shaky legs, places his palms against hers, a world between them. A damp sheen covers his face, his hair is sticking up in sweaty clumps, and she thinks she can feel the fever emanating from his body through the three inches of hazmat-proof composite glass.

“I’m here,” she says, firmer than she thought herself capable of. “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

Those deep brown eyes look into hers, glazed and burning. Agnes isn’t sure if Cris understands what she’s saying although sickbay’s com unit is working flawlessly; Ean made sure of that. Emil told her that the Viperian virus Rios has picked up affects cognitive function, and although she thinks she sees understanding in Rios’ eyes, he doesn’t answer. He stopped speaking entirely hours ago.

“Emil, how is he?” she asks through the com, not breaking eye contact with Cris. It’s all she has, now that she can’t touch him, can’t be with him in his isolation cubicle. Now that he can no longer talk.

The EMH looks up from where he’s bent over test protocols, bloodwork and Petri dishes. It’s an illusion, of course, but Agnes thinks she sees the shadows of sleeplessness under his eyes.

“Temperature holding steady at 104°. Oxygen saturation is at 93%, BP 138 over 90, heart rate-“

“Not that,” Agnes says, stress making her voice sharp. “Not numbers. I can see his numbers on the monitor. I mean - how is he?”

Cris hasn’t even blinked during this exchange. His palms are still against the glass, and he’s still looking at Agnes, but she’s not sure whether she sees emptiness in his feverish eyes or unfathomable depth.

“Oh.” The EMH gets up and seems to recalibrate his thought process. He comes to stand beside Agnes, and, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, he frowns at his patient.

“Physically, he’s holding up so far,” he says, voice assuming an appropriately somber colour. “But none of the antiviral medications are working, and his neurological function is degrading.”

Agnes swallows, but a lump of fear remains stuck in her throat.

“If… when we find a treatment, is the damage reversible?”

“Hard to say. It’s a new strain. There is no data beyond this outbreak. Normally, viral brain damage can be reversed with brain cell multiplying agents or synthetic transplant cells. It’s simple enough in meningitis or Romulan sicta virus patients, but there is no evidence that it will or will not work with the Viperian flu.”

He stops and frowns at Agnes.

“Doctor, are you alright? Your blood pressure and cortisol levels-“

“I’m fine,” she cuts him off. She hasn’t slept, and she’s scared and she wants to scream, but she doesn’t want the EMH to push a sedative on her, so she puts on a brave face. “I’m worried. We all are. I’m fine.”

“You’re afraid,” the hologram observes, sympathy laid over an analytical result that’s percolated through his programming.

“Yes,” Agnes admits, giving a bitter little laugh. “Your analysis is correct.”

In front of her, Rios blinks sluggishly, but his hands remain where they are, and Agnes has the sudden, frightening thought that, if he moves, if his hands drop and he turns away from her, she’ll have lost him forever.

“I will find a cure, Dr. Jurati,” Emil says, making it sound like a fact, like he always does. “I am systematically going through antibody extraction and retargeting protocols. It is only a matter of time until I find the correct one.”

Agnes feels like a harbinger of death when, her eyes still locked with Cris’, she whispers: “What if it’s too late?”

A sequence of beeps from a centrifuge interferes with whatever the EMH was composing as an answer and, holographic face lighting up, he hurries back to his work. Agnes seems forgotten.

Through the com system, she hears a faint sound. She looks around the cubicle, wondering - until she realizes it’s coming from Cris: a faint, distressed humming. His lips press into a taugt line, and he blinks rapidly.

“Cris?”

The EMH is already on his feet, shimmering into nothingness to reappear on the other side of the glass, beside his patient.

“Captain Rios?” He speaks gently, urgently, and he keeps his words simple, as if talking to a child. “I’m going to help you back to bed now. I need you to lie down.”

Rios’ whole body is tense. A violent tremor runs through him, making his palms rattle against the glass. His vitals, projected on the cubicle wall, are spiking and blinking red. Alarms blare.

Fear constricts Agnes’ throat.

“What’s happening? Emil? What’s happening to him?!”

That’s when Cris’ hands drop away from the glass, his eyes roll back into his head and the EMH catches him as he slumps like a rag doll.

(to be continued....)

(read all of my Whumptober fics on AO3, here)