#it never occured to me to draw these fellas so | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thiswasinevitableid · 2 years ago

Text

Spring Awakening (OT4)

The “continuation” winner was eldritch OT4! You can read as a stand alone but the first part is very good. Mild content warning: the prompt does mean there are references to body horror. There are also references towards breeding, but none actually occurs.

Winter has never been Indrid’s favorite season; it’s cold, the first chunk of it is spent with everyone telling him to give thanks and be cheery, and his van always malfunctions more.

Now he has a new reason: one of his boyfriends hibernates.

It was just after Thanksgiving that Duck told him and Joseph what would happen.

“It ain’t a full hibernation; I won’t be dead to the world.” Duck’s in his human form, which he favors for serious discussions. Indrid appreciates this, as it’s easier to read emotion on a round, friendly face than an incomprehensible mass of plant matter and ancient divinity, “but when growing things go to sleep, I go with ‘em. I’m alert enough, even in my sleep, to make sure the house keeps standing and that you two are taken care of. Not to mention this big fella will still be here.” He tips his head towards Barclay, whose resting in his bigfoot form by the fire

Joseph had a number of follow-up questions, but Indrid’s main concern was whether Duck would want them to touch him or take care of him while he slept. Phlox poked out of Duck’s shoulders as he smiled and said he’d appreciate it.

That’s why Indrid is sitting in a nook of their cabin, stroking approximately at Duck’s shoulder; his human form is all but gone, and his eldritch one seems to be melding with the wall of the cabin. A tingle runs through his fingers, as if he was running them over the tips of fresh grass.

Barclay is elsewhere gathering his offerings, and Joseph has been on assignment for over a month. Indrid ought to go into town and check the P.O box before it starts snowing again. But he doesn’t want to leave Duck’s side, the warmth radiating from the core of his form.

“I’m going to run some errands, sweetheart. I won’t be long” He leans down, kissing a dark patch of corn silk.

As he pulls on his jacket, a voice in the air drawls, faintly, “See you soon, darlin.”

He stops first at the general store, Leo waving to him as he helps himself to the small shelf of arts and crafts supplies. Neither Barclay nor Duck can quite manage to make drawing paper, so every few weeks he buys a new sketchbook for his commissions.

The post office is full of racks of pink, white, and red, all signs of the impending holiday. Valentines’ Day fascinates Barclay, and has promised Indrid he’ll do something special for the two of them, and Indrid’s fairly certain he spotted him trying to make snowflakes take the form of hearts.

He opens the P.O box, pulling out flyers for the dehumidifier store and the strange waterpark on the edge of town; they only have the box is because the farmhouse by the field has no known address. And a tendency to move around from side road to side road.

Under the multi-colored fliers is a single postcard. It’s a photo of Lake Mendota, with a little, serpentine monster drawn on in pen. He flips it over with a smile.

Dear Indrid, Barclay, and Duck,

Madison is about how I remember it. I can’t say much about the case, other than so far I’ve been right about everything and the other agents lost a car to the thing we’re investigating.

Indrid, you should come here with me sometime when I’m not working. Might sister keeps demanding to know when I’m going to introduce you, and there’s a lot of excellent places to get ice cream and baked goods. We could even bring some back for Barclay and Duck if we timed it right.

I miss you all so much. I can’t wait to come home.

Love,

-Joseph.

There’s a meticulously drawn heart after the name. Indrid tucks it safely in his coat pocket and steps back into the cold.

—------------------------------------------------------------

The frost makes it much harder to feel the decay of the stray fruits and layers of leaves blanketing the earth. So much so that Barclay spends most of his hunting for offerings in town; the high school has something called “home ec” where students' attempts at cooking sometimes end in a trash can of burnt offerings. From the taste of the cake he just finished, the baker would have produced something stunning had they watched the oven more closely.

Where his body takes in the decay in the deeper layers of the earth, he feels familiar footfalls and Indrid’s voice on the wind. He concentrates his being on the spot, taking his more mortal form in front of the bundled-up human.

“Hey, little moth. What do you need?”

“I…” Indrid peers hesitantly up at him, “I was hoping you had some time to spend with me today. It’s been a few since I really saw you, and with Duck asleep and Joseph away-”

“Think I get the drift.” He wraps his arms around the human, resting his chin atop his head, “time is weird for us, so thanks for telling me.”

“May I say something silly?”

“Sure thing.”

“I miss Duck so much. Which is ridiculous, and greedy, I have you and Joseph and that should be more than enough but it isn’t.”

“If we were interchangeable, you wouldn’t want all three of us. I mean, I miss Joseph when he’s gone for, like, a day, even if I spend that whole time making a pillow burrow with you. Pillow fort?”

“Fort.” Indrid mumbles against him, “I feel so selfish, wishing spring would come just so Duck could hold me, really hold me, again.”

“You’re not selfish, little moth.” He nudges Indrid’s hood back and kisses silver hair, “but I got an idea. What are missing most right now?”

Indrid hums, “The way he sort of...envelops me sometimes. Like he did the night we first met; heavy and comforting on top of me, touching me everywhere, like I, I’m something worth treasuring.”

“He and I sure as fuck agree on that part. And I think I have something that might tide you over until spring. Close your eyes for me.”

The human obeys and Barclay unfurls himself, his fur peeling out and away, his body spinning into its true form, mouths tasting the air, the earth, the leaves on the trees and the mushrooms sleeping beneath them.

He wraps himself tenderly around Indrid, taking care to keep his head and neck free; according to Duck, humans tend to panic if you confine their heads. Indrid sighs as he registers the pressure of Barclay around him. Of his human lovers, Indrid is the one who enjoys being bound and trapped this much; Joseph adores when Barclay holds him down or cuffs him to a headboard or branch, but anything more than that turns the excitement in those blue eyes to fear.

His hands find Indrid’s zippers and buttons as his pelt slides beneath his feet, insulating him from the snowy ground.

“Ohhhhh it’s so warm like this.” Indrid’s muscles relax and Barclay clings tighter to be sure he stays upright. Peeling Indrid’s clothes off layer by layer, more and more of Barclay’s hands emerge, eager to join the fun. Before Indrid, he never gave much thought to the texture of his fur. Now his human presses and twists his body against it, biting his lip as his cock rubs along a patch of it. Barclay smiles and his mouths multiply, kissing up long legs as his hands grope his ass, caress his face, tease his chest in hopes of showing him how much he deserves.

“That’s, that’s so lovely, I-OH” Indrid laughs, “what was that hand made of? It tickled.”

“Uh, like, mossy reeds? You mean this one right?” He rubs Indrid’s stomach and the human laughs again, much louder this time.

“Indeed.” He squirms as several hands find his cock, one thumbing the tip while another strokes the shaft and a third teases his balls, “I, Barclay please I want, I want…”

“Want what?” He rumbles.

“Cover me up all the way, please. I know why you’re, you’re being cautious but I’m not afraid. I know you’ll let me go if I ask.”

Barclay pushes his form up, cocooning Indrid and discovering instantly that this means he can now kiss his lips and cheeks, run his hands through his hair the way people do in the movies Indrid watches curled up on the couch some nights.

Pleasure is an odd thing when his body is once formless and concrete, not nearly as straightforward as when Barclay is in his mortal disguise. The most sensitive part of him when he’s like this are his mouths, and so he devours Indrid with kisses, savoring each little memory and feeling they bring to his tongues.

Indrid’s cries turn wordless when a soft, fork-tongued moth finds his cock and sucks hungrily. Human fingers cling to his fur and Barclay revels in the touch, in the pleasure of bringing Indrid this close, of being able to keep him safe, warm, and happy, all while he writhes in delight and cums with an adorable squeak.

Barclay twists and turns his body through space, bringing them back to the cabin and depositing Indrid into bed.

“I love you” Indrid purrs, eyes bleary with joy when Barclay removes the red glasses and sets them on the little stand Duck made for them so they wouldn’t keep getting lost.

“Love you too, little moth.” As he brings his mortal disguise back, a single, green vine snakes up the bed and slowly tugs a thick, mothman patterned blanket over Indrid’s body. Then it picks up the mothman plush from the corner and tucks it into Indrid’s arms.

“Thank you, my sweet.” Indrid gazes towards Duck.

The vine caresses his cheek as it retreats and the floor creaks, “rest up, darlin.”

Barclay plants a final kiss on Indrid’s forehead, then goes to see if he can recreate the home ec cake without the char.

—----------------------------------------------------------

First, the case took twice as long as anticipated. Then there was the deposition in a Michigan case from last year that finally went to trial. Finally, to top it all off, his flight was delayed for two days.

All this is to say, the most pressing thought on Joseph’s mind is how fast he can drive without putting the car in a snowbank.

When the “Welcome to Kepler” sign finally comes into view, he relaxes his grip on the wheel and carefully navigates into the library parking lot. It’s a half hour to closing, and the snow is a half-foot high on the book drop. He knocks his boots against the mat and crosses the pine-tree green carpet to return the stack of books he took on his trip. Since he has a few minutes to spare, he scans the new books shelf and the rows of romance for titles for himself or Indrid.

As he stacks a copy of Red Hot Ranch on paperback of A History of Mysteries, he spots the new sheriff and gives him a friendly nod. The man gives him a tight smile in return and ducks behind a shelf.

His initial return to Kepler after being tossed into the field as a sacrifice had been so shocking that the previous sheriff fainted when Joseph stepped into the room to explain why he, and the mayor, were being arrested for kidnapping and wrongful imprisonment. Joseph knows Duck needed the energy from the sacrifices, and that he let all but a few go, but that’s no excuse for non-consensually offering people up to him.

After the arrests, he mentioned to the interim mayor that he’d be setting up a satellite office in Kepler, since there was a lot of paranormal activity in the area. Then he made damn sure that the tail they put on him followed him all the way back to the abandoned farmhouse and watched as he stepped out of the car and into the cornfield, the stalks parting to show him the way back to the cabin.

In a way, the people in town are more afraid of him than of Indrid, in spite of them both surviving stints in the cornfield with their memories intact and then taking up residence there. He suspects they think Indrid–with his otherworldly face and aloof demeanor–is a god himself. It’s a fair conclusion, given that every tomato plant, pumpkin vine, and apple tree in town got an unexpected, final wave of fruit when he arrived. Which means they think Joseph is the only human in town able to walk with gods without fear.

He sets his books in the passenger seat and makes his final stop; Indrid asked him to pick up a few groceries on his way home. He tucks a bottle of hard cider next to the toothpaste, hoping he and Indrid can split it tomorrow while watching horror movies on the bed (he bought them some solar cell packs, as neither Duck nor Barclay have much sway over electricity).

Before the field, his last time having sex while tipsy was back in college and not particularly memorable. The more drinking became a social necessity for his work, where he was already seen as unusual and too buttoned-up, the more he was careful to never let his guard down and enjoy himself, unwilling to give his co-workers fodder to further discredit him.

The past October, he and Indrid had decided to take a picnic into the field and watch Orionid Meteor Shower, the evening still carrying traces of summer. Duck made them a dome of corn husks and sunflower stalks to eat under, the dirt turning to a carpet of impossibly soft clover as they sat down. They’d drunk something honeyed and definitely alcoholic that Duck made them and traded bites of pear cake Barclay prepared as the sliver of a moon rose.

Dinner was barely done before they were tangled together on the ground, making out with all the excitement and carelessness of far younger men. Then Indrid was on his back, humming as Joseph sat on his face, laughing because it felt nice and because he could. By the end of it there was slick on Indrid’s chin and cum on Joseph’s thigh, neither of them particularly interested in fucking full-on when there was so much of each other to enjoy.

Then they’d lain on their backs and the dome opened, revealing an infinity of stars as tendrils of grass stroked their hair and the clover turned to thick, soft fur.

God help him, if the farmhouse isn’t around this next corner he’s going to offroad to cut his time getting there. Snow be damned.

He’s saved from this poor decision by the familiar silhouette, and turns towards home. Once parked, he retrieves his bags and steps towards the field. The withered stalks try to bend, but can’t get far. Watching them, he understands the worry in Indrid’s voice the last time they spoke on the phone; knowing Duck is at a low power is one thing, seeing the signs of him weakened is another.

As he’s wondering if he can get to the cabin from memory, a form materializes from the snow.

“Hey, blue eyes.”

“Hi, big guy.” Joseph tips his face up so Barclay can kiss him, a hint of winter bonfire and cardamom on his tongue.

“Lemme get those.” Several more arms appear on his bigfoot form, taking Joseph’s things with ease. Walking close to him seems to stave off the cold, and furry, warm arm rests on his shoulders as Barclay asks about the trip.

When they reach the cabin, the god sets the bags on the table and the suitcase on the bed. Joseph kneels down to the mass of glowing fungus and twisted plant life and takes the nearest vine in his hands, bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

“Just letting you know I’m home.”

“Missed you, sugar.” The reply seems to come from the stalks rattling outside the windows.

The back door creaks and Indrid steps into the main cabin; Duck built him a little art studio–complete with pencils and paints conjured from plants– so he didn’t have to always go into the one he teaches at in town.

“Welcome home, pet.” Indrid drapes his arms over Joseph’s shoulders. There’s charcoal on his cheek, and Joseph wipes it away before kissing him. Indrid grins when they part, “I have some business with you, agent.”

“I hoped as much.”

“Barclay, will you be joining us?”

“Not as much as I want to.” The god sighs, “The freeze is deep this year, and on top of that, humans seem to burn themselves out on cooking and canning after the new year. So I need to forage a bit more tonight.” He kisses them both goodbye and then he’s gone.

Joseph unpacks his things in a hurry, knowing he won’t be able to enjoy himself with Indrid if the laundry isn’t in the hamper and the groceries aren’t put away. Indrid makes no comment other than asking what on earth can rip the tire off an SUV. As they talk, the domesticity of it all overwhelms him; a home like this with someone used to be no less out of reach than living in a cabin in a cornfield with two eldritch beings.

“You know, when I was zig-zagging about the states I–oh” Indrid smiles as Joseph gently backs him against the counter for a kiss, “shall I leave the last bag for later?”

“Please.”

Indrid laughs, allowing Joseph to pull him to the bed. Then his grin turns wicked and Joseph is trapped on his back, his boyfriend calling, “Barclay? A moment of assistance?”

Black, fur-lined cuffs appear on his wrist, leather cord leading from each to the headboard. As Indrid fetches a matching collar from a peg on the wall, Joseph groans, “I haven’t gotten to touch you in weeks and this is what you do to me?”

“As much as I love your attentive touches” Indrid closes the collar around Joseph’s throat, “we both know that when you’ve been overwhelmed with work, what you truly need is to be taken.”

“Yes” He closes his eyes, lifts his hips and shifts his legs to help Indrid undress him. He’s still in a dress shirt, but rather than uncuffing him a moment Indrid opts to leave it unbuttoned and shove the undershirt up to kiss his stomach before retreating to remove his pajamas.

When his boyfriend finally pushes his cock into him they groan in comic unison. Indrid rests their foreheads together and murmurs, “I missed you so much, pet. So much.”

Hands unable to comfort him, Joseph kisses his chin and jaw, “I’m here now.”

Indrid licks his lips, “So you are.”

His boyfriend takes his time, thrusts slow and steady while languidly kissing Joseph to capture his moans. Eventually his hand slips between them, rubbing Joseph’s dick. The collar no longer feels inanimate; now it’s Barclay’s hand, reaching across acres to close around his throat and remind him to be a good boy.

When he cums it’s with a pent up moan from over a month without the attention he ached for. Indrid switches to quick thrusts, joining him with a little gasp. Once he pulls out, Indrid rolls over, only managing to wiggle his pajama pants back on before cuddling into Joseph’s arms. He pets his boyfriend’s back, tracing his fingers over his tattoos, and spots a single, glowing eye watching them from Duck’s spot.

He hopes he enjoyed the show.

Joseph blows a kiss. The eye winks, playful, and then it’s gone.

—---------------------------------------------------------

On March 7th, Joseph and Indrid wake up to snowdrops peeking through the floor. Joseph says “that’s a good sign” as Indrid sprints across the cabin to where Duck’s form is looking more human by the moment.

“Hey, darlin. Hey, city boy.” Duck shifts positions, sitting up for the first time in two months. Skin is always the last thing to form on him, so Joseph feels as if he’s looking at an anatomical drawing where the sinews are swapped for roots and stems.

“Do you need anything?” Indrid’s hands are flapping as Duck yawns and stretches.

“Nah, I’m okay for now, sugar. It’ll take me a few days, maybe even a few weeks, to be able to do much more’n sit here and talk. By the by, that tree in the orchard that the storm took out is gonna make for some real nice soil. Good job on the decay, big fella.”

“Thanks, man.�� The rug by the fire yawns, pushing up onto many hands as Barclay’s bigfoot form takes shape, “feels like there might be more mushroom this year, I kept running into their mycelium.”

“That’ll be nice, gets folks out and foraging, which I like to see. Uh” his posture turns sheepish, “sorry, shouldn’t talk shop when y’all been missin’ me, but I always wake up with all this info about how spring is gonna go.”

“I do not care what you talk about” Indrid takes an earthy hand, “I’ve missed hearing your full voice too much.”

“And I, sadly, have to be at work in forty-five minutes. Catch me up at dinner?”

“Yes” the three respond as one.

The stalks still struggle to form a path as he walks out. But when he gets to his car, crocuses bloom in the shape of a heart by the driver-side door.

When he arrives home that night, Duck has hair and a thin layer of skin and as wrapped in a robe of new leaves, Indrid perched in his lap. Joseph takes up a similar position in Barclay’s lap, breathing in crisp air as his boyfriend nuzzles his throat. They stay up well past midnight, just talking, and Joseph is glad tomorrow is Saturday.

He’s even more grateful for this when he’s awoken in the early morning by a yelp. Indrid, who was a moment ago on his side, asleep, is now being dragged across the floor to where the swirling mass of Duck’s true form is gathering in the center of the room. Even seeing it dozens of times, Joseph’s brain rebels at defining the shape as anything more general than “big” and “covered in bioluminescent patches to act as eyes.” At least he can tell that Indrid isn’t being dragged as he first thought; a tendril of green has his ankle, but he’s being spirited towards Duck by a carpet of small, purple flowers.

“I, I thought you said you wouldn’t need this kind of, of intensitEEP” Indrid squirms as his clothes are thrown to the other side of the room, “for a few weeks, when, when spring started in earnest and brought your energy with it.”

“That’s how it’s happened every year for longer than anyone can remember. But this year, you’re here, sugar. You put more energy into me just from cuddlin’ yesterday than I’d normally gather in a month. Which means I’m fuckin’ ravenous and it’s time for my little offering to do his job.”

Indrid moans, body fully off the ground in the vines sprouting from the floor and ceiling. Reality bends and cracks so abruptly that Joseph gets a headache. Then Duck’s human form is standing their, studying Indrid.

“You ready for this?”

“Yes, yesyes, Duck please”

The god takes Indrid’s face in his hands, and for a moment everything, even the air, is still. Joseph wonders what Duck is looking for, if he sees things in Indrid Joseph’s human eyes will never perceive.

Even tied up, Indrid manages to lean forward and kiss Duck. When he pulls back, the god’s smile is achingly human in its affection.

Then Indrid cries out as a tendril pushing into his ass, the noise muffled as another finds his mouth. Some of the plant matter pulls him to his knees, bright red flowers spreading out around him as another vine circles his dick and a fourth begins twining up his body.

To Joseph’s surprise, Duck’s attention shifts to him.

“Now, if I recall correctly, city boy, I ain’t shown you all my dicks just yet.”

“I, I cataloged five so far” His tongue is sticking in his mouth and his sleep pants are already a mess. As Duck prowls towards him, he seems to become more solid, more real, with every step.

“Clothes off. Now.”

Joseph obeys as thin, flexible tree branches extend from the wall to fasten his collar in place. Duck manhandles him into his lap, facing Joseph away from him, vines spinning Indrid to face them at the same time.

The scene across from makes any porn he’s seen look tamer than a Disney kiss. It’s as if all the plant life emerging from Duck’s renewed energy is reaching for Indrid, leaves forming into hands to pull his head back, vines working his cock, binding his thighs to the ground, and tugging at his nipple piercings, while the main two fuck him so deeply it’s as if they’re trying to touch inside him. Tears are coming down Indrid’s cheeks and he’s thrashing with every thrust.

“Duck? Is, can you tell if he’s alright?”

Hands the temperature of sun-warmed dirt slip around his waist to caress his chest and stomach, “Yeah, darlin, I can. I’ll feel if he needs to stop before he even has a chance to say it.” A kiss on his cheek, gardenia tickling his nose, “thanks for lookin out for him. You want me to show you somethin’ new?”

“Yes, please.”

The head of the cock slides in so suddenly he doesn’t get a chance to look at it. Staring down, he can only see the base, which resembles a hibiscus flower in shape and color. Rather than pushing into him, the base cups his body, and the “petals” begin undulating, stroking his cock and folds deliciously. The cock inside him feels pretty plain, though now and then it seems to ripple.

“I gonna get to get in on the action?”

Joseph’s head snaps up to find Barclay idly stroking his cock as he watches Indrid.

The vines holding Indrid shove him forward, offering Barclay a much better view of his ass as Duck says, “you can have as much of Joe as you want. But just for today, ‘Drid is all mine.”

“Got it.” Barclay stands, “not like it’s a bummer to just fuck you, blue eyes.” A short, thick, rounded cock bumps his mouth, “open up baby.”

Joseph takes the cock into his mouth, the tightly packed bumps on it already each moving on their own. It’s a wonderful, novel feeling on his tongue and he sucks happily as little growls come from above him. The pressure on his own dick changes, speeding up and pushing him towards his orgasm. He tries to pull off and say this, but Duck holds his head in place, forcing him to keep the cock in his mouth.

“I know city boy, I can tell you’re close. I’m glad you’re havin’ fun, but you cummin’ ain’t what stops this.”

He whimpers happily and surrenders to his orgasm. He can’t see Indrid anymore, but Duck seems to have stopped fucking this throat, and desperate, ecstatic moans are coming from just out of sight.

“Mmmm, forgot how good you feel, city boy.”

He finds Duck’s hands and squeezes them, snickering when flowers follow the path of his thumbs.

“That’s it, fuck, you both feel so fuckin good, I’m, I’m gonna-” There’s a grunt like a tree groaning in the wind and then something bursts from the cock inside him, hundreds of disctint sensations, all buzzing. The portion on the outside of his body doesn’t let up in the slightest, and the shaft inside begins not only expanding but pulsing.

“Feel that?” Duck growls in his ear, “told you I had one that had seeds that’d fill you up and get you off at the same time. But that ain’t all” another pulse and Duck purrs, “y’know what it’s doin?”

Joseph manages to shake his head.

“It’s trying to keep ‘em all in and push ‘em as deep as they can go.” A hand slides to Joseph’s stomach, “heard all kinds of stories about humans gettin’ bred by gods like us.”

Words like that would bother him with anyone else, but Duck’s grasp of human genders is shaky at best, and he knows this doesn’t change how his boyfriend sees him. Also that Duck, would never actually do something like that without seriously checking with him first.

So he surrenders to the fantasy, spreading his legs wider to feel the base of the cock widen to keep everything in.

“Fuck, you like that blue eyes?” Barclay groans, “then once Duck is done I oughta have a turn. See if I can make it so all you can do is burrow up with me and let me take care of you.”

“Good thinking. We’ll both try today. Whoever’s takes, the other guy will get to put the next one in him. Not, not like I can’t make this cabin big as we need it to be.”

Barclay cums down Joseph’s throat, and the sensation is so overwhelming combined with the way Duck is fucking him that Joseph cums again, certain he’s squirted as well.

“Fuck yeah” Duck holds him down as the cock pushes deeper, “see, your body wants us to know just how bad you want this.”

“Yes” he gasps, Barclay holding his face up so he can watch him come apart, “yes, god please”

“Your wish is my command, darlin.” Duck moans and another wave of cum pulses into him, then another, and another, the vibrations finding all the right spots inside him and he cums a third time, helplessly crying out as Barclay tells him he was made for this.

Then Duck pulls out and waves of something faintly blue drip down Joseph’s legs as Barclay cleans him and bundles him up into the bed. Indrid is limp in the vines, cum noticeable on the floor, and Duck scoops him up to carry him over, whispering all the while about how much he loves him, how amazing he is, how he’ll always take care of him.

As Indrid curls against him, Joseph murmurs, “Was that okay? They didn’t ignore you for my sake?”

His boyfriend smiles weakly, “First, pet, do not underestimate how much I enjoy seeing you ruined. But more importantly, Duck was with me, too. A benefit of his nature, I would say.”

“No kidding.” Joseph kisses him softly as Duck and Barclay cuddle up with them, the whole house moving to prepare them breakfast and clean the floor. And when Joseph steps outside after a long nap, he finds the entire structure covered in spring blooms.

#monster march #OT4: Government Men and Their Cryptid Boyfriends #indruck #sternclay #inclay #agent stern/duck newton #trans agent stern #agent stern/Indrid Cold #terato #monster boyfriend #human/monster romance

10 notes · View notes

argiopi · 3 years ago

Photo

@scribbleshanks and I have been developing this.

have a first contact concept?

Hollow is kinda late teenage-equivalent[?] here, since I think they’d be a pretty different person if they had opportunity for a friend support system? stressor? since they were very young, but I also couldn’t place it too close to the sealing because when one person is conditioned to be so extremely reticent it takes a long time for bonds to form.

The collector was constructed later than other kingsmoulds, as part of a batch of replacements for destroyed ones, and has.. maybe, a flaw in the armor-shell that binds the void and is meant to inhibit them. They’re kind of astute in an oblivious way. You know, the kind of observant nature that makes you able to find 46 obscure niches to stow grubs in, without the bare minimum social wisdom to understand that you should not steal children. A piercing fool. hey, the vessel must be pretty upset about its future! <- has not grasped that the vessel is also meant to maintain stoicism.

And this is the first time that someone has acknowledged the extant emotional status of the hollow knight.

#void besties #<-that's the tag right?#my art #comic #thk #collector #TUMBLR COMPRESSION FUCKED UP MY DITHERING NOOOOOO #IT WAS A PURE 50% DITHER AHHHHHH #*clenches fist* vessels cannot be pure. dithering cannot be pure.#me trying to draw this with haste. increasing effort per panel. oops #I Have Too Many Drawings Of Them Help #many thoughts have occurred. some visualized. some not (yet?)#realized this is a good introductory one to post lmfao. so i'm not just [dumps without context]#stay uh... stay tuned.....#fellas what do you do when you try to show compassion to someone and they react like a wild animal that's never had a #hand offered to them before but they are also trying very hard to not show fear but you can tell in the tension of their posture #that this is a Very Deliberate neutral position #anyway is it just me or are the white plants in the WP / etc kinda glowy? you think they rooted into soul or something?#...fellas what do you do when one of the even-more-lifeless-than-you void constructs that you've been shredding your whole life #picks some flowers and sees right through the facade that will end your life if it falters?#Well That's Awkward!#font is pixAntiqua. I like it :)

2K notes · View notes

silhouetteofacedar · 4 years ago

Text

Fox Mulder, Closet Romantic Ch. 4: Man Pouts on Couch

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated E

Mulder is not feeling lucky.

In hindsight, he should have suspected something was off today; Scully kept looking at her watch.

It’s Friday, March 13th, and he thought it’d be cute to invite Scully out for a drink again, make a little joke about it becoming a Friday the 13th tradition. This could work, he thinks. His plan is simple; ask her out every once in a while, for some reason or another, with the intention of eventually coming clean and setting up a proper date.

At five o’clock he stands up and stretches with performative nonchalance. “Buy you a drink, Scully?” he asks, cocking his head towards the calendar pinned to the office wall, surrounded by newspaper clippings and grainy photos.

She pauses with her arm halfway into the sleeve of her coat. “I…” She falters and presses her lips together, looking suddenly guilty.

“What is it?” he asks quietly, a pit growing in his stomach.

“I’d love to, Mulder, but I actually have a date tonight.”

The earth stops spinning and Mulder is thrown off balance, hurtling through the atmosphere.

“Oh,” he says softly. “That doctor guy?”

Scully nods, not meeting his gaze. “His name is Mark,” she says. “We’re getting sushi.” She looks up at him then, big blue eyes soft. “A rain check?” she asks hopefully.

She owns him; one look like that and he’d sell his soul to buy her a cup of shitty coffee. “Sure. Another time, then,” Mulder says, gathering up every scrap of composure he has left, patching together a smile for her. “Have fun.”

He goes home and throws himself face down onto the couch.

She has a date. A real date, with a presumably mentally stable human man with a high-value job. And a daughter. A ready-made family, just add water and stir. This Mark guy probably calls her Dana, asks her how her mother’s doing, feeds her bits of sashimi with no threat of aliens or shadow governments in sight. Maybe he’ll kiss her at the end of the night, softly with closed lips like a gentleman.

What stings the most is the fact that this Doctor Mark had the balls to tell Scully outright that he’s interested in her romantically, something Mulder has yet to do.

Mulder knows he should eat, but his stomach is churning and the idea of food sickens him. He’s being dramatic and irrational; it’s just one date. But the implications are weighty, the potential enormous.

He feels bad for being upset. This is good for her; she needs to get out of the basement, connect with other rational people, find some normalcy and balance in her life.

You need those things too, he hears her say in his head.

He brushes it aside. It’s different for him; he created this life for himself. He’s a collapsed star, a black hole of conspiracy and paranoia that sucks in everything that gets too close. The last thing he wants is for her to get lost in his darkness, swallowed by the void like some interstellar debris.

She’d told him that night in Rock Creek Park that she does’t blame him for what’s happened to her, but that doesn’t assuage his guilt. He carries the weight of what she calls her choices, a load she has no intention of sharing with him, awaiting no acknowledgement or thanks.

He’s doing it to himself.

Mulder whiles away the hours on the couch, gazing up at the constellations of pencil marks on his ceiling, tossing his basketball above his head. He drops it on his face twice.

He knows it’s probably only going to make him feel worse, but he’s a glutton for punishment; so at eleven-thirty that night he picks up the phone and calls Scully.

He waits for her to answer, his heart sinking lower with each ring. She’s not picking up. Is she still out? he thinks anxiously. The guy has a kid, so it’s unlikely that they’d stay out too late unless he’s arranged it with his babysitter…

“Hello?” Scully’s slightly husky voice cuts through his thoughts.

“Scully,” he says, tentative relief creeping into his body.

“Mulder, what is it?” she asks. “It’s late. For normal people, anyway. Are you alright?”

“‘M’ fine,” he assures he. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

He hears her hum in understanding. Late night phone calls between them aren’t uncommon, after all. “Have you tried counting sheep?” she asks, not unkindly. “Or slowing your breathing down, focusing on the cadence of inhales and exhales like I showed you?”

He’s wide awake, sitting upright on his couch, still in the slacks and wrinkled button-down he wore to the office that day. “Yes,” he lies. “It’s not helping. There’s too much going on in my head right now.”

“You work too much,” she says gently. “And yet not enough, when deadlines are involved. We’ve got an impressive paperwork backlog-”

“Can we not talk about work right now?” He reaches down and unties his shoes. “Otherwise I’ll never get to sleep.”

“Right.” There’s rustling on her end. She’s in bed, he realizes.

“Did I wake you, Scully?” he asks, trying to hide his surprise.

“It’s fine, Mulder, I was only dozing,” she replies.

“Oh, how was the date?” he asks, as though it only just occurred to him, instead of being the only thing he’s thought about all night.

“It was nice,” she responds, and he drops his head onto the back of the couch in defeat. Shit. Shit shit shit shit-

“We talked about medicine, about cancer, loss. His daughter’s name is Amanda,” she continues. “Her mother - his wife - died when Mandy was only two, so he’s mostly raised her alone.”

“That’s rough,” Mulder says softly. Please don’t make me feel bad for this guy, Scully, I can’t bear it, he thinks.

“Mhm,” she agrees. “And his work at the hospital is pretty grueling, so his mother helps out a lot. I… I told him about Emily.”

“How’d that go?” Mulder asks, concerned. “It’s not the most… plausible-sounding story.”

“I was vague,” she replies. “All I really said was that I had recently reconnected with a child I’d been separated from, right before she died. He didn’t ask for details; he could probably tell it was a fresh wound.”

They’re silent for a moment.

“Do you think you’ll see him again?” Mulder asks quietly. Somehow he already knows what she’s going to say, and he braces himself for the sting of her words as they pierce his heart.

“I… I think I will,” Scully says, sounding distant. “I mean, it’s worth a shot, right?”

She deserves this. She deserves a chance at something ordinary, safe, comfortable.

“Maggie Scully didn’t raise a quitter,” he says with a watery smile she’ll never see.

She chuckles. “No, I suppose she didn’t,” Scully muses. He hears her yawn. “I’m tired out, Mulder. Think you can sleep now?”

“I’ll try,” he says. He’s surprised to feel his eyes beginning to burn with unshed tears. “Thanks for talking to me,” he adds.

“Anytime. Sleep well,” she says warmly, and the line goes dead.

He supposes he brought this on himself by keeping his feelings hidden. He waited too long, playing it safe. He wanted to gauge her feelings before he made any overt moves, and someone else beat him to it.

It’s just one date. But there’s going to be more. By the sound of it, she wants there to be more.

There’s no way he’s going to sleep well tonight.

He’s in a sour mood when he’s summoned to the Gunmen’s… den? lair? headquarters? the next afternoon, by way of one of their patented cryptic phone calls.

Byers unfastens the dozen locks on the door and lets him inside. “Mulder,” he says, ushering him in. “Good to see you.”

Mulder flops down in a rickety desk chair, exhaustion permeating his muscles. “I’m not up for being social today, boys,” he warns. “You said you had information for me?”

“We took the liberty of looking into Agent Scully’s new… uh, friend,” Byers says.

“For safety reason,” Langly adds, seeing Mulder’s lips purse.

“She’s precious cargo,” Frohike says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“How did you find him?” Mulder asks. “I didn’t even know his first name until yesterday.”

“Don’t insult us with your surprise,” Frohike mutters. “We’re experts.”

“We knew he’s a part of the parish Scully attends-“ Byers begins.

“And we knew he’s an ER doc, has a 6 year old daughter, and a dead wife,” Langly cuts in. “That’s plenty to go on.”

“I don’t need to know more than that,” Mulder says, suddenly feeling guilty. “It’s not my business.”

“Maybe not, but we have the info,” Frohike says. “Look, all you need to know is that he seems legit. Name’s Einolander, if you were curious.”

“I wasn’t,” Mulder lies, taking a sunflower seed out of his pocket and biting it pensively.

“Of course not,” Byers says, sounding completely unconvinced.

“You alright, Mulder?” Langly asks. “You look rough.”

“Of course he does,” Frohike hisses in the least subtle whisper of all time. “Scully’s dating someone that’s not him. Cut the guy some slack.”

“You guys don’t know shit,” Mulder grumbles, then backtracks, running his hands over his face. “I’m sorry. I, uh... didn’t sleep well.”

“It’s okay, man,” Langly says.

Frohike nods sagely. ”We know how you feel about her. This can’t be easy for you.”

Mulder wilts in his chair. “How did you know?” he asks pathetically, realizing the jig is up. Has he really been so obvious this whole time? Fucking hell.

“Look, knowing things is our business,” Byers explains. “And we know you. We’ve been around the block with you a few times, and nobody’s meant this much to you. Not even Diana.”

“Plus, Agent Scully is a smokeshow, and you have eyes,” Frohike adds. Byers gives him a jab with his elbow. “Hey, I stand by that,” he declares, rubbing his arm.

“Well thanks anyway, fellas,” Mulder says, standing. “I should get going. The walls in my apartment won’t stare at themselves.”

“Do you want the file we put together on the guy?” Byers asks. “We can make copies.”

Mulder shakes his head. “Keep it. Draw a mustache on his photo or something.” He picks up his coat and slings it over his shoulder. “You kids have fun.”

“If you need anything, just flag us down,” Frohike says, patting Mulder’s back before unlatching the door.

Mulder steps out the door, then turns back. “How old is this guy?”

“Forty-one,” Byers says, flipping through the file. “Five-foot-ten, dark blond hair, brown eyes. Blood type-”

Mulder holds up a hand. “I don’t want to know. Bye, guys.”

He gets a petty, juvenile satisfaction from the fact that he’s two inches taller and four years younger than Dr. Einolander. It’s short-lived, but at this point he’ll take what he can get.

Because he can’t get Scully.

#my fic #txf fic #msr #xfiles #fox mulder closet romantic #fmcr #OH SHIT YALL THE ANGST TRAIN IS PULLING INTO THE STATION #had to do it to em

86 notes · View notes

couchpotatoaniki · 4 years ago

Text

One Year ❣︎ One: Holidays Aren’t For Drama

Chapter Summary: San has finally found you after five years of searching, and he wants you for himself--though not knowing how to do it just yet. In the meantime, you’re having fun hanging out with a friend on the plane to Jeju.

Pairing: Mafia!San x Fem!Reader Genre: Mafia AU, fluff, angst, eventual smut, lotta crack and stupid shit ngl Chapter warnings: swearing, stalking Word count: 1.2k+ A 365 Days parody

Previous: Prologue For the rest of the series, click here

Speech in bold means they’re talking in Korean

Speech in italics is whatever the reader wants their native langue to be that’s not Korean or English

Speech without either means they’re talking in English

You were glad that you were sat next to Yunho on the plane since you needed good vibes that your boyfriend couldn’t really give you. Too sucked up in his own life, which make him the worst person to sit next to Yeosang.

Thankfully, Dominic was terrified of the boy so he was silently scrolling through his phone. That left Mingi to annoy poor Seonghwa the whole trip.

“Oh, you bitch,” Yunho mumbled, picking up four cards from the deck beside him. To pass the time, you and the tall boy decided to play a game of Uno.

Chuckling, you threw down a yellow 2. effectively ending the round. “You know, for someone of your profession, you’re really shit at cards.”

“Maybe because I’m playing against your devious ass.”

“You love my devious ass, don’t lie.” Scoffing, he gathered the cards and began to shuffle them before you ripped them from his hands. “Oh hell no. I know for a fact you’re gonna rig it.”

“I tried last time, and you still won,” he huffed, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair before using the other to take the deck again.

Yunho wasn’t really your friend to begin with. More so Mingi’s, but that had not stopped the two of you becoming just as close. Seonghwa and Yeosang too; you had meet them through the sweet-hearted boy, and all three had quickly become an addition to your short list of loved ones.

In fact, out of the six of you, Dominic was the odd one out.

He didn’t know the secrets you shared, the things you did without his knowledge. Nothing that would directly harm your relationship, no.

To add to that, the five of you were like a family, looking out for each other, and the boys weren’t very font of the guy you had chosen to date.

Then again, compared to the last one, Dominic was much better.

Every year, the boys and you had decided to treat this time as a holiday away from the all the work you do, to treat yourselves for living another year. So you all splurged out and did something big.

How you chose the destination was fairly simple; one of you would throw a dart at a map of the world--blindfolded, obviously--and wherever it landed, you all went there.

It’s what led to the fun cruise in the Pacific the previous trip, and this part of Korea for this current one.

Though, Jeju was one of the places on your bucket list. You were more than excited to go and sight-see. Already, you do plenty of that for your job but never really get the chance to stop and pay attention.

To relax with friends and have fun.

You were going to Jeju for leisure purposes.

San was going to Jeju for you.

Yes, he was originally going there for work, to deal with a bit of business that had gone awry. But then he saw you, quickly crossing the road, from his vehicle.

Decided to follow you, see where you were going and with whom.

At first, he was a little pissed to know that you were travelling with five men, you being the only woman. Most likely scenario, one of them was your boyfriend.

But that information had no longer mattered, because you were going to Jeju. On the same flight as him.

San didn’t like to admit in believing in fate, but if that wasn’t it, he didn’t know what would be.

Hongjoong--who was stood beside him in the middle of the airport by now--was concerned over his strange behaviour. Even the slightest shift that seemed out of the ordinary, he immediately became suspicious.

That’s why San knew it was stupid to try and lie to him.

When he pointed out to you, telling him to look, it only took the older boy a few seconds for him clock on. “You’re shitting me...”

“I’m not, Joong. She’s here. She’s really here.”

“San,” the now-blue-haired boy began, trying not to draw any unnecessary attention, “look at me. You can’t. It was five years ago, and not to mention, you’re already with--”

Shoving his hands off his shoulders, the mafia boss glared at his second-in-command. “You don’t even like Dae anyway!”

No, Hongjoong hated that crazy woman to his very core. She was bad for his friend, but the boy was too caught up in filling the hole you somehow managed to carve to even care.

Had it been any other, the short man would have let San do his thing, but his current girlfriend was one of the heirs to a rather big mafia herself. Being with her involved politics, and being with her for nearly five years brought more trouble than you were worth.

But Hongjoong knew that San wouldn’t listen to him. Not when he’s like this.

The only thing he could do now was damage control.

The two males--San mainly--had stalked the six of you, deducing who meant what to you. Didn’t like how cosy you were with either of them, but specifically disliked the guy who had his hand wrapped around your waist.

Then there was the other guy, one of the really tall ones, with black hair--streaks of green and grey running through it--and a loud voice. Party animal, the two thought. He was particularly close to you too, sending playful hits that were definitely reciprocated. Hopefully, he was just a friend...

The other tall guy--the blonde one, with puppy-like eyes--seemed more reserved yet somehow still as energetic.

Next tallest was s black-haired fella. Clean and lean--smart-looking, with soft (but somehow sharp) eyes.

Finally, the last guy. The one who rarely spoke, with a silvery grey mullet that surprisingly complimented his pale skin. There was something about him that Hongjoong couldn’t pin down. Something familiar...

The most obvious odd thing was how you and your supposed ‘boyfriend’ were of a different ethnicity to the other four. Confirmed when the two men overheard you speaking in a completely different language neither of them were used to.

“Fuckin’ language barrier,” San grunted as he realised there was yet another obstacle in his way.

“Fuckin’ good-lookin’ people,” Hongjoong laughed, scanning the six of you.

Being in business class was usually a comfortable experience, but right now was the most excruciating thing possible for both of them. San constantly bombarded the elder with questions and worries about you.

Couldn’t even send Hongjoong back there since his newly-dyed electric blue hair would have captured too much attention. “What’s the point of you if I can’t even get you to spy on people,” the younger huffed. “Dye your hair back to black when we get to the villa.”

“Oh, shut up,” Hongjoong spat with gritted teeth, already beyond annoyed with the man’s behaviour. “That’s not even my job. And you come at me with having unusual hair, but you look like Frankenstein’s Bride with that lock of white with the rest being black.”

Groaning, San looked at the entrance of the business area, hoping for some other miracle to occur and you would peer out. Desperation filled him, wanting to see you again. Etch your newer features into his mind once more.

“Who do you think those other guys were? Her boyfriend’s friends? Her friends? Colleagues?”

“Probably her friends, since they all seemed pretty close to her.”

“Ugh.” San buried his face in his hands, still not liking the sound of that.

“It’s the 21st century, dude. Girls can be friends with guys--and that girl is friends with those guys. Get used to it.”

“Don’t wanna,” San mumbled, puffing out his cheeks as Hongjoong narrowed his eyes at his tantrum.

“Listen, dude, you can’t confine and control her. Doing that’s only gonna push her away--if you’re actually serious in pursuing her.”

“Of course I’m serious!”

“Then you need to plan this out carefully. And you need to think of it fast, since I doubt they’ll be in Jeju for long."

The younger male scoffed, running his tongue against the inside of his cheek as his confidence grew and cogs in his brain began moving. “Don’t worry, I’ll definitely come up with something.”

Sighing, Hongjoong looked out of the window, into the peaceful, empty ocean they flew above. What exactly had he done?

☕︎ Tag list: @little-precious-baby , @sparklychangbin ,

113 notes · View notes

imagining-in-the-margins · 5 years ago

Text

Here to Misbehave (Pt. 14 | S.R.)

Summary: Separated and terrified, Spencer and Reader rely on their unique skills to survive. The team, minus Penelope and Derek, don’t know who the strange girl in the bank is, but they find out very interesting things about her history.

A/N: I don’t know how banks work. Idk how heists work. I know nothing. I hope you enjoy it anyway! Couple: Spencer/Fem!Reader   Category: ANGST. Just. All of it. All of the angst. Every bit.   Content Warning: Gun violence, discussions of death and dying Word Count: 10k

MASTERLIST

—————————————————

“Hello, my name is (y/n)(y/l/n) and I’m calling from the Bank of America on K St. Northwest to report shots fired. The shots sounded like burst-fire from multiple semiautomatics.”

When adrenaline kicks in, there are a lot of things that don’t feel real. Time seems to warp into some ominous presence weighing down on you, but your body has never felt lighter.

“Ma’am, where are you?” Her voice sounded so far away. My own just felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else entirely.

“I’m inside the bathroom. Listen, I might not have a lot of time. There’s a federal agent inside the bank. His name is SSA Dr. Spencer Reid with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. Call...”

My mouth blanked on the names of the two men Spencer talked about the most. I’d met them both, why couldn’t I remember?

Several more shots rang through the building as an answer. It was enough to shake loose the names, which flowed from me before I could even comprehend where they came from.

“Call SSA Aaron Hotchner and… Derek Morgan.”

“Can you remain on the line?” She sounded insistent — which is against their protocol by the way. My eyes were glued to the bathroom door’s hinges.

“Only until the door opens.”

The sentence conveyed my thoughts without actually forming the words. Once that door opens, I’m probably going to die. It wasn’t a completely irrational fear.

“Okay. I need you to remain calm. Did you see any of the gunmen?”

Jesus, it was like everything I’d just told her had gone completely over her head. “No, I’m in the bathroom.”

“Does the agent have his service weapon?”

“No.”

If she didn’t ask me a question I could say yes to soon, I was going to lose my fucking mind.

I tried not to think about Spencer outside, but I couldn’t help it. All of my thoughts were on him, even before the commotion.

Was he even still alive?

“Help is on the way, Ms. (Y/l/n).”

“Please hurry.”

My entire body shook from the hormones, my instincts telling me to do anything besides sit crouched on a toilet in a bathroom stall. I don’t even know why I bothered hiding. They would definitely kick them in, or just shoot straight through the doors.

“We’ve contacted Agent Hotchner and he’s also on his way.”

Finally, some good fucking news. I released my breath as quietly as I could, closing my eyes for just a moment to compensate for the fact I hadn’t blinked in several minutes.

“Thank you,” I whispered, clutching the phone like it could actually do something for me past this point. But it couldn’t. No amount of breathing exercises would help me through this one.

Suddenly, there was movement outside the door. A crowd of people were shuffling past the door, and I heard the distinct sound of a toddler wailing.

“I have to go.”

“Wait, don’t hang up—“

I couldn’t wait, though. With trembling hands, I erased the evidence that I’d ever called them in the first place. And then I resumed my position as a sitting duck; quietly and as ready as I ever could be.

I listened for his voice, but I never heard it.

—————————————————

Three seconds.

Did you know that a semiautomatic weapon can fire up to three rounds per second, depending on how fast the user can pull the trigger?

After the first shot is fired, no one moves. Puzzled and alert, people are paralyzed. Your first reaction is to look for the source of the sound. It’d been a second before I turned to see the three armed people and two dead security guards behind me.

It takes the average person one and a half seconds to cognitively process that they're in a potentially life-threatening situation. It takes another .7 seconds for a physical response to kick in.

Three seconds.That was long enough for a maximum of nine shots per person to be fired- twenty-seven shots in total; it was long enough for the air to be filled with the sudden outburst of helpless screams the patrons of the bank, and it was long enough for me to realize that I didn’t have my gun and that my girlfriend wasn’t by my side.

“Everybody get down on the ground!”

Amid the chaos, I felt that all too familiar twisting sensation in my gut that begged time to reverse just enough for this to be a dream. Enough time to reverse the decisions that led us here.

But time was a cruel mistress, and she did not plan to bend to the whims of mankind, no matter how desperate.

Another deafening burst of sound rang through the air, shots fired into the ceiling now as myself and the others fell to the ground.

My gaze was fixed on the bathroom entrance. I couldn’t breathe. Please, I begged, stay hidden.

“Listen up! If everyone does what we say, you can all go back to your boring fucking lives.”

Injuries occur in less than two percent of bank robberies. Deaths occur in less than one. Saturdays are the second to least likely day for a robbery to take place. In the past 5 years, less than 10 people have been killed in bank robberies, and most of them were the perpetrators. Statistics usually calmed me down and helped me focus.

But these people didn’t care about statistics. They were defying the odds I had just recited to myself. They had already killed two people. Our luck was already stacked against us.

“Take everything out of your pockets and put it in front of you.”

As soon as the order was given, I was running through an inventory of everything in my pockets. It didn’t take me long to realize that with a cursory inspection of the items, they would figure out who I was.

But what were the odds that they would actually scrutinize them? I figured they were fairly low; you don’t rob a bank to get cheap jewelry and petty cash, even in a bank. What were the odds they would notice if I left something in my pocket — especially if my wallet was in front of me. If it wasn’t large enough to be a weapon, and I put out my objects of value, why wouldn’t I put out the rest of the contents?

So I decided to take the risk, removing my wallet while retaining my separate identification.

Luckily, the attention seemed pretty far removed from me. If I wasn’t too busy being extremely grateful, I might have been offended that they didn’t consider me a threat in the building.

“Alright ladies, all of you get up and follow my lovely friend here. You’re going on a little trip. Fellas, you stay right where you are.”

The sound of my heart pounding drowned out the instructions that weren’t intended for me. It was fine, I hadn’t planned on moving, anyway. As long as I could see the door to the bathroom, I was perfectly fine right where I was.

But I still felt for the terrified women that were shakily rising to their feet. To my right, I saw a woman struggling to hold a small infant. My heart was fracturing at the struggle, wishing I could help her. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk doing anything that might draw attention to myself.

I felt like a traitor. I felt useless. I was quite literally trained to handle this exact situation, but now that I was here, I couldn’t move. I wasn’t thinking about strategy or how to maximize efficiency; all I was thinking about was her.

“Jake!” A woman’s voice screamed from the other side of the room. When I turned, I heard the sound of a rifle cracking against bone before the man hit the ground.

“Jake, huh?” The man above him laughed, using the business end of the rifle to turn the disoriented man on his side. “Well, Jake, how would you feel about your girlfriend watching you die?”

“Please don’t hurt him!” The woman sobbed, scrambling up off the floor that she’d resisted leaving. I wondered if (y/n) would have refused to leave me, too.

The man prodded the woman with the gun, urging her to follow the rest while simultaneously providing easy enough instructions. The man apparently named Jake made a few noises of desperate protest as he watched her leave.

“Shut the fuck up!”

“I’m sorry,” Jake pleaded, “I’m sorry, please don’t hurt her. I’ll be quiet.”

Smart man. I understood his hesitancy, though. His girlfriend kept her neck craned back until she was no longer in sight, gazing back at him for as long as she physically could. I closed my eyes just for a moment, to try and combat their current strain.

Unfortunately, just like it always seems to happen, that’s when they spoke the words I had been dreading.

“Hey, you check the bathrooms yet?”

“Nah, I got it.”

I closed my eyes tighter now, scared that if I opened them, I’d give myself away. There was no possible way that I could hide the terror I currently felt. To be fair, I think it was only natural to be scared — but not like this.

There was a loud crashing noise of doors slamming, and the voice I knew better than I knew my own reached my ears, making sounds I’d never heard from her before.

Don’t fight them. I pleaded again, Please, don’t fight them.

“Let go of me!” She screamed as the door to the bathroom swung open. Unable to keep my eyes shut any longer, I opened them to see her clawing at the ground as she was dragged out by her ankle. “I can walk by myself! Let go of me!”

I wasn’t sure if she didn’t see me in the commotion, or if she’d just made the decision to act like she hadn’t. Either way, I was grateful. Still, my worries were justified as one of the three unsubs walked over to me.

“Why are you looking at her like that? You know her?”

Craning my head up, I shook my head no. It must not have been very convincing; the rage in my heart at them for thrusting her into this situation evident in my eyes.

“You wanna play hero, kid?”

“Sorry. No.” I muttered, taking a deep breath in a failed attempt to regulate my heart rate or my voice, “She’s… very loud. I get headaches.”

“Yeah well, deal with it.”

That might have been the end of it, if I’d played my hand better. But it turned out that the risk I had previously elected to take was woefully miscalculated. I didn’t meet their eyes anymore, knowing that doing so might threaten whatever frail illusion of masculinity they possessed.

It still didn’t stop them from holding the gun to my head.

“Empty your pockets.”

“Okay. I can do that, but I have to put my hand in my pocket.” I explained, moving my shaking hand to my back pocket, “It’s not a weapon.”

For once, I was grateful that I was the resident wimp when it came to stressful situations. Sure, I could handle myself, but I definitely didn’t look like I wanted to be there. Had I been any more of a visible threat, I was certain they would have figured out my identity long before this point. They might even have killed me right away.

“Hurry up.”

Swallowing hard, I pulled the identification from my pocket, flipping it open and holding it up for him to see, my gaze aimed fully forward. He snatched the badge away, a cheeky chuckle and a smile in his words.

“FBI, huh? Well, aren’t we lucky. You just became our most valuable player.”

—————————————————

Morgan arrived on the scene relatively unhurried and mostly just curious. The information Garcia had sent over text message was vague, likely due to the crime being a local one. Nothing about this seemed to be the BAU’s usual fare.

It took him almost no time to find Hotch, dressed in casual clothing, surrounded by the massive response team swarming around the bank. But Hotch hadn’t spotted him yet, fully involved with SWAT.

“What’s going on?”

Finally turning to notice his arrival, Hotch gave his normal matter-of-fact report in his simple, succinct manner. “Three people stormed the bank approximately 20 minutes ago and killed two security guards. There are 19 confirmed hostages inside the bank.”

But there was one significant detail that seemed to be missing, and Morgan started to scan the crowd for familiar faces as he spoke. “Hotch, this doesn’t sound like anything we’ve been working on. Why are we responding?”

“The caller alerted us that Reid is inside.”

The words were so unexpected that Morgan actually did a double take, his eyebrows furrowed and bowed as he replayed them in his head. “Wait, how did the caller know that?”

“I don’t know,” Hotch said with an equally perplexed look, gripping tighter to the communicator in his hand, “but she referred to us and him by name.”

‘She?’ Morgan thought, his heart stopping for a second as he excused himself from Hotch’s side, pulling out his phone and frantically calling Garcia, who had already made her way to the BAU.

“Hey there handsome.” It was a mild nickname for the famed Penelope Garcia, but Derek knew that she was probably already in a tough spot. After all, it’s not every day that one of their own is in these situations. At least, not unexpectedly.

“Hey Garcia, do you have eyes on the people in the bank?”

He could hear the feverish click-clacking of keys on the other end, followed closely by her equally frantic voice. “I’m working on it but so far I can only see the main lobby. They separated the women and the men for some reason. Why would they do that?”

“Just focus,” he calmly reminded, “Can you see the women?”

“No. All the women and children were moved to the back.”

Rubbing his face to try and relieve the tension that had quickly made its home over his jaw, Morgan glanced over at the entrance to the bank. It was strange to think that so much had happened so quickly.

Garcia had mentioned twice now that the women had been moved to the back, and he was trying to figure out why they would do that beyond the usual control mechanisms.

“I’m trying to see in the back now, but apparently banks take their video surveillance far more seriously than everything else. Last I checked, a camera never stole money or fired a gun!”

“Focus, babygirl.” It was an instruction for himself just as much as it was for her.

“Sorry, I’m nervous, and you know how I get when I’m nervous!” She squeaked, “I don’t like seeing you guys on my screens. I’d much rather see you in person, safe and sound and preferably smiling.”

Trying not to lose his patience, Morgan just sighed. It wasn’t her fault. It was no one’s fault, except that of the bastards who just had to go and ruin a perfectly nice weekend.

“Can you at least tell me who the caller was? Did they call from inside?”

“They were inside and, one second, let me check, it was... oh.” Her voice cut off abruptly, dropping into a high pitched, desperate whisper. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“It’s... the girl from the movies,” Garcia’s voice got faster and more panicked, “Derek, it’s (y/n). It’s Reid’s girlfriend. Reid’s girlfriend is inside the bank.”

Now that his suspicions had been confirmed, he wasn’t really sure what to do with the information. Because now that he knew Reid wasn’t alone, he felt the need to tell Hotch.

A profiler with a loved one involved was in dangerous territory. It wasn’t just Reid, but Morgan had personally seen just how unhinged Reid could get when it came to (y/n).

“Can you see her?” He asked, his voice lower than it was before.

“Oh, god, yes! I can!” It was not the kind of excited exclamation Morgan had hoped to hear, but at least he had confirmation she was alive. “She was in the bathroom but… They’re dragging her away…”

Morgan had tried not to pry too far in his best friend’s life before, and he took a moment to consider whether his next request was honestly necessary, or if he was just trying to find a reason to snoop.

But he wasn’t. There was something off about that girl. It wasn’t that she was bad or wrong, but she was far too comfortable in situations that didn’t call for it. The way she carried herself told him that she had held her own hand too often.

“Garcia, I know I’ve already done this to you once but... I need you to tell me everything you can find on her.”

—————————————————

My entire body ached; the sensation of an unfamiliar hand clenched tightly around my ankle burned long after I was released. It was definitely sprained, at the very least. I didn’t dare try to touch it, though. It wouldn’t be worth the trouble, and the bristling discomfort kept me where I was.

Which, for now was on my knees in the backroom of a bank lobby. Beside us was a large, heavily reinforced steel door with way too many different contraptions. I decided then that this whole arms race between burglars and corporate America had gotten a little fucking ridiculous.

But however annoyed I was by that, I was far more irritated by the hushed bickering between the man and woman holding rifles on the other side of the room. I could only hear every couple of words, but I got the gist of what they were arguing about.

Apparently, they’d never heard of an alarm system that’s connected to locks, which seemed extremely stupid for people who had gotten this far. In hindsight, that should have been my first clue that something was off about this entire situation.

Still, I couldn’t deal with them making the same fucking arguments over and over, so eventually I blurted out what I’m certain any millennial in the room would know. “The keycard won’t work if they’ve sounded the alarm.”

The statement earned me a gun to my face, and after a brief second of confusion, I flinched away from the cold metal of the barrel.

“What was that, sweetheart?” She was clearly looking to gauge my reaction rather than actually ask me to repeat the information. That was fine. I wasn’t exactly a talented actress, and I didn’t see the point in pretending to be meek.

If she was going to kill me, she was going to do it. Although I was certain Spencer would disagree, I chose to believe that our fate is dictated long before it happens. I was not a profiler; if I survived, it would be because I had been taught to survive through brute force and spite rather than calm negotiation.

“The keycard system is linked to the alarms,” I said, slower now, “Someone hit the alarm, so the cards aren’t going to work. You’ll need to use the old school keys.”

Her eyes narrowed, her voice dropping to a much lower register as she crouched down to my height. “How would you know? You work here?”

“No, my dad worked security.” It wasn’t a lie as much as it was an understatement, but she didn’t need to know that. I guess that’s one of those good things growing up with the dad I did; I got very comfortable speaking in vague generalities. Spencer hated it.

“Well, your daddy isn’t here to help you now.”

Wasn’t that the damn truth. But that didn’t mean I was alone, I reminded myself. Despite being dragged and my vision turned literally upside down, I had caught a glimpse of him in the lobby. He was alive. That thought alone was keeping me sane right now.

“The different keys you need for an override are probably kept on separate people so one person can’t do it alone. Probably the different managers.” I muttered, nodding to the side where one of the employees flinched at my words. Anything to get away from the fucking gun in my face.

“Is she right?” The woman sneered to the manager, turning her full attention to someone else. I felt a little guilty, since the poor manager seemed a lot less put together than I was. But hey, they needed her, too.

“Yes, I already gave you my keys,” she squeaked, holding her trembling hands up, “Th-There’s another set behind the desk I think.”

“Would you look at that...” It was the first time the man in the room addressed me since he had pulled me out of the stall, and I had to admit I wasn’t exactly a fan of his. But at the same time, I knew that he was going to be remarkably more receptive to me than the woman. She seemed to be the one who was actually in charge.

“Little miss problem was actually helpful,” he cheered, raising his weapon to point to the ceiling as he approached me. I chewed nervously on my cheeks, trying to meet his eyes but finding them uncomfortably bare.

“You should turn off the camera too, I’m just saying.” This time I didn’t nod, using one cautious finger to point to the small device that was currently staring right at me. I understood that it was probably helpful to Spencer’s team to be able to see, but I wasn’t really keen on my death being videotaped... as well as anything else I might end up doing.

‘Never leave a trace.’ That’s what I’d always heard.

‘Keep’em guessing. Even if you think it’s gonna kill you, because you don’t want to live with that over your head.’

“Fine. Do that and go get the keys.” He sounded intrigued, and I felt his searing gaze against my face.

“I think you should do it.”

The tension from before, when the two were arguing, had quickly resurfaced. She clearly didn’t trust him to be alone in the room, which solidified my belief that she was calling the shots, and he was just being dragged along for the ride.

In another life, I might have respected her ability to order stupid men around.

“Why the fuck is that?” He snapped, earning a bored roll of her eyes. The next thing out of her mouth was expected, but unfortunately the last thing I wanted to hear.

“I want to talk to her alone.”

Great. And naturally, her idea of ‘talking’ to me included weaponry. Using the end of the gun to tilt my head up to her, she gave a suspicious smile.

“Why are you helping us?”

“I want to go home.” It was my immediate and instinctual answer. It was the truth. I was helping them because I wanted to get the fuck out of here.

But you know, people expect everyone to have a squeaky-clean moral compass, so I decided to give a few more reasons.

“And I don’t give a shit about a massive corporate bank. I was just here to go to the bathroom– I don’t even have an account here.”

Maybe that was too many reasons, because just as her hesitance waned, it was back in full force. Shoving the barrel against my throat, she sneered, “I don’t believe you. You’re too comfortable with a gun in your face. You a cop, too?”

Cop?

I tilted my head to the side, baring more of my throat to her as I drawled, “Who’s a cop?”

For once, I was glad that Spencer had made such a point of reassuring me that he was not ‘a cop,’ because otherwise I’m certain the terror would have been obvious in my eyes. But for now, I could trust the numb apathy that was washing over me.

Please don’t be talking about Spencer. Please don’t know that. Good things never happened to law enforcement in situations like this. Hell, the two security guards had been dead in seconds.

“I think you know.” She was smiling, and I realized that this fucking psychopath was sharper than she wanted me to think.

“I don’t.” The words were said through clenched teeth, and I prayed that she would see them as insistent anger over the fear that lie beneath them, “And why would you kill me if I was helping you?”

She smiled, drawing the weapon up and down my throat until it landed lower at my chest. The movements were slow and light, a playful glint in her eyes when they met mine again.

“For fun.”

I didn’t move a muscle, my body remaining tense under her ministrations as I forced myself to hold my gaze steady. If she wanted fear, she wouldn’t get it from me.

“Then do it.”

The look she gave me told me she had seriously considered it, probably a little annoyed with my presence. But there was something else there, too, that same soft recognition that in another reality we might have been friends. I’m sure she saw herself in me a little bit; or at least somebody useful.

This confirmed my suspicion that I’d never really be able to read a psychopath. I didn’t understand how Spencer could do it every day. It’d only been a few minutes alone with her and I could feel myself losing the happy memories of the day.

Luckily, the man returned at the same time I saw a plan developing in her mind.

“Hey, come help me,” he called to her. Her response was surprisingly swift, the metal that was tracing over my collar bones disappearing without another word. He was holding a small bag of money, which seemed to seriously irritate the woman.

“Did you get that money from behind the counter?” I asked it before she had a chance. I wanted him to trust me. Or at least look at me more. It wasn’t that I wanted his attention as much as I knew I could distract him fairly easily.

He looked over at me, a dumbfounded look on his face. Men are so fucking stupid, I thought. The pissed off expression on his partner’s face told me that she agreed.

“It’s going to explode if you mess with it or it leaves the area. Probably with tear gas. If you’re escaping in a car, you’re not gonna want it.”

“Yeah, we know about dye packs, bitch.” She snapped, grabbing the bag of money and tossing it to the side of the door they intended to use.

I stared at the locks they hadn’t even bothered trying to touch. The same locks they apparently didn’t look up or know anything about when they came. Suddenly it hit me why this all felt so very off.

It was strange enough that no one was wearing a mask, and as far as I’d heard, no one was really trying to get out of this situation. I was certain that by this point there was a large crowd of armored men outside.

“Just trying to help,” I muttered as I started to scan the room, looking for telltale signs of tampering. The anxious whispering of the man distracted me just long enough to get more information.

“Won’t that set off some shit? Chain reaction shit?”

“Shut the fuck up,” the woman responded with a swift elbow to his gut as she started to walk away, “you are an absolute moron.”

As soon as she was out of earshot, I heard the faint curses that fell from his lips. As he picked up the bag just to toss it away again, I noticed the presence of odd packages in the corner of the room. He really did not want exploding dye packs near those boxes, which seemed remarkably out of place.

“Why does she think she’s in charge?” I asked, finally ripping my eyes away from the objects that now seemed glaringly obvious. “You two guys outnumber her.”

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you.”

Relaxing my body as much as I could, I shifted back and forth on my knees, rubbing the tired muscles of my thighs. “I may have been told that once or twice.”

He actually chuckled; his eyes drawn to my legs like the absolute moron he so obviously was. She definitely had gotten that one right. The other women in the room were watching me, but I tried not to pay them any mind.

I didn’t know when or why they decided to let me do whatever I wanted, but I appreciated their apparent comfort in letting me try to kill myself. He made his way over to the boxes, each a specific size and shape. He carried them so carefully.

“I figure there’s no point in being scared if I’m going to die anyway.” I finally said. Shocked gasps and whispers filled the room, but I didn’t divert my attention to them– No matter how much I wanted to tell them to shut the fuck up.

They would distract me from the way his mouth curled into a smile when he closed the gap between us, his hand sliding down my head and over my shoulder to follow the braid Spencer had meticulously woven an hour before.

“How about you just shut up and sit pretty for me, sweetheart.” I tried not to let the disgust show as his hand slid behind my neck, holding my head so that I had to look up at him. “You seem like you’d be real good at that.”

Ha! If only Spencer could hear him say that. But I could play the good girl for just long enough.

“Do you need help?” I asked with a tiny shrug, “I might be little but I’m pretty strong.” Strong enough to break your fucking hand if you don’t get it off of me.

“Nah.” He ordered, his hand on my neck getting tighter. “But I don’t doubt that you could be useful. You look real good on your knees.”

My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might be visible through my ribs. I just needed an excuse to move. If he could give me an excuse to move, I could do so many things.

“Please let me help,” I begged, raising my hand to his forearm against my shoulder. His eyes began to shift, moving just enough to tell me that he wanted to look to the hallway. He could hear her footsteps, too. She was coming back, and I only had a few seconds left.

Once both of my hands were on his arm, I got the feeling he knew something even worse was coming for him.

“I’d love a chance to get to show you how helpful I really am.”

—————————————————

Hotch had spent the past five minutes on the phone with the male unsub in the lobby, and the conversation was going absolutely nowhere. For whatever reason, they just seemed to deflect any opportunity provided to them.

They didn’t seem to give a shit about anything beyond pushing the buttons of each person they interacted with. Which, they did quite successfully.

“Didn’t realize one pig would bring the whole flock of you here,” he laughed, clearly motioning to Spencer on the video, “How bad do you want him back?”

“What do you want?” He responded without hesitation or a surprise. It was such an expected question to ask that he’d barely even thought about his words before they came out.

“Easy. A chopper, and for you to fuck off.”

That was the equally stereotypical response, meaning it was entirely unhelpful to them. From what they could deduce, they were equally confused as to why this heist seemed to follow all the rules, but match none of the motivations. It was like it was a show, a game, rather than an actual attempt to maximize profits.

“We can do the helicopter, but we can’t give you a pilot.”

“That’s fine,” he responded with a shrug, “Don’t need one.”

It was the first piece of useful information he’d gotten so far on the call. Because if they didn’t need a pilot, it meant one of two things: either one of them possessed the skill themselves, or they weren’t ever intending to use the helicopter.

Briefly pulling the phone away, Hotch turned to Morgan. “Tell Garcia to check our list with people with pilot’s licenses or any other connection that might provide them the skills to fly a helicopter.”

He returned to the call, continuing the usual script for these situations, trying not to act like he’d learned anything new.

“Can you release the women and children?”

“Nah,” the guy said with a chuckle, “I’ll wait.”

Hotch listened to the sound of the receiver for a moment, staring at the entrance to the bank like it would provide him the answers he still needed. He had his suspicions of what might be happening, but with no eyes in the back anymore and the trigger-happy group that had formed around him, he wouldn’t have the resources to convince them not to go in guns blazing.

“We’re ready to move in.” Which is exactly what they had requested.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He stated before finally moving to look at the man next to him, “Something isn’t right here.”

“Yeah, a lot isn’t right here. There’s 19 innocent people in there.”

It didn’t really matter how many times he went through this situation; the results always seemed to be the same. No one listened, even when it wasn’t one of their men inside.

“Storming the building isn’t going to help them. There are three armed perpetrators inside, and they’re each in a different area. It would be impossible for us to take out all three at once. Especially now that we can’t see in the back. There could be explosives in there for all we know.”

The man was unpersuaded.

“If we can’t save them all, minimizing casualties is the name of the game.”

“Wait a few more minutes. I’m waiting to hear back from our analyst. If they have the capability of flying a plane, its highly likely they also have the knowledge and skills to create weapons that we aren’t currently prepared to handle.”

Although still unconvinced, the man grudgingly gave in to the request. Hotch closed his eyes, trying to be grateful for the extremely small victory; they’d gained a few more minutes. But the relief was short lived, with Morgan putting his phone aside for a second to mutter the same thing Hotch was thinking.

“Hotch, these people are way too confident. It’s like they know there’s a way out.”

As soon as he said the words, the two just looked at each other.

“Garcia, can you also check for any other way out of the bank?” He asked, walking back over to the table laid out under the nearby tent. This would have been a great time for Reid to be here, he thought as he stared at the ridiculously complicated schematics.

He understood they didn’t want people to be able to figure them out (so they couldn’t rob the bank), but this was just ridiculous. It looked ancient.

“Sure thing, but… Morgan, I think there’s something else you should see.” The nerves dancing in her voice told him that they were about to switch subjects. “You know how the guy disabled the camera feed in the back room. I was reviewing the footage we do have and it looks like… (y/n) told him to.”

“Why would she do that?” He asked, furrowing his brow as he glanced over to the ornate bank doors. Part of him wanted to joke that things would’ve been a lot simpler if he didn’t have to worry about Reid’s weird girlfriend, but it didn’t feel as funny when they were both in danger.

Maybe later, he thought hopefully, when they were all together again.

“I… don’t know why. But I did what you asked, and I went through her record and found a ton of sealed files on her and also her dad…”

Morgan’s attention was definitely piqued at that point, but he wasn’t entirely sure what to say. In the stunned silence, Penelope spoke again.

“Should… Should I unseal them?”

It was the same question he was debating in his head, and he honestly didn’t know. Although a long shot, he hoped that she could provide at least the bare minimum of context before they made that kind of decision.

“What kind of files are we talking about?”

“I can’t be sure until I unseal them b-but, I mean, they’re sealed for a reason and I’m talking scary sealed. Like, it might take me a minute sealed. Giving me the heebie-jeebies sealed.” She grew more frantic as she continued. Morgan knew they were running out of time.

“I get it.”

“Is Reid okay?” She switched gears, recognizing that Morgan’s hesitance meant it was probably a bad idea. She wasn’t going to push it unless he did. They didn’t even know if she could help even if they unsealed the files. Especially without a visual.

“They know he’s with us,” Morgan sadly admitted, “I don’t know what’s going on. Did you find another way out of the bank?”

“Right.” The conversation was going to give everyone involved whiplash at this point. “Yes! There is an access way through tunnels underneath the bank but it would take a massive distraction for all three of them to be able to get out of there without us meeting them on the other side. I’m talking earth shatterin–.”

She didn’t finish the sentence, her tongue halting the second her mind caught up with her voice. Morgan was equally concerned, recognizing the kind of distraction that this might require and the perfect way to escape with maximum damage.

But that wasn’t what got his attention. There was no fiery explosion or shouted epiphany, because at that same time there were the muffled sounds of gunshots coming from inside.

“Oh my god, what was that?!” Garcia yelled, accompanied by frantic clicking as she filtered through each individual camera to try and locate the source of the noise.

“Garcia, do you have eyes on the main room?”

“Yes! But it wasn’t in the main room, Derek, it was in the back!”

It was a difficult and necessary job, to consider what those sounds might mean for the young girl they’d met only a few weeks earlier. Morgan’s thoughts went even further, not only worried about her safety, but his best friend’s sanity. Lord knows Reid didn’t need another thing weighing on his conscience. Especially not about her; it just might destroy him.

“What does the unsub in the main area look like? Does he look confused? Surprised?” The words were coming, but he didn’t know where from. His body was on autopilot, desperately seeking any validation that they could still save everyone.

“I-I don’t know! He looks grainy! The image is like an inch wide!” She was clearly growing frustrated, which was a feeling they all shared at this point. “This camera is from before I was even born!”

“Try, Penelope,” Morgan pleaded, “Give me something.”

But the other men weren’t willing to wait.

“That’s it. We’re moving in.”

Morgan turned to them, his hand clutching tighter to the phone just in time for her to speak.

“He’s calling for them but they’re not coming out. He looks… Oh no. He’s yelling at Reid now. And... And it looks like someone is coming down the hallway? But he’s not looking–”

It was impossible to focus on everything that was happening, heavy boots and massive commotion as people began to take their positions. But if someone was coming down the hallway, and the unsub didn’t know, that could only mean a few things. Either he was about to be proven disposable, or someone else had fired those shots.

Either way, one thing was clear.

“Wait! We can’t go in there yet!”

—————————————————

There was a point in time where I might have questioned whether I would ever get used to a gun in my face. There was also a point where I actually had gotten used to it. But nothing could have prepared me for this moment, this terrifying realization while staring down the barrel of an assault rifle that I didn’t want to die yet.

I used to think that my life was somewhat disposable. Sure, I was helpful and useful for my job, but ultimately, I considered myself replaceable. The next person to come might not have the same credentials, but they probably wouldn’t also have half the flaws I do.

But now I wasn’t thinking of work. I wasn’t thinking about how replaceable I was, because it wasn’t my life that mattered.

I didn’t want to die yet, because I wanted to see her again.

So I just stared at the weapon, trying to remember that it was still a great possibility that I could. I tried not to think about what was in front of me, choosing to use most of my brainpower to picture what it would feel like when I had her in my arms again.

The vision inside my head ended swiftly, with the sound of rapidly fired weaponry coming from down the hall. Through the commotion of screaming, I surmised that at least two guns had been fired.

Silence followed. It was a stifling, exhausting, painful silence.

What broke it was even worse, with the gun in my face smacking into the side of my head as the man holding it lost his grip at the sound.

“What the fuck was that?!”

He looked at me like he expected me to have the answers, but I didn’t.

“I don’t know. I-I don’t—“ Not only did I not understand why two guns would fire, I didn’t know who had shot them or for what reason. There was one thing I did know. “It sounded like your weapons.”

“Hey, what’s going on back there?!” He shouted, twisting his body just enough to see around the corner.

There was no reply.

“Did your people get in here somehow?” The panic was obvious, and I didn’t know how to calm him down without arousing suspicion. He was continuing to devolve, stepping closer to me as he stuck with his original thought, “How the fuck could they have done that, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there anything you do know?”

It was a question I’d been asking myself. The longer the silence continued in the back, the more rapidly my anxiety rose. There are only a few reasons why we wouldn’t hear more screaming.

Either someone had managed to get remarkable control over the situation, or all of the hostages were dead. Including (y/n). I forced myself to consider the far less likely, but still possible third option: She was dying, and I could still help her.

“I know that there is still a way for you to get out of this.” I barely recognized my own voice as I rambled, “Is it possible your partners… Is it possible they were planning on leaving together?”

“What?” He sounded disgusted and exhausted, but simultaneously insecure. It didn’t take much effort to realize that he was the weakest of the crew. I’d already had my suspicions that whatever the next step in this journey was, he wasn’t going to be making it with them regardless.

“It was their decision to leave you out here, right? In the place with the most windows and the first access to the door? They put you with all the people most likely to fight back. And now it sounds like…”

I paused, my lips unable to make the next words without a deep breath. “It sounds like they killed the people in the back as a diversion to send in SWAT. Does that sound like something they would do?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

That was enough confirmation for me. It was definitely something they would do, and he knew it. He probably suspected it himself. Thankfully, it gave me enough courage to push back for the first time in this encounter. “Then go back there and see if they’re still there.”

“And just let you be hero and save all these guys? No chance.”

I wanted to laugh; if only he knew the real reason I wanted him to go back there. As terrible as it was, I didn’t care at all about the rest of these men right now. As far as I knew, they were relatively safe. In fact, they were in a better position if what I’d deduced was true. This man, while violent, wasn’t the kind to murder everyone in sight, even when cornered. He’d more likely be shot by SWAT.

“I’ll come with you.” It was a plea, a desperate attempt to get more information that I both wanted and feared. He watched me carefully, trying to read the terror on my face to determine where exactly it was coming from. He knew the hostages were useless to him if he had me, so I wasn’t particularly scared for my life.

At least, not just yet.

“Fine. Get up.”

I willed my legs to stop shaking; to just carry me far enough that I could see her face. I just needed to know that she was okay.

But then I felt a fine mist over my skin— it almost felt like the noise happened after, but I knew logically that couldn’t be true.

A gun fires before the bullets hit their target.

Time seemed to move slower as his body fell to the ground in front of me. My eyes followed him to the floor, but only until I saw the person holding the gun through my peripherals.

“...(y/n)?”

And there she was, clutching tightly onto a rifle, her body barely upright as she staggered forward. There was something remarkably off-putting about the sight of her holding on for dear life to something so morbid. A jarring contrast I would not soon be able to forget, if I ever could.

There was something even more unsettling about the ease with which she carried the weapon, and the fact that she had managed to fire something that powerful without a single stray bullet.

“They’re dead!” She boomed across the room, dropping the weapon onto the floor before she yelled again, “Everyone get out! Hurry!”

No one moved. All of the men, myself included, stared at the tiny girl who’d just saved all of our lives.

“Get out now! There’s a bomb in the back!”

Those were the magic words to stir a panicked crowd into action, people stampeding to the single double door at the entrance, but my eyes were fixed on her. She staggered forward, her arm around her waist and her eyes beginning to roll back.

Perhaps I was just clueless, my one-track mind too slow to navigate the scene in front of me, but it took me that long to see it. My brain rioted against the visuals it took in, the dark crimson dripping down her body. It looked like it would swallow her whole.

I tried to will my body to move, to run to her and do something, anything to help her. But I couldn’t, frozen in place as her small steps got weaker. It wasn’t until I saw her begin to sway that I lunged forward just in time to catch her before she hit the ground.

“Wait!” I screamed to anyone who would listen, my eyes frantically trying to meet someone in the crowd, “Someone get a medic!”

The woman with a child was the last one to pass. She stopped among the commotion, looking down at the carnage in my lap before bolting towards the door.

I had to trust that she would care enough to do something, because from that point on my attention wouldn’t be leaving (y/n). Her eyes were glassy, staring off into the distance and wandering aimlessly despite my face being in view.

“Hey, hey little girl.” My voice crackled as I held her cheek, “Hey, look at me.”

She was finally able to meet my gaze, her eyes filling with love with a small, delirious smile gracing her lips.

“Hey old man.”

The grin didn’t last long, the sounds of her choking and coughing replacing it as blood filled her mouth. I tried to turn her enough that she could spit it out, but it was obvious she was struggling to get any air at all.

“We’re gonna get you some help, okay?” I said with a false confidence, the twisted curve of my lips not even barely resembling a smile.

“It hurts,” she sobbed, her hands slipping in the blood on her stomach.

“I know.”

There wasn’t anything I could do; all I could do was sit there and stare, trying to decide where my hands should be. She was applying pressure to her wound on the front, but I could see the wreckage that was once her back. My hands wouldn’t be enough.

“I’m sleepy.”

“I know.” I was trembling, tears dripping from my face and mixing with the bloody mess; they still couldn’t dilute it, somehow make it vanish. “I know you’re tired. But you’ve gotta stay awake, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll try.”

At first, I wanted to say the innocence in her voice was surprising, but it wasn’t. She was innocent. She was just a young girl, trying to live a happy, normal life before she met me.

“You’re doing great.” I tried to convince myself this wasn’t my fault, but it didn’t work. She had said it herself — she wouldn’t have ever come to a bank on her own. The statistics of the rarity of this situation kept playing on a loop in the back of my head, but it was just a low hum beneath the sound of her pained whimpers.

“Spencer, I need to tell you something.” The newfound insistence in her voice twisted in my gut, and my hands held tighter to her arm.

“No, don’t,” I begged, already anticipating what was going to happen. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I have to tell you right now.” And then her voice was calm, a smile on her face as her blood-soaked hand left her stomach, trying to raise to touch me. It didn’t make it.

“No, you can tell me later.”

The words were so slurred and pathetic, I’m surprised she understood them. But she did, taking a deep, whistling breath. It was clear it hurt her to speak, and I wanted to tell her to be quiet, but the masochist in me needed to hear the words all the same.

“Spencer, please. Just listen to me.”

This sounded too much like a goodbye.

“I love you.”

Our bodies rocked as I realized I hadn’t taken a breath of my own in too long, the pain in my oxygen deprived lungs not nearly enough to distract me from the genuine softness of her voice.

“I love you so much,” she whispered, “Do you know that?”

I don’t know how she wasn’t crying, her eyes barely open but too tired to blink. That rosy complexion had faded, her skin blanching the longer she lay in my arms.

“Yes, I know.”

“I love you with my whole heart.”

My mind was flashing images from only a couple hours prior, her warm laugh as she laid on my lap, the way her hair slipped between my fingers while I wove it together.

‘You think you’ll still be around?’

‘If you’ll have me.’

The memories were blurring together, creating a symphony of promises that were about to be shattered in front of my eyes.

‘Forever,’ she’d said. ‘Forever.’

‘A white picket fence. Two little bratty genius babies. Just a normal, domestic life with Dr. and Mrs. Reid.’

Rejecting the thought, I shook my head, “You’re going to be fine.”

“I understand what you meant when…” Her voice was too quiet, too distant, to be this warm. “When you said it was nice to be able to say it.”

The heavy footfalls and sound of a transport bed wheeling across the floor alerted me that I would have to let her go soon. Whether this would be the last time I ever held her, I couldn’t be sure.

“They’re gonna come take you now, but I’ll be right behind them. I promise.” I barely got the words out before their hands were all over her, those tired eyes shooting wide open as unfamiliar hands replaced mine.

“Wait, Spencer!” She cried out, her body too limp to make a meaningful attempt to stop them, “Don’t leave me!”

Her screams and sobs were ringing louder than the gunshots had, my body slowly making its way upright as I watched them place her on the bed.

“I’m not leaving you, I promise.” I tried not to let the panic bleed through, raising the volume as she started to be taken away from me, “Stay awake as long as you can.”

I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her attempts to scream. If she was calling my name, it wasn’t recognizable. I’m not sure which hurt worse— the sound of her tired lips butchering my name, or the silence that followed.

She wasn’t able to scream anymore.

When I emerged from the bank, the sun burned my eyes just as much as the sight of my team shocked to see me covered in blood. But I couldn’t focus on them at all, immediately bolting after the paramedics without another thought.

The extra time it took them to carefully load her allowed me to jump into the back of the vehicle before the doors shut. There were no words to describe this situation, nor make it any better.

So I just stared in horrified fascination, trying to gauge her odds as they rapidly changed in front of me. Of 107,141 firearm injuries last year, 31% died. How many of the 69% had assault rifle wounds? I couldn’t remember any other statistics. My brain had turned itself off, focusing only on the frantic beeping and scrambled voices.

“Where is he?” Her tiny voice cut through both the internal and external noise.

“I’m right here.” I nearly shouted from my precarious position standing in the back of the rattling ambulance. I wanted to move closer, but I was too scared. There were so many hands on her, and I didn’t want to get in the way.

“I’m scared.” She said, mirroring my exact thoughts.

“I’m right here.” I repeated, closing my eyes to hide from the carnage long enough to put words together that might make her feel any ounce of comfort, “You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you.”

Taking an experimental step forward once the paramedics seemed settled in their places, I came to stand behind her. My hands were tinted red and trembled as they reached out to touch her cheeks.

She took a sharp inhale at the sensation, just barely holding her head up straight. I couldn’t tell if she was leaning into my touch or just couldn’t control her neck any longer. Her skin felt like ice, and although she was still beautiful, the blue tint creeping over her face struck fear in my heart.

“How much longer until we get to the hospital? Her body temperature is dropping.”

If she heard me, she didn’t respond. I stared at the paramedic who was obviously more concerned with other things at the moment. They were kind enough to give me a response, even if it wasn’t a satisfying one.

“Just a few more minutes. We can’t do anything until we stop the bleeding, sir.”

“Spencer…” Each time she spoke was simultaneously terrifying and comforting. It was confirmation she was alive, but also troublesome, because I knew that she should be reserving her efforts for staying alive.

“Hang in there, little girl. We’re almost there.”

She opened her eyes, staring up at me with clouded vision. I could see the pain so clearly it might as well have been me on the table.

“Please help me,” she sobbed, “help me.”

“I-I can’t.” They were the two hardest words I’d ever had to say. Frustration mounted in me, but none of it was directed at her. She didn’t do anything wrong. Myself, on the other hand, I hated myself in that moment.

She was begging for me to help her, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything but stand here and watch as she bled out in the back of an ambulance, a stranger’s hands practically inside of her stomach.

“I don’t want to die.”

The way her voice cracked took whatever was left of my sanity with it, and I felt my fingertips slip in the blood as I pressed against her face.

“You won’t,” I tried to assure her, “You’re going to be fine. Just stay awake.”

“I can’t.” The usual spunk in her voice had faded, leaving behind the sound of a twenty year old girl with no fight left in her. “I’m so sorry, Spencer…”

‘Sorry?’ I thought below the horror, ‘for what?’

When her eyes shut, they couldn’t even make it all the way. It was an expression I’d seen before on the field. I wasn’t meant to see it on her.

“No. No, no, wake up.” I urged, patting her cheeks softly before closing my hands around them more tightly, “Wake up, little girl, please.”

I was talking to no one, because I don’t think she could hear me anymore. Absolutely nothing in her body changed, even as the paramedics became more rushed.

“I’ve located the bleed!” The woman beside me yelled as the ambulance began to rapidly slow down. “I’m sorry sir, but we need you to move.”

“Whatever you need. Please, just help her.” I’d said the words, but my actions didn’t follow. She stared down at my hands that were still tethered to (y/n)’s face, trying to provide the warmth that she desperately needed.

Somehow, I was able to wrench them away, only then realizing the bloody handprints I’d left behind. Her face still wasn’t moving.

“Please, I—“

Before I could say another word, they were already out of the ambulance. I followed as closely as I could behind them, trying to focus enough to ensure that every word said could be played again in my mind. Because the second she crossed the threshold into the surgery suite, I wouldn’t be able to hear them anymore.

I would have to wait. I would have to wait for her to be better, or wait for a declaration. And in that vast silence, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop from torturing myself with every single word uttered in this building before the doors closed.

The doors were ahead of us now, and I wished time could slow down enough that I could give her one more kiss and tell her to be strong one more time before she went into the Schrodinger’s Box that was the emergency room operating table.

I wanted to tell her that I loved her, and when the thought crossed my mind, I realized that I’d never said it back. She’d said it three times, but in my adamant denial I’d failed to return it.

It was so much like us, I’d almost laughed. She’d made such a point of worrying about me leaving her, neither of us had ever stopped to think about how I’d live without her.

How would I live without her? The only person I trusted to have an answer was wheeled into the room, the door shutting abruptly in front of me.

In the reflection of the metal door I saw myself, drenched in the dark liquid. I tried to clean my face with my hand only to realize that they, too, were dirty with her blood.

The world had fallen silent, and I let myself be crushed by the overwhelming loneliness of an existence without her.

‘Don’t miss me too much, Dr. Reid.’

It was too late.

—————————————————

| Part 15 |

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #Criminal Minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds self insert #spencer reid angst #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid series #reid series #dr spencer reid #h2m #spence reid #spencer reid request #reid request

1K notes · View notes

goodolreliable-crows · 4 years ago

Text

Nightmares and confessions

Bumswiftery cuz this ship needs more content.

Smoking cw

Skittery stood in the bathroom area of the lodge, debating whether pumping water to wash his face would be too loud and wake the other boys. It was late, although he didn’t know the exact time. He had been trying to save up for a pocket watch but never could scrap together the funds. Judging by the soft sounds of the boys deep in slumber in the next room over and the crescent moon in the sky, he determined it was around midnight.

He had woken up clammy from a nightmare and didn’t feel like trying to fall asleep again. He had seen some of the other boys have nightmares- Blink mostly, who frequently woke up screaming at any hours of the night before Mush had to rush over and comfort him. He never had dreams like that, which he was thankful for. He couldn’t imagine what that boy had been through to continue to be tortured by his own mind like that.

The nightmares he had were just vague unsettling things that continuously crept over his mind the rest of the day, or at least until he snatched a cigar from someone. They were usually about improbable, sometimes childish things he felt guilty for letting bother him- monsters, his little brother getting hurt, or his family finding out something about him that he didn’t want anyone knowing.

Not that he had any secrets that bothered him like that. That’s what he told himself.

He decided it wasn’t worth it to get water, instead leaning his elbows on the trough and setting his head against his forearms. The cool breeze from the early spring rainstorm drifting in from the drafty windows felt nice against the clammy, bare skin of his back.

He just wanted to sleep. He was so tired every day no matter what he did.

After a few silent moments, listening to the rain, he felt the warmth of fingertips creep suddenly onto his shoulder. He jumped up, turning around and instinctively taking a defensive position with his fists balled. It was dark, but the curly mop of brown hair, hazel-green eyes, and toned muscles, visible even through his undershirt, told him who it was. Swifty was always doing that, sneaking up behind people and startling them whether he meant it or not. He was too nimble, too light on his feet.

“Jeez, what’d ya do that for?” Skittery whispered furiously, his face growing hot as he wished he had pulled on a shirt when he was leaving his bunk.

“Sorry, wanted to make sure you’s ok,” Swifty whispered back, his cheeks slightly red.

Of course it had to be Swifty, Skittery thought to himself. Swifty had to be the one to wake up, when he was one of the two causing all these problems in the first place.

Skittery didn’t blame the two boys for the feelings he got. It wasn’t their fault that he got lost in his head whenever Bumlets flipped his hair out of his face, or that he got a funny feeling in his stomach when Swifty adjusted his clothes. And it certainly wasn’t their fault for that sour, jealous mood that he couldn’t seem to shake after he walked into the lodge early one day, finding Bumlets being pushed up against the wall by Swifty, kissing his neck with his hands at his waist.

That wasn’t his business. He just wanted a lover- he was jealous for the relationship they had, that was all. He wasn’t going to let his silly envy get in the way of his friendship, or let it bother whatever they had going on.

“Can’t sleep?”

“No.”

Skittery watched as Swifty sat down on the weathered floorboards, much to his dismay, his dangling suspenders clattering on the hardwood. He wasn’t in the mindset to stay up with someone. He glanced back to his empty bunk, briefly pondering if he could return to it without seeming rude. He decided against it, reluctantly joining the boy on the floor and crossing his legs.

“You sick or something? You felt hot,” He asked softly. Swifty knew how hard it was to get Skittery into a conversation when he didn’t initiate it. It was somewhat of a skill, trying to carefully word his sentences to draw him in. Unfortunately, he was still groggy himself, meaning he wasn’t as slick with his tongue as he could be.

“No, just had a nightmare,” the tall boy mumbled back.

“You wanna tell me about it?” Swifty patiently asked.

“Already forgetting it.”

Swifty nodded, resigning himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to get much of a conversation out of him. After a beat of silence, he dug around in the pockets of his shorts and procured a cigarette, offering it to him. Skittery’s gaze flicked from it back to the other boy's eyes, before taking it from him and setting it in the corner of his mouth.

After successfully striking a match and lighting the cigarette, tendrils of smoke curling into the air, he leaned back on his elbows and looked Swifty up and down.

“What about you, huh? What are you doin’ up so early?”

“Just couldn’t sleep. Have a lot going on in my head,” he answered, somewhat relieved that the cigarette seemed to do the trick to get Skittery out of his shell, at least a little bit.

He hesitated for a moment, as if deciding whether he gave a fulfilling answer, before holding out the lit cigarette, embers glowing bright in the otherwise dark room. Swifty eyed him curiously, his bright eyes picking out details of the other boy's body best as he could in the darkness.

“When I get nightmares I cozy up to Bumlets, ya know. You ain’t got someone like that? A gal or a fella or nothin’?” Swifty asked, after passing the cigarette back.

Skitterys expression stiffened as he tried to ignore the knot forming in his stomach.

“No, I ain't got a gal like that. And I ain’t like you either.”

“Like me?” The curly haired boy replied, his eyebrows raising.

“Ya know with the,” Skittery’s eyes darted to the floor, unable to meet his eyes. “With the fellas.”

Swifty pulled his legs against his chest, narrowing his eyes. “Well jeez, that ain’t what I was askin’.”

“It ain’t your business.”

Swifty sighed, knowing he had ruined what little softness he had pried out of him. “Don’t see how. You’s a looker, Skits.”

Skittery felt his face flush, accompanied by a strange fluttering in his chest. He hated it. These feelings were stupid, impractical, and most importantly, could never be replicated. Swifty had Bumlets. They were happy together, and Skittery would just have to suck it up and bear through the agony that came with seeing them cuddling at night, or exchange kisses on the cheek in the morning, or playfully ruffle each other’s hair before buying papers.

It had never occurred to him how much these things bothered him until he had Swifty all to himself, with nothing else but a shared cigarette and that wretched insomnia.

“I’m going to try to sleep,” Skittery mumbled suddenly, Standing up and heading back towards the threshold between the bathroom and the bunks. In one motion, Swifty grabbed his wrist, pulled him back, and pinned his waist to the counter, gazing up at his face through the thick darkness.

“What the hell’s up with you lately, John?” He whispered furiously, tightening his grip below his ribs. Skittery stood like a statue, his mouth gaping open as he prayed his weak knees would hold him. Their chests were almost touching, and he could feel the steady rise and fall of his stomach against his own in the brief eternity before he could cough out an answer.

“Nothin’”, he said, his voice coming out small. His heart drummed as he watched a lock of Swifty's hair uncurl itself from his bangs and fall neatly onto his forehead. His eyes glistened in the shadows, filled with suspicion and curiosity.

“Nothings goin’ on with me, why’d you think that?”

“I dunno, maybe how you can’t seem to stand being around me during the day?”

Skittery took a breath, his arms glued to his sides. “It’s just me bein’ dumb, alright? Don’t worry about it.”

“Worry about it?! Skits you...” he slowly released his grip, his hands trailing down from his waist to his hips. “You ain’t...”

“I ain’t what,” Skittery breathed, barely audible over his heartbeat.

And in a split second, Swifty closed the gap between their mouths, his eyes fluttering shut as Skittery’s hands found their way onto the back of his neck. It was a tender, slow kiss, filled with questions and curiosity. Every thought or strange feeling left over from his nightmare had vanished. He wasn't sure if the rain was still falling- he couldn't hear a thing. Skittery discovered the other boy's lips were surprisingly silky, and he pulled away, chest heaving, with a fruity taste on his tongue.

“Why the hell did ya do that?” Skittery said quietly, his fingers biting into the shorter boy’s shoulders.

He shrugged in response, apparently more agitated from his response than alarmed from kissing his friend.

“I don’t get you, Victor,” he said uneasily as he saw Swifty’s face drifting up towards his again.

“Stop.” He pushed him away by his shoulders, struggling to put space in between them. “We can’t do this, Vic, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Do I really gotta walk you through why it’s ok to kiss a fella?”He answered in a bemused tone.

“It ain’t that, Swifty!” he said furiously, forgetting to lower his voice. “You think I don’t wanna do that every time I see ya?! You think I've been putting myself through this shit for nothin’? I ain’t meant for romance. And whatever feelings that gave me ain’t exactly exclusive to you either. I couldn’t make no one happy like they want me to. Nothin’ like that will ever work out for me.” He shoved him away, walking a few paces towards the windows. “And how could ya do somethin’ like this to a sweet fella like Bumlets?!” he added, his voice quiet again.

Swifty was strangely composed, standing straight up with his hands in his pant pockets. It was strange to see his friend like this. Skittery always spent most of his time contemplating everything, analyzing conversations and movements to make sure he was completely understanding what was going on. He never let a thing go misinterpreted. He was better with being told things straight out- it surprised Swifty that a kiss, which to Skittery might’ve meant anything, for once got his point across efficiently.

“That’s what you’s worked up about? That I kissed you while I still got Bumlets?” He asked, collected despite the fact his heart was still racing. “Me and him have been talkin’, Skits. He likes you too.”

The other boy froze, the words sending a peculiar feeling down his spine. “What do ya mean by that?”

“I mean he likes ya, I like ya, and we like each other.” He slowly approached him, as if to not startle him away. “I’m sayin’ if you wanna be in on whatever we got going on,” he trailed off, tenderly slipping his arms around his waist again.

“Ya mean it, Victor? You two…” he mumbled tentatively, his own hands creeping onto his midsection.

And before he knew it they were kissing again, searing and passionate. It was something that happened on instinct, a thing Skittery didn’t let control him very often. It was as relieving as it was terrifying.

Skittery pulled away abruptly, responding to Swifty's confused expression by holding a finger to his lips. He peered over him through the darkness at all the boys seemingly still asleep in the next room over. They were too visible for his liking, especially since he knew many of them pretended to be asleep to pry into others' business.

He grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him into one of the bathroom stalls, where they whispered little confessions in between long kisses, all the way till light started shining in from under the door and the clamor of waking boys told them they were moments from being discovered.

__________

The next day was gray, with rain that sprinkled heavily on and off. Normally, this would send Skittery into a worse mood than usual, causing him to barely get any papers sold, rather spending his day under shop awnings with the stack over his head. However he barely noticed the rain, and although his mouth was in a tight line and his eyebrows furrowed, there was a pink tinge to his cheeks that he couldn’t get rid of.

He remembered saying a lot to Swifty the night before, mostly embarrassing, sappy things that he carried on his shoulders with an air of shame. He remembered something about being in love, something about his heart melting when he sees Bumlets, something about him not being able to believe that the two handsomest guys in the lodge liked him. Recalling it made him cringe. He couldn’t believe he would let his guard down like that now that he was out of the moment.

He knew he had to talk to Bumlets soon and work out his feelings for him as he did with Swifty, but he could barely stand to be in the same room with either of them. He left early, turning away after hearing one of them call his name. He was aware he was just avoiding something that would have to be dealt with eventually. He was no good with feelings, or change for that matter.

Luckily the opportunity presented itself sooner than he preferred, when he settled on a bench under a damp umbrella in the park. It was a particularly heavy batch of rain, making him shiver no matter how tight he pulled his coat around him. He suddenly felt himself sandwiched by warmth, one of the boys on each side of him.

“Hey Skits,” he heard Bumlets say, although his gaze stayed fixed on the patch of ground in front of him. “Heard you was bein’ sweet with my fella last night,” he said in an amused tone, hitting his shoulder with his own.

Skittery felt paralyzed, staying silent as both boys looked at him expectantly. He felt a raindrop snake down his neck and down his collar.

“Why don’t ya tell Bumlets some of those things you told me last night,” Swifty added once it was clear that he wasn’t going to respond.

“Won’t you two leave me alone till later,” he finally answered, snapping his head up and looking at the boy on the right. He immediately regretted it. Bumlets’ damp bangs were drooping onto his forehead, his brown eyes illuminated curiously by the raindrops coming down. His shirt was half unbuttoned, revealing his collarbone dotted with freckles.

“We ain’t gonna leave you alone, Skits, not with weather as romantic as this!” He motioned wildly with his hand, collecting a few raindrops in his palm before drying it off on Skittery’s knee. “But we also ain’t gonna pressure you or nothin, right Bumlets?” Swifty added.

Skittery let both boys set their arms around him, although his shoulders were stiff and his face was hot. The three sat there, listening to each other breathing for hours with their arms tangled. The tall boy in the middle indulged himself just a little bit more by the minute, letting himself grow comfortable between them. He knew that's what he wanted. He knew that that’s what he had been dreaming about subconsciously for a lot longer than he cared to admit. It would take time for him to adjust, as it always did for him with new experiences and changes of his life.

But he was trying to get better at change. Maybe that’s why he let Swifty kiss his cheek, after checking that the rain had driven everyone out of the park. Maybe that’s why he let Bumlets take his waist and kiss him softly, when the moment felt right. And that’s why they walked back to the lodge, shivering, with their arms still hooked around each other, the tallest boy feeling on top of the world.

#this took me three weeks to write for some reason #im so used to writing tiny drabbles #newsies #newsies 1992 #newsies fanfiction #newsies fanfic #92sies fanfic #bumlets #swifty the rake #swifty the rake newsies #skittery #skittery newsies #bumlets x swifty x skittery #bumswiftery #bumskifty?#please i need more content for them #92sies #NEWSIES WRITING

34 notes · View notes

cellard0ors · 3 years ago

Text

Fic: Made For You (3/3)

Remember this? I got it done - lol. If you'd like to read the complete story, here is the AO3 Link. As a quick recap: In response to Rhett ‘not judging’ Link for any potential mannequin actions per GMM # 2014. This final part is Link and the Rhett-equin getting *frisky*

Their kissing continues - passionate, riotous - and while a small part of Link’s mind is circled around the fact that this isn’t actually Rhett, he does his stalwart best to ignore it, because this is his chance. His one and only, and when the doppelganger pulls back and looks him in the eyes, it’s so very easy to forget. More so when he asks, “How do you want this?”

“I’m-? You-?” Link licks his lips and he looks away, heat flaring up beneath his skin in his embarrassment to confess this, even to a facsimile of the person he’s long since desired, “You, um-?” he jerks a thumb over one shoulder, “Behind me?”

Rhett nods before kissing him again and then they work together, sort of rearranging everything, stripping Link of his clothing and when Link finds himself on all fours, he lets out a shuddering breath.

It’s the kind of breath he feels as if he’s been holding in his whole life. It practically whooshes out of him, all the air in his lungs fleeing as he faces the mattress and a big, warm hand runs down his spine, “Easy, brother. Easy.”

Easy, Link lets out a shaky laugh. As if anything about this can be construed as easy. He’s about to have sex with this…being. This one who looks like Rhett and sounds like Rhett and thinking of him as Rhett makes this even more nerve wracking. Almost to a point of being unbearable. This in mind, he rubs his face against the bed and breathes, “I’m ready.”

“Not yet you’re not,” Rhett rumbles and Link hears something behind him, the opening and closing of a nearby drawer and how Rhett knows where to find his secret stash of lube, he’s not going to ask. It’s rare – extremely rare – that Link takes care of things here. The Creative House wasn’t purchased for, well, that. Or this, really.

Yet here he is.

He hears a light popping sound and then cool, gentle fingers stroke teasingly between his upturned ass cheeks. Link’s breath hitches and his hips instinctively push back. Funny that. That the instinct to move towards an intrusion is just…there. Buried within him. It probably always has been. Yet Rhett takes his time, just…working over him.

Getting his skin slick and ready, only the tip of one finger occasionally circling the rim of his entrance, lightly dipping in, but with no real intensity. It’s more of a shallow exploration and Link whimpers, toes curling as he slurs, “You can do more.”

“I can,” Rhett agrees, but he doesn’t. In fact, if Link knows anything, he knows when the sound of a smile is contained within his friend’s words and he glowers, pushing his hips back again as if waving a flag. Rhett chuckles and on his next pass, his fingertip goes deeper. It surges in up past the first knuckle and Link gasps, his dick twitching heavily beneath him.

It’s been more than half hard this entire time and now it’s beyond full mast as Rhett eases the finger out and then back in, surer this time and with greater intent. A second joins and Link lets out a tiny cry – part distress, part elation and Rhett just shushes him again, runs his free hand down along his spine again. It helps. The pain dies so fast, lost more to the flow of joy.

So much so, that when the third finger comes, when all three are working in tandem to open him up, Link’s hips are surging back and forth easily, accepting the act with eager enthusiasm, as his throat opens – allowing cries of sheer ecstasy to spill out.

He’s never heard himself like this. So high-pitched, so desperate. He feels like if Rhett doesn’t do something soon, if he doesn’t take him, he will honestly and truly die. It’s ridiculous and overdramatic beyond belief but it’s true and when Rhett withdraws his fingers Link almost wants to weep, only to be met with a soft, shaky, “Now you’re ready.”

“Yes,” Link pleads, pressing his forehead down, pushing his ass upwards and Rhett has both of his hands on Link’s hips as he draws him backward, as he lines them up. It takes very little finagling on Rhett’s part to take hold of himself and ease in, to push inside, and Link lets out more startling sounds that cross between the realms of pain and pleasure.

His body is being stretched, filled, but it – Jesus – it feels so right. And pleasure easily wins out when Rhett begins to move. Somehow, the actions of his slight withdrawal followed by a steady re-entry take the sting out of the action. Link finds his body becoming numb to it, numb to any sort of resistance and quickly turning over towards a warmed, hot heat – one that curls like molten liquid within the pit of his belly.

“Rhett,” Link’s voice warbles over the name and Rhett's hand – the one that’s been occasionally stroking his back – goes for his hair. It buries fully into it, fingers curling around both dark and silver strands alike and tugging just so and Link lets out a ragged wail, because – yeah, this isn’t going to last long. His balls feel full – drawn taunt – and he can just catch sight of his full cock lolling thickly between his legs, jutting up towards his belly.

Rhett’s thrusts have picked up their pace and there’s the lewd sound of slapping flesh and Link can feel Rhett’s hips flush against his ass cheeks – smacking into them again and again and Rhett tightens his grip on Link’s hair as he rumbles, “It’s okay, baby. Let go.”

Link does.

With a wail he cums; shooting across the mattress, his own legs, coating everything in a flood of long held release and if there’s an answering relief from Rhett, Link doesn’t feel it, too lost in his own jubilant climax to sense it. In fact, not long after, Link feels something else crash down on him. A hard and heavy wave of exhaustion. A curtain of sleep that takes him before he can think a second thought.

Link wakes up alone.

Alone and…sticky.

He sits up with a troubled grunt to see he’s in the Creative House in his room. He’s fully clothed and the Rhett-equin has been knocked to one side. He sees it there, lying on the carpet and it occurs to him that he probably knocked it over in his sleep.

…as a matter of fact, he did more than just that in his sleep, and shifting about, he knows for certain that he came in his sleep. Cursing, he falls back and throws an arm over his eyes. He hasn’t had a wet dream in…? Christ, he can’t remember the last time he had one. Much less one like this. One so extreme and…weird.

Groaning, he rolls upwards again and rises to his feet. He rights the Rhett-equin and looks in its eyes. Does he see a sparkle there? Probably not. Sighing, he runs a hand over one of its cheeks and sighs, “You give me that dream last night, big fella?”

There’s no answer, but Link pats his cheek as he murmurs, “Well, if you did. I owe you one. It was…?”

He shrugs, not sure what to say it had been. Cathartic? Insane? Stupid?

Whatever it had been, it had certainly been…something. Something enough that Link finds himself rising up on his tip toes and giving the Rhett-equin another little peck and a laugh, “Whatever. You were a good purchase, man. No other way to slice it.”

That said, Link leaves the room to go and shower.

And the Rhett-equin?

It stays there.

It stays there…with a little twinkle in its eyes.

#rhink #my writing

8 notes · View notes

tsarisfanfiction · 4 years ago

Text

Long Way From Home: Chapter 12

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Friendship Characters: Scott, Tracy Family

Watch me forget to update again last week, whoops. This is also the final chapter of this ‘arc’, so we’ll be taking another break for a while because uni means I don’t have time to keep writing at the moment (and a certain character is being awkward in the next chapter). Still, I hope you’ve enjoyed this pile of Scott&Other-Gordon, and I’ll get back to work on this when I’ve got the time.

For now, enjoy!

<<<Chapter 11

The subject wasn’t broached until they were back in the car, Scott feeling comfortably full as the food settled in his stomach.

“I guess there’s nothing I can say to persuade you to finish the trip now?” Other-Gordon sighed.

“I’m not quitting,” Scott said firmly. “It’s just some sneakers. I’ll try them on, find the ones that fit best, and we’ll be done.”

He half expected Other-Gordon to contradict him and tell him something was different about buying shoes in this universe, but he didn’t.

“That’s the spirit,” he said instead. “I’ll keep them talking, like the last shop.”

“Thanks.” Scott appreciated the thought; if they were distracted with Other-Gordon, then they’d be focusing less on him.

He was looking forwards to being able to wear comfortable shoes. Other-Scott’s fit well enough, but after several hours in them he was starting to feel the rub of an unfamiliar style.

“Mr Tracy!” he was greeted as they stepped through the door upon arrival. “Is there a problem with your last purchases?”

“Oh no, not at all,” Other-Gordon cut in, inserting himself slightly ahead of Scott and into the flustered-looking man’s line of sight. “You’ll have to forgive Scott, he’s gone and lost his voice, but he really liked them, so we’re here to get a couple more pairs,” he assured them.

The fluster turned to relief and then delight as the man no doubt realised he was going to be making another expensive sale to round off his day.

“Of course!” he beamed. “If you’d like to follow me.” They were chivvied along to a section of the shop lined with various designs of sneakers all along the wall, which Scott immediately started to eye up. The designs were varied, and none of them looked exactly like he was used to, but he could definitely see a few that looked hopeful.

Ignoring both Other-Gordon and the salesman, he walked over to the wall to get a closer look. You’re Scott Tracy. He just had to take the initiative instead of hovering awkwardly and waiting for a cue, and then it would be fine.

No-one would suspect he was the wrong Scott Tracy.

Behind him, Other-Gordon was talking a mile a minute, playing the distraction he’d promised, and after the day they’d had it was almost effortless to trust him. The other man had proven time and time again that despite the bizarre nature of the situation, he cared and wanted Scott to be as comfortable as possible.

It wasn’t even a case of just trying to preserve his brother’s reputation. Just as he was Scott Tracy, Other-Gordon was Gordon Tracy. They might not be each other’s brother, but they didn’t need to be related to care. The man that had guided him out of two panic attacks and subtly grounded him at the first sign of other ones had done it because he cared about him.

Scott was used to being the rescuer. He was used to being the one picking up strangers, helping them find their feet and offering whatever aid was needed until they were safe. He’d never been so thoroughly on the other side before. It was terrifying, he realised as he picked up a hopeful looking sneaker for a closer inspection. Putting all your trust in someone you knew of but didn’t know was much, much harder than he’d ever realised.

What Other-Gordon was doing for him wasn’t quite the same – his life wasn’t in danger; he didn’t need snatching from the jaws of death – but the parallels were there. Scott was lost, and there was no denying that he was scared of what had happened, why it happened, what it would be doing to his brothers right then, and Other-Gordon was offering a life line. Something he could cling to while he found his feet, and caught him when he stumbled.

“Scott?” the man in question asked, appearing beside him. “How are you doing?”

Scott looked at him, the heart-achingly familiarity of his face even though it wasn’t the same, and the searching amber eyes that were exactly the same, right down to the concern shining through, and nodded. He’d only known him for a few hours, but Scott trusted him, and that was enough to keep what-ifs and concerns about recognition at bay.

He could do this.

The sneaker in his hand looked like a good start, so he held it up, drawing attention to the selection.

“Would you like to try that pair on, sir?” the salesman asked. Scott nodded confidently, and handed it over so he could bustle over to the store room to retrieve its partner.

Other-Gordon didn’t say anything, even after they were left alone, so Scott continued looking around, searching for another design that looked hopeful. He could feel the other man’s eyes watching him, but he wasn’t asking if he was doing okay, or attempting to provide other reassurances, and Scott wondered if he could tell that he was, as much as he could be, relaxed.

He probably could.

By the time the salesman returned – this one called John, it transpired, but with black hair and brown eyes it was just another man with a common name, and not a painful reminder of his younger brother – he’d found another three to try on.

Four times pacing and then jogging around the room, jumping up and down and feeling a rush from being active, even if it was just rather aggressively putting through sneakers through their paces, and he ended up walking out the shop with all of them. It was easier than picking two when they all felt right.

There was also the nagging feeling that Other-Scott didn’t test shoes quite the same way he did, judging by the look on salesman-John’s face, and the panic had started to bubble up when he abruptly remembered that Other-Scott had only been there recently. Grabbing all four pairs and nudging Other-Gordon into paying for them so that they could leave – a nudge that, yes, might have comprised of four smaller ones that instantly sharpened amber eyes – had been the easiest way to avoid questions and quell the panic.

Other-Gordon didn’t outwardly hurry them out of the shop, but Scott felt the underlying determination as he quipped about getting late and the flight home as an excuse for their departure. The amount of money the quartet of sneakers cost definitely went a long way towards distracting the salesman from anything else.

“Are you okay?” the ginger asked once they were settled back in the car. He didn’t mention that Scott had been fine for most of the time, but the unspoken observation hung between them.

Scott took a deep breath and pressed his head back against the headrest, feeling the hat digging in. He was looking forwards to taking it off. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m okay.”

“Too much cooped up energy?” Other-Gordon asked, clearly determining that he wasn’t about to panic and turning the engine on. “You were mighty energetic in there.”

“They’re nice sneakers,” Scott defended, not responding to the secondary observation.

“So it seemed,” Other-Gordon shrugged. “Well, unless there’s anything else you need, I’d say it’s time to head back to the airport.”

Scott glanced at the backseat of the car, where a small pile of bags nestled.

“That should be enough,” he agreed. “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to let me pilot back?”

Other-Gordon did a double-take.

“What happened to ‘different technology’?” he asked. “You’ve not understood anything here. I saw you looking at the car earlier.”

Scott shrugged. “Apparently the only thing that is the same are plane controls,” he admitted.

Other-Gordon groaned. “You mean you actually were judging my piloting?” he whined.

“I didn’t say anything about your piloting,” Scott defended. Other-Gordon huffed.

“You didn’t need to, but I figured you were just comparing it to what you were used to,” he said. “It didn’t occur to me that you knew exactly what I should have been doing when.”

“So you’ll let me pilot back?” Scott tried hopefully.

“Sorry, fella.” He couldn’t stop his shoulders slumping in disappointment at Other-Gordon’s firm answer. “Look, I would rather you piloted, because I’m not daft enough to think you’re not better at it than me, but you don’t have a pilot’s license here, and it’s not my call whether you sneak by on Scott’s.”

The argument made a frustrating amount of sense, and Scott sighed. “Can’t we ask him?”

“He’ll say no,” Other-Gordon said confidently. “Unless you’re telling me you’d let someone pilot on your license with only his word he’s as good as he says.”

The ginger, annoyingly, wasn’t wrong. Scott wouldn’t.

“We can add it to the things to talk to him about when we get back,” Other-Gordon pointed out. “Still, if planes aren’t so different, maybe that’ll make the training easier.”

He had a point. Scott hadn’t considered that the Thunderbirds might have the same controls, when the jargon seemed so different. “I saw a few external differences,” he said. “Didn’t get a good look at the cockpit, and her engine makes a different sound.”

“Why aren’t I surprised you took all that in?” the ginger asked rhetorically. “Then again, I suppose in a way she’s ‘yours’,” he mused. “Good luck fighting Scott for her.”

Scott groaned, well aware that no matter how good a pilot he proved to be, he was never going to wrangle primary pilot of this universe’s Thunderbird One.

“I don’t think I’ll bother,” he muttered. “He won’t give her over unless he has no other choice.”

“Voice of experience?” Other-Gordon asked, amused. Scott raised an eyebrow at him.

“The last time I let Gordon near her he tried to turn her into a submarine. Virgil hates piloting her, Kayo is banned from going near the pilot seat, John prefers being a passenger in Two if he’s down from orbit and Alan’s too inexperienced,” he listed. “No-one pilots my girl except me. No exceptions.”

Other-Gordon laughed. “That doesn’t surprise me; Scott’s the same,” he confirmed. “But who’s Kayo?”

Scott had forgotten he hadn’t mentioned Kayo to anyone except Tin-Tin yet.

“My Tin-Tin,” he said. “She’s a hell of a pilot, but her ‘bird gets damaged even more than Three. Too many stunts.”

“Hold up.” Other-Gordon even raised a hand to emphasise his words. “Her ‘bird? Do you have six or- but Three? No, you said more than Three. Who pilots Three?”

That was entirely too many questions, and Scott dodged most of them.

“Tin-Tin doesn’t have her own?” he asked in return. “I know she’s an engineer, but so’s Virgil.”

“Tin-Tin co-pilots Three sometimes, but otherwise she stays on the island,” Other-Gordon told him. “Your- Kayo goes out?”

They think we’re delicate flowers, Tin-Tin had more-or-less said. Scott hadn’t made the connection with participating on rescues.

“I get the feeling Kayo would give you all a heart attack if you ever met her,” he said. “There’s no stopping that girl when she gets an idea in her head.”

He should know. He’d tried. It normally ended in shouting matches and her doing whatever she wanted anyway. Sometimes he wondered if building Thunderbird Shadow for her had been a mistake, but then he remembered how miserable she’d been without her own reliable transport.

Other-Gordon eyed him. “There’re more differences than technology and fashion, aren’t there?”

“Yeah,” Scott confirmed. “I haven’t decided if more is the same or different yet. Most of it seems to be small things. Just enough to be off from what I’m used to.”

“Like us,” Other-Gordon sighed. “Sounds like we were too hasty with this trip,” he added. “Even if you needed new underpants.”

Scott shrugged. “We were never going to know all the differences.” He wouldn’t have thought to ask about the minor details, and none of them had even considered that the family business – the actual one – would have a different name.

“I guess that’s true,” Other-Gordon conceded. “But we should still have given you a little longer than a few hours before taking you off the island. Sorry about that.”

He wasn’t wrong, but, “what’s done is done,” he said. “I survived.”

“Get yourself straight in the Ladybird when we get to the hangar,” Other-Gordon said. “If anyone tries to get in your way, ignore them. I’ll get Scott to soothe any ruffled feathers later.”

“I can handle it,” Scott protested. “Jones, right?”

“You don’t have to handle it,” Other-Gordon told him firmly. “It’s been mighty awful day for you, and the last thing you need is Scott’s airfield buddies bothering you. Those fellas know Scott better than anyone else we’ve seen today.”

Scott had almost forgotten that. Other-Gordon was right; returning to the Ladybird was when someone was most likely to notice something wasn’t right. The sandwiches from earlier felt uncomfortably weighty in his stomach all of a sudden.

He couldn’t afford a panic attack in the hangar; Other-Gordon wouldn’t be able to take off, so they wouldn’t be able to get away from Other-Scott’s so-called ‘airfield buddies’.

It would be an absolute disaster.

“Okay,” he agreed. “But I’m not leaving you to load her alone.”

Other-Gordon rolled his eyes. “Maybe it’s different where you’re from, but here we have valets for that sort of thing. Appearances and all that – although Dad’s got them trained to be extra vigilant if it’s me. They won’t let me pick up a single bag, just you watch.”

Other-Gordon’s back hadn’t even occurred to him, but if even his family were treating him like glass, Scott supposed it was no surprise there was hired help to stop him straining himself.

“I don’t know how you stand it,” he admitted.

“Aw, it’s not always so bad,” Other-Gordon admitted. “Helps with the cover. No-one would expect poor, crippled former Olympian me of still being an active aquanaut, let alone be capable of pulling the stunts those fine young men in International Rescue manage.”

That was true, Scott supposed.

“Look,” the ginger said. “If it makes you feel better, you can run through her pre-flights while I’m dealing with the chaps on the ground.”

Scott startled. “You trust me to do that without supervision?”

“I know you were watching me when we left the island,” Other-Gordon shrugged. “I figure if you do come across something unfamiliar, you’re not daft enough to let me take off without getting it double-checked it first.”

Scott could accept that.

“Besides, no-one’ll find that strange around here. It’ll look more strange if Scott Tracy isn’t doing all the checks himself.”

“You could have just said that in the first place,” Scott pointed out. Other-Gordon scoffed, but said nothing.

Jones wasn’t amongst the men that seemed to be waiting for them when Other-Gordon rolled the car up behind the hangar. Scott supposed his shift was over for the day, and in a way that made it easier to reluctantly leave the car and head straight for the hangar. The T.A. was a beacon, and once the door opened, the red of the Ladybird stood out amongst the many planes housed inside.

“Hey, Scott!” an unfamiliar voice called. He ignored them, remembering what Other-Gordon had said about them all knowing Other-Scott and knowing he couldn’t handle trying to interact with any of them without the ginger to act as a buffer without making them suspicious.

Pre-flight checks. Those, he could do.

He slipped into the cockpit, taking the pilot’s seat for the moment although Other-Gordon was doubtless going to shove him over when he arrived, and immersed himself in the blessed familiarity of flicking switches and running all the checks that had long since become second nature to him. While the Ladybird was a far cry from Thunderbird One, she wasn’t so far from more conventional aircraft that he couldn’t work her out.

Engrossed in the task, he barely noticed the ground crew flitting around as their shopping was loaded into the cargo hold under Other-Gordon’s supervision, or the questions about him being fired the ginger’s way, only to be expertly deflected.

He did notice the jab in his shoulder when Other-Gordon clambered up to join him.

“Finished?” the ginger asked. Scott ran his hands over the controls one last time, before reluctantly pronouncing himself satisfied.

“She’s good to fly,” he said.

“Then budge over,” Other-Gordon retorted. Scott reluctantly shimmied over into the passenger seat. “Everything’s fine?”

“Just like our training jet at home,” Scott promised. “I taught Alan to fly with controls like this.” He glanced over at the ginger settling himself into the pilot’s seat. “Gordon, too.”

“You’re calling the Ladybird a training jet?” Other-Gordon asked. “I’d like to see you tell Tin-Tin that.”

Scott chuckled. “Anything’s a training jet compared to my usual ride,” he pointed out.

Other-Gordon rolled his eyes. “I’d like to see you tell Virgil that.”

“His girl’s not a jet,” Scott retorted. “Not unless that’s got a very different definition here.”

“I suppose you have a point,” Other-Gordon conceded, before reaching for the radio. “Tango Alpha Ladybird to Auckland Air Traffic Control. We’re ready for take-off, over.”

Static crackled for a moment.

“Auckland Air Traffic Control to Tango Alpha Ladybird,” the radio responded. “Clear to proceed to runway three-bravo, over.”

“Tango Alpha Ladybird to Auckland Air Traffic Control. Understood. Proceeding now, over.” The hangar door opened and Other-Gordon taxied them out onto the tarmac. Scott occupied himself with looking out at the other planes as they travelled past. Some designs were instantly familiar, while others looked very different to anything he’d seen in his own universe.

Other-Gordon made a few more calls over the radio as they finished taxiing into position, and Scott settled back in the seat comfortably as they waited for permission to take off.

He had to admit he didn’t miss all the bureaucracy with Thunderbird One, and John acting as his ATC wherever he was in the world. VTOL launches helped.

After another half a minute or so, the all-clear was given, and the Ladybird rumbled to life, surging forwards and up under Other-Gordon’s hands.

“Auckland Air Traffic Control to Tango Alpha Ladybird, your route is clear,” the radio crackled again. “Have a safe flight. Over.”

“Tango Alpha Ladybird to Auckland Air Traffic Control,” Other-Gordon replied. “Thank you. Over and out.” He fiddled with the radio for a moment. “Ladybird to Tracy Island, come in.”

“Tracy Island receiving you, Ladybird,” Not-Dad’s voice filtered through. “How’s it going, Gordon?”

“We’ve just left Auckland, Father,” the ginger said. “Estimated ETA in two hours.”

“I’ll let your grandmother know,” Not-Dad replied. “You boys didn’t have any problems?”

“No, sir,” Other-Gordon said, to Scott’s relief. “No problems.”

“Well, I expect to hear about your trip when you get back,” the man told them. “I’ll see you then. Tracy Island out.”

“Thanks,” Scott said after the connection ended.

“I’m still telling Scott,” Other-Gordon reminded him. “But you can thank me by not judging my piloting the whole way back. Stare at the clouds or something.”

Scott chuckled. “I’ll do my best,” he said. Other-Gordon just groaned.

“I am never piloting you anywhere ever again,” he swore. “Cloud watch. Don’t you dare look at what I’m doing.”

Scott rolled his eyes but obliged.

Like the outward journey, their return one passed in mostly silence, Other-Gordon focusing on piloting and Scott doing his best not to make idle comments whenever he didn’t react to changes in the air currents the same way he would.

He liked to think he was successful at it. The aquanaut would no doubt disagree.

“I can still feel you judging me,” Other-Gordon grumbled eventually. Scott wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it seemed like they should be nearly there.

Up ahead was a small, rocky island. It looked utterly unfamiliar, but Other-Gordon was straight on course for it.

“Home sweet home,” the aquanaut commented when he caught him looking at it. “The same?”

“The only similarity is that it’s volcanic,” Scott answered. “Ours has twin peaks, to start with.” This Tracy Island seemed to have some sort of plateau mountain, rather than the jagged peaks he was used to. It also seemed less like it was making up part of the lip of a caldera.

“That’s interesting,” Other-Gordon hummed. “Your house is nothing like ours either, is it?”

Considering he’d needed a map to find Other-Scott’s room earlier, Scott thought that was rather obvious.

“Not at all,” he said. “Even the pool’s a different shape. Ours is a regular Olympic-size pool.”

“Really?” Other-Gordon asked. “I suppose that makes it easier to retract, though. Easier to pilot through, too?”

“If I ever get the chance to compare, I’ll let you know,” Scott replied. Other-Gordon laughed.

“I should let them know we’re on approach,” he said, reaching for the radio again. “Ladybird to Tracy Island.”

“Tracy Island receiving you, Ladybird.” It was Other-Scott on the line this time. “You’re clear to land.”

“F.A.B., Scott,” Other-Gordon acknowledged.

“How much damage control have you left me with?” Other-Scott continued. “Dad says you said there were no issues?”

“I’ll give you the run-down once we’re down,” the aquanaut told him. “There was paparazzi.”

“If I don’t like what they publish, you’d better watch your back, Gordon,” Other-Scott warned. “I’ll meet you two in the hangar. Tracy Island out.”

“Well, no sense in putting it off,” Other-Gordon commented as the line went dead. “You want to hang around for the debrief?”

Scott shook his head, having no wish to stand around and listen to an account of what he’d already lived through. “Just him,” he reminded. “I’ll get changed while you do.”

“You finally get to change underwear,” the ginger commented, and Scott rolled his eyes. “Coming up on the landing now.”

Sure enough, there was the runway, protruding out onto a pier and lined with palm trees. Definitely Thunderbird Two’s runway, and now that they were approaching it, Scott could see the cragged rockface that no doubt moved somehow to reveal the giant cargo plane. A little way up was a white building, built into the cliff.

He filed that away to ask about later, not wanting to interrupt the aquanaut as he brought them down onto the tarmac with a slight bump, decelerating until they were taxiing towards an open hangar door. It wasn’t quite central to the runway, further cementing Scott’s conclusion that Thunderbird Two was just behind the cliff face.

To his relief, Other-Scott seemed to be alone, standing next to the blue beauty he’d spotted earlier, as Other-Gordon brought the Ladybird to a stop and started the post-flight checks. Wherever the rest of the family were, it didn’t seem like they’d planned a welcoming committee, at least.

“So?” the older man asked once they left the cockpit, already at the cargo hold and looking at the bags. “Dad seems convinced everything went fine, but you didn’t tell him about the paparazzi, did you?” He was clearly talking to Other-Gordon, but his eyes flicked to Scott.

Scott shrugged and reached past him for the bags. “Gordon’ll give you the run-down,” he said. “I’m getting changed.”

“Don’t forget the underpants!” Other-Gordon chirped at him. He rolled his eyes and walked away, but not fast enough to avoid overhearing the start of the conversation. “I’m sworn to silence to everyone except you, and you’re only the exception because he’s your clone, so don’t even think about telling anyone,” the ginger said, quietly but not so quietly Scott couldn’t hear while he waited for the elevator to swallow him up. “Which definitely includes Dad, by the way, but-”

The elevator doors clanged shut, cutting off the conversation. Scott jabbed the button labelled second, which was also the highest option, so he assumed that was the bedroom level.

It was, and to Scott’s private delight there was no-one in the landing, so he managed to slip past the door to the lounge – out of which piano music seemed to be coming – and into the guest room designated as his without being intercepted.

Once there, he upended the bags over the bed, letting the neatly-wrapped parcels of clothes fall out haphazardly, before picking up clothes to get changed into.

It was a relief to finally get out of the waistcoat, shirt and slacks belonging to his counterpart, and even more of a relief to find himself wearing something that much more closely resembled his idea of casual.

Setting the discarded clothes to one side, he rummaged through the rest of the new clothes and set about hanging them up in the closet. His uniform was where he’d left it, he was pleased to see. No doubt Other-Brains would request it at some point, but Scott intended on supervising his investigations. It was good that it hadn’t just been taken while he was out.

A knock on the door startled him just as he was hanging the last pair of jeans.

Who would that be? It could have been anyone on the island – although he suspected Other-Alan might be less inclined to seek him out, and Other-Gordon would probably announce himself, if he didn’t walk straight in.

It was honestly weird having anyone knock rather than just walk in. His brothers had long since stopped waiting to be invited in, although Virgil and John did at least announce themselves with a knock most of the time.

“It’s me. Can I come in?”

Other-Scott.

Scott supposed he should have expected that one. Did he want to talk to his doppelgänger? Most of the island’s residents he could probably predict how the conversation was going to go, but ironically, Other-Scott seemed to be the hardest to read.

He guessed it was because he had no idea how he’d react if things were the other way around, and Other-Scott had ended up in his universe.

His gut told him he probably wouldn’t give up trying to have a conversation if he was going out of his way to initiate it.

“Yeah,” he called back, closing the closet door. The door opened and Other-Scott walked in, closing it behind him.

“Is that what you wear at home?” he asked, blue eyes scanning the clothes Scott had changed into.

“As close as I could get,” Scott shrugged, sitting on the bed next to Other-Scott’s discarded clothes and folding them up, mostly for something to do with his hands.

“Dad’s not going to approve,” Other-Scott warned him. “But if it makes you more comfortable, I don’t see the problem.” He picked up the hat and discarded sunglasses. “You’ll have to stay out of sight whenever we have visitors anyway, so no-one’s going to see you.”

There was an awkwardness about the other man that Scott thought was uncharacteristic of himself, until he realised it was the same awkwardness he was feeling, because there were no guidelines in any training he’d undergone about how to interact with an alternate universe version of yourself.

“Are you checking up on me?” he asked abruptly. It made sense if he was, after getting Other-Gordon’s account of the day, and Scott thought they’d do a lot better if they stopped trying to test the waters.

From the quirk of Other-Scott’s lips, it was a shared opinion.

“I heard what happened,” he confirmed. “Gordon was adamant you don’t want anyone else to know, and I can understand that.” He sighed. “This is weird,” he said, and Scott gave a wry smile in agreement. “And maybe, considering you’re literally another me, I’m not the best person to talk to, but. I’m here. If you have questions, or want sane conversation.”

“After a day with Gordon, sane conversation is sorely lacking,” Scott quipped, and Other-Scott laughed.

“I owe him a billiards match or ten now,” he said. “Remind him he can’t actually beat me.”

“Little brothers,” Scott shrugged. “Give them an inch, they’ll take a mile.”

“Some things don’t change wherever you are,” Other-Scott agreed. “Gordon said you recognised the Ladybird’s controls?”

“Yeah,” Scott confirmed. “We’ve got a plane like that at home.”

“I’ll talk with Dad about taking you for a flight,” Other-Scott said. “Once we’ve established how much is familiar, we can figure out anything else.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Scott agreed. Other-Scott grinned.

“I wonder which one of us is the better pilot,” he said. “I’m looking forward to seeing you fly.”

That thought hadn’t occurred to Scott. “Best pilot gets primary dibs for Thunderbird One?” he dared.

Other-Scott laughed. “If it’s my ‘bird on the line, I’m not going to go easy on you,” he warned.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Scott replied, and they both laughed.

“Well, I’m going to go teach Gordon a lesson or ten now,” Other-Scott said. “You’re welcome to join us if you’re not sick of his company by now.”

Scott chuckled. “I’d like to see that,” he said. “He might be better at chess, but if he’s anything like mine, billiards is not so much his territory.” He stood up, gathering the dirty clothes. “Where’s the laundry room? Might as well drop these off.”

“I’ll show you,” Other-Scott said, opening the door again and stepping into the hallway. “It’s next to the games room.” Scott followed him, letting the door close behind him.

Chapter 13>>>

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #long way from home #gordon tracy #jeff tracy

17 notes · View notes

rbrooksdesign · 3 years ago

Text

Here's The STORY: (Part I of III)

Two dots (numbers, really), one ODD one EVEN, walk into a bar.

The bartender says, “Haven’t I seen you two before?”

“Not likely,” says the ODD dot as he/she plops on a stool, “there are only 51 of us known in the entire Universe — and that makes us kind of special!”

To which the bartender snidely replies to the other dot, “Special? So what makes you two so special?”

“He/she is an ODD Prime number, while I am simply an EVEN,” smirked the EVEN number. “And, we are always together as pairs. Like ODD said, there are currently only 51 pairs: ODD PRIME—EVEN Perfect Number and we like it that way!”

Now grimacing with disbelief, the bartender barks out, “A Perfect Number! Alright, what makes you such a damn Perfect Number — and though you say you are EVEN I am pretty sure you both are odd?”

“Well, since you asked, EVEN Perfect Number replied, “The sum of my factors — not counting myself — equals myself, a Perfect Number! And there are only 51 known Perfect Numbers! I’d say that is pretty special! For example: take the PN 6 = 1+2+3!”

Looking askance at the ODD PRIME, the bartender then leans over and asks, “And you?”

“Hey, you might get more than you bargained for! But here goes. Not only am I a PRIME number and all PRIMES — except 2 — are ODD, I am a very special type of PRIME number called a Mersenne Prime. Technically, that is Mp=2ᵖ -1, where p=PRIME. For you earthlings, that translates to a PRIME that is an exponential power of 2, subtract 1. For example, let p = 2, then Mp = 2² -1 = 4 - 1 = 3 and 3 is a Mersenne Prime. And , of course, you have met my partner, Perfect Number(PN) 6. We are a pair!”

“Cool! So what can I get you?” the bartender grins. It is, after all, nice to start your day with a little elevated mathematics!

“Well, what we really want is to be seen!” said the ODD. “Though we have always been here, at least since the Big Bang, for the last 2000+ years we have only been known as dots — numbers, really — but never seen. We want our land! We want our AREA!”

“Whoa, fella!” exclaims the bartender, “are you talking about going from algebra to geometry? What do you want me to do?”

To which in unison both the ODD and EVEN pair respond, “Connect the dots! Makes some lines”

“Hear me out,” says the ODD. “Here is how you can see us, and, how we are related. You see, my little EVEN PN is really more like one of my children! Yeah, I know, it looks bad, but that is not how it is. You have never before had the opportunity to see what our relationship is and how it naturally forms from the geometry.”

“If you run my dots out to a line, or side, and now square it, you get an actual geometric shape, a SQUARE Since it is made from my Mersenne Prime (Mp), it is called a Mersenne Prime Square (MPS). Now think of it as the TOP layer.”

“That MPS can be divided into 2 RECTANGLES. Best seen on the MIDDLE layer. The EVEN Perfect Number is one of those RECTANGLES, the other is an ODD RECTANGLE.”

“So right from the start, one can ‘see’ that the PN is actually a child AREA of its parent MPS! This occurs in all 51 of the ODD PRIME — EVEN Perfect Number pair sets!”

“In the BOTTOM layer below, the 2 RECTANGLES within the MPS can each be subdivided in to a Perfect Square and a common, remaining RECTANGLE — grandchildren of the MPS!’

“From the MPS we have 2 generational subdivisions giving rise to a total of 6 geometric AREAS, or 7 total AREAS when the MPS AREA is included! And you can ‘see’ every one of them! Not only that, but if you know the number value of the shortest side, you can calculate and draw out the geometry all the way back up to the MPS!”

“So, I’ll have what she/he is having! Thank you, thank you —- thank you very much!”

“Whew!” exclaimed the bartender with a bit of relief, “I think I might have just created a new drink! We’ll call it the ‘MPS’ for Mersenne Prime Square. Take the bottle of Mersenne Primes and pour it out on to a stack of sieves. It will first form an AREA, then filter down to smaller AREAS that thereafter filter down to even smaller AREAS. Pour the AREAS back into a tall glass, layer by layer. Enjoy!”

~~ ~~ ~~ Part II follows

The MPS Project (Mersenne Prime Square), #7-1, 2021, Reginald Brooks. Coming soon.

#rbrooksdesign #geometry #graphics #bim #inverse square law #primes #mathematics #math #bbs isl matrix #mersenne prime squares #mersenne primes #numbertheory #digital art #math art #archives

6 notes · View notes

scintillating-galaxias · 5 years ago

Text

fellas is it gay to accidentally make out with your lab partner

(read it here on ao3!)

They’re stuck.

Impossibly, hopelessly, stuck.

It does not often happen that with their collective processing power, Perceptor and Brainstorm find themselves unable to continue in their work simply because they have no idea what the problem is. Perceptor is too calculated and particular about his methods to lose himself so thoroughly and though Brainstorm is not nearly as careful, his tenaciousness makes him absolutely ruthless when it comes to any blockade they run into.

But when they do run into one, they run into it hard.

Both of them are currently sitting on the floor. The pieces of the prototype of Brainstorm’s newest idea, a temporal displacement blaster, lay scattered between them. Brainstorm himself has been tossing his faceplate (which he’s been wearing less and less lately, much to Perceptor’s enjoyment) up and down for the last two hours. But now, the motion has been stifled by a terrible dullness slowly glazing over his optics. It’s a decidedly haunting look on him. He is all movement, all forward motion. He brings life, energy, to their lab just by existing in its space. To see him stagnant instills Perceptor with a profoundly unsettling sense of wrong.

Something must be done.

Perceptor cycles his scope. “One more time,” he sighs, breaking the silence, “you are—”

“We are,” Brainstorm cuts in listlessly, “we’ve been sitting together on the floor long enough that I think I can constitute this as a co-project.”

“We,” continues Perceptor, “are attempting to make a weapon that creates user-controlled temporal pockets which temporarily freeze the matter contained within it in a particular moment of time.”

“Time bubbles, yep.”

“And the issue…”

“The issue,” Brainstorm says dully, “is that everything that’s in motion when we put it in the time bubbles comes out all screwy.”

“‘Screwy’ is hardly the appropriate terminology, but… yes.”

Brainstorm groans and hurls his mask across the room. It skitters away with a clatter and vanishes beneath a shelf. “I don’t get it!” he laments. “I could make time-travel happen, so why can’t I make a fraggin’ pause button? It’s basically the same thing!”

Perceptor frowns and gingerly lays a servo on Brainstorm’s pauldron. When he doesn’t react, he says, “Time travel, until you, was an unexplored science. You’re the first, and the first ones never have it easy. We’re bound to run into troubles.”

Brainstorm smiles, but his wings sag dejectedly. “We’re unstoppable together, Percy. When you’re with me, I can invent, and make, and do literally anything. Anything,” he says quietly, “except this, I guess.”

Perceptor’s mouth opens, but no response comes out. He should be flattered—and he is—but it’s difficult to accept when Brainstorm’s field practically writhes with frustration and bitterness that’s clearly directed at himself.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says, “I’m helping you see this endeavor through until the end.”

Brainstorm’s gaze burns when he meets it for a second too long, so he shutters his optics and focuses them down on the pieces of the prototype on the floor. Data. Review the data. Doing it again can’t hurt.

Trial #07, recorded at 15:01:29. Matter (1.0 x 1.0 x 1.0 mechanometer cube of aluminum) placed on pedestal. Upon firing, temporal displacement gun disappeared. Suspect a fault within the barrel caused gun to misfire and hit itself with a temporal pocket. Unable to locate and retrieve it. Trial discontinued.

Trial #22, recorded at 18:44:17. Matter (1.0 x 1.0 x 1.0 mechanometer cube of aluminum) placed on pedestal. Fired upon by temporal displacement gun. Temporal pocket successfully created around matter. Pocket was then terminated because Brainstorm disliked the color.

Note: This decision was not made with unanimous agreement.

Trial #58, recorded at 23:14:18. Matter (1.0 x 1.0 x 1.0 mechanometer cube of aluminum) launched 15 meters into air at 70-degree angle. Fired upon by temporal displacement gun. Matter successfully placed inside temporal pocket. Matter is ‘frozen’ in position. When released from temporal pocket, matter becomes intangible. Appearance ‘glitches’ between prediction position from calculated trajectory and original position. ‘Glitch’ flickers rapidly and seemingly randomly. Unable to reverse effect.

Trial #59… {in progress}

Uncharacteristically, his mind begins to wander. Maybe the hours of relentlessly hacking away at this project have dulled the sharp focus he typically has. A conversation he hadn’t meant to overhear between Tailgate and Swerve on one night at the bar begins to play.

“You’d think we’d have figured out how to get better interstellar WiFi by now,” Tailgate was complaining. “I’ve lost so many games because I keep lagging!”

“What I’m hearing,” Swerve said as he expertly swiped a rag around a cube, “is the sonorous anthem of a bad player.”

“No! You need to come over tonight, I’ll show you how bad it is in my hab suite…”

“You’ve got a thinking face on.”

“I do not have a thinking face.”

“Everyone has a thinking face. Yours is like—you go mm”—Brainstorm frowns a little bit—“and your scope kinda points down more.”

“Does it?” Brainstorm’s been paying that kind of attention to him?

“Yep. What’re you thinking?”

Perceptor chews on his glossa. “This is,” he begins warningly, “frankly, a whim—”

“Hey, I’d take Swerve’s ideas at this point. Pit, I’d take Whirl’s, and he suggested a gun that fired guns the other cycle.” Brainstorm twists around so that he’s facing Perceptor and plants his chin on his servos. “Hit me.”

“Alright… Forgive me for the crude phrasing, but the way these objects are behaving reminds me of Tailgate’s video games.”

Brainstorm links his digits together and nods thoughtfully. “...Yeah, you’re gonna have to give me more here.”

“Do you recall what issue he used to complain about until you’d fixed it?” he tries.

“His game was being slow? What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Bear with me. Tailgate described it as ‘lagging’, yes?” Brainstorm nods with one brow ridge raised. “In that context, it essentially meant that his game fell behind what was actually happening.”

“I’m familiar with the term,” Brainstorm says wryly. “He only whined about it to me three times a cycle for eighty-five cycles straight.”

Perceptor cracks a smile. “Then you could tell me why it happened and how you fixed it.”

“Are you serious?”

“When am I not?”

Brainstorm chuckles. “Fair enough. It was an easy fix. I could have done it with my optics turned off. His suite happened to be just on the edge of the range of the router, so it kept cutting in and out. I just gave him his own extension… based off the ship’s… Oh. Ohh. ”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but the lag occurred when the connection was too poor. Everything in Tailgate’s game—from his perspective—stopped at the moment the connection dropped.” Perceptor looks to Brainstorm, who nods. “Anything else within the game continued to react with the environment unaffected because it wasn’t having the same issue. When the connection stabilized, everything in Tailgate’s game rapidly sped back up to what was actually happening.”

“Right…”

Perceptor sets his shoulders. “I suspect something similar is happening with these temporal pockets. When the pocket is activated, it creates its own timeline for everything inside that moves asynchronously with this one.”

Brainstorm’s optics begin to glimmer. “Keep going,” he says as he drags the pieces of the prototype towards him and begins to swiftly reassemble them.

Invigorated, Perceptor straightens and leans towards Brainstorm. “Once the matter is placed inside the bubble,” he explains, “it enters its own timeline. It splits off from this one”—he gestures broadly to their lab—“for the lifespan that the pocket exists. Like this.” He flashes a crude diagram onto the floor from his scope featuring a thick, straight line. “Here is the alpha timeline, using ourselves as a reference frame. It’s also the one the matter is in before the creation of the temporal distortion pocket.” He begins to draw a thinner line that branches off from the first. “This moment,” he continues, pointing at where the thick and the thin one connect, “is where the bubble is created. This new line is the new beta timeline the matter is in. But the issue is that when we create the pocket”—he erases the point of connection—“instead of staying tethered to the alpha timeline, the matter becomes more or less stranded in the beta one.”

Brainstorm shivers. “You’re the smartest fragging mech on this ship, you know that? I barely know what you’re talking about. It’s amazing. Keep going.”

Perceptor forces down the pleased swelling of his spark. Brainstorm practically invented all of the concepts he was talking about, and he calls Perceptor the smart one? “My theory for our problem is this: when we attempt to free the material inside of the bubble, it continues to behave as though it is within the beta timeline. Interactions with it become difficult because to us, it’s in a new position—at least, it should be—but to the matter inside the pocket, it has not moved.”

Brainstorm nods, slowly at first, then faster and faster. “Yeah… yeah! Yeah, okay, okay, and then, then…” He snaps his digits together frantically. “So we give it some sort of—some sort of anchor to this timeline. So it’ll still move with it, but like, in tandem, and not as a part of this timeline.” As he speaks, he drags his digit along the thin line, runs it parallel to the thicker line, and then drags it back down. “We just gotta establish a remote connection from this timeline to the bubble.”

“Precisely. If we can manage that, then maybe…” Perceptor trails off with a tilt of his head. Brainstorm stares owlishly for a long moment. His optics blaze to life.

“I have an idea,” he mutters, scrambling to his pedes, “If this works, I swear I’m gonna—Oh my God, hold on—”

He drags Perceptor up, then flies over to his workspace, wings visibly quivering with anticipation. Perceptor can only watch in stunned awe as Brainstorm’s servos fly across the console, twisting, complex equations he’s almost certainly just now invented springing to life across the screen. “I mean,” Brainstorm rambles as he types, “hypothetically, it’s easy. I’ve done it before with my timecase. Of course, that was attached to my body, and this is firing over a distance, and that’s obviously different, but—”

“Sigma, not delta.”

“Thanks, and I played around with some long-distance options with the timecase, you know—”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, but they never were what I really needed. I mean,” Brainstorm scoffs, throwing up one hand while the other continues to work as a blur across the keyboard, “why try to calculate something that would find my exact position in an exact moment in time in the past? That’s like trying to shoot a bullet out of the air five minutes after you fire it. It’s asinine.”

“Yes, it would have been a pain. Your solution was clever, however.”

“So then—this might work? No guarantees. You thought it was clever?”

“Unbelievably so.”

Brainstorm bites his lip and mutters something like, “ You’re unbelievable,” but Perceptor can’t be sure. He doesn’t have the time to question it because Brainstorm pushes off from the console then, and snatches up the blaster. Perceptor finally shakes himself to quit his gawking (though he can’t quite get rid of the fond smile) and strides off to place yet another cube of aluminum onto the launcher they’d been using. When he returns to the firing line, Brainstorm is watching the recalibration bar load with a slightly frantic gleam to his optics.

“Come on,” he mutters, “come on, come on, come on, come on—”

The second the console flashes its confirmation of completion, he practically rips the cable out of the blaster that connected it to the console. It’s bent at an uncomfortably sharp angle at the end, but Brainstorm either does not notice or does not care as he takes aim.

“Ready?”

“Yes.” Perceptor’s spark chamber feels tight. “I’ll be firing on three. One, two, three.” He flicks a switch. Up goes the cube, sailing in a flinty silver arch—

Brainstorms fires. The blast hits the cube dead-on. It freezes at the peak of its arch inside of a cherry red bubble.

Trial #59, recorded at 24:01:47…

“You getting this?”

“Of course.”

“How much time has passed?”

Perceptor tilts his head. “When I finish speaking, it will be approximately ten point eight five two seven seconds since the material has entered the temporal distortion pocket.”

Brainstorm vents harshly. His right pede is tapping anxiously, but his aim is remarkably steady. “Right. I’m gonna release it now.”

A moment passes. Nothing happens.

Perceptor glances at him. “Brainstorm?”

A loud crash of metal reverberates through their lab as the cube hits the ground with a bang! and bounces gracelessly to a stop. The ringing of metal continues on into the shocked silence for a few fragile seconds.

“It worked,” Brainstorm says, dumbfounded. Then he laughs, shortly at first, and then bright and clear. The the radiance of his smile is the most exquisite thing Perceptor’s ever seen. “It worked!”

Perceptor finally releases the vent he’d been holding, only to sputter on his next cycle when Brainstorm drags him into a crushing hug. It’s despairingly brief, but when Brainstorm pushes him away, it isn’t far—just millimeters from his face, from his pretty mouth, Oh Primus—and it’s to place his servos firmly on either side of Perceptor’s helm.

“What—?”

“You’re fragging incredible,” Brainstorm whispers, and he kisses Perceptor full on the mouth.

As far as kisses go, the technique is slightly lacking. Their denta clack, their noses smash together, but he can feel Brainstorm’s victorious grin across his mouth and the giddy rush of he’s-kissing-me! drowns out every other line of code detailing cohesive thought in Perceptor’s processor.

But the moment he comes back to himself enough to reciprocate, cool air ghosts across his damp lips. The space in front of him is empty.

Perceptor resets his optics. Then he does it again. Brainstorm has not vanished into thin air. He’s actually across the lab, face buried in his servos.

“—fragging idiot, what the Pit was that, why, why, did I do that? Couldn’t keep yourself under control, and you do that? What the hell?”

A twinge of hurt plucks at Perceptor’s spark. Had he… not meant to kiss him? Why had he, then? Perceptor sighs. “Brainstorm.”

“Never gonna take my faceplate off again, oh my God —”

“Please just look at me.”

Brainstorm freezes. Slowly, he turns around, shame drawing his shoulders close to his audials. “I can—I can go, if you want,” he blurts.

Perceptor jerks his head back. “What?”

“There’s a bunch of empty labs on this ship. Plus, there’s plenty of other mechs dying to be your lab partner—”

“What?”

“Yeah, seriously, First Aid’s aft-deep in Ratchet’s old work, but he’s a seriously clever mech, I bet you guys would—”

“No, I mean—I don’t want you to change labs, and I don’t want a new lab partner.” Brainstorm stares. Perceptor turns his palms outward placatingly. “All I want is an explanation.”

Brainstorm’s wings droop miserably. He scrubs his forehead with a servo hard enough to leave behind faint orange paint transfers and exvents heavily. “I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. I got excited and sometimes I just—I’m affectionate. That’s, ugh, not an excuse, it’s stupid. I shouldn’t have done it, and I’m sorry.”

But he looks so defeated and upset, and his field is such a horribly tight, dark knot of despair-regret-disappointment, Perceptor cannot help but feel there is something he has purposely left out.

We’re unstoppable together.

Smartest mech on the ship.

You’re unbelievable.

You’re fragging incredible.

…Or Perceptor merely has not been looking into the data deeply enough.

His silence is obviously mistaken by Brainstorm, who laughs lifelessly and says, “I really screwed us up, huh.”

“No,” Perceptor says quickly. He takes a step towards Brainstorm. Then another, and another, until he’s close enough to reach out and hold his servos if he felt so inclined. “You didn’t screw anything up. I forgive you,” he says clearly. Then he politely resets his vocalizer, and quietly adds, “But a little warning next time would be appreciated.”

“Of course, Perc, I—” Brainstorm’s helm snaps up so quickly, Perceptor’s worries if he’s pulled some struts. “Next time?”

“Yes. Next time.”

“You… You?”

“Yes.”

“For real?”

“Yes.”

“...Seriously?”

“For Primus’—” Perceptor curls one digit beneath Brainstorm’s chin. Before he can lose his nerve, he presses his lips to Brainstorm’s. This kiss is not nearly as bruising as their first one, but it’s deeper, and Perceptor still makes damn sure he pours every ounce of yes and want this and real he has in him until he feels Brainstorm begin to literally sink a little under it all. He breaks away then, unable to suppress his smile when he asks, “Is that a sufficient answer?”

Brainstorm makes a noise that sounds like his entire processor deciding to reboot by throwing itself into a body of water. “I dunno,” he says, dazed. “Might need a few more test runs to really be sure it works.”

Perceptor smiles and lifts his arms to loop them around Brainstorm’s shoulders. “I believe,” he says, leaning in, “that can be arranged.”

#simpatico #maccadam #my writing #fluff #accidentally on purpose kisses #this is silly . i have no regrets

110 notes · View notes