#omg first kiss?

[imagine-darksiders]

On the Ropes - Chapter 26

A Spark.

Montgomery Gator x Reader.

----

You couldn’t immediately say what is it that drags you from the bliss of a sleepy fugue at some unknown but doubtlessly ludicrous hour in the morning.

Not that it matters much, you suppose. Awake is awake, regardless of how sluggishly your brain chugs itself into gear and hauls with it a familiar and unwelcome ache that spreads down the length of your spine and sharpens to a needling point when it reaches your ankle.

In a voice that’s thick and laden with fatigue, you peel cracked lips apart and croak out a single, scratchy, “Ouch…”

Was that pain always there…?

Little sparks of fire dance and zip around your foot, each strike as unwelcome as a bee sting, and accompanying them is a substantial weight that’s been draped across your thighs, too heavy to simply be your duvet.

Reluctant to face cognizance but resigned to it all the same, you hesitantly pry open your eyelids and find yourself squinting out into an almost pitch-dark room. Only the dim glow of a streetlamp standing outside the alleyway manages to cast its light far enough to creep between the gap in your curtains.

Settled against the opposite wall, the filter on your fish tank gurgles softly in the darkness, the residents inside unaware and undisturbed by your plight.

Still ensnared in that strange interim that hangs between awake and asleep, you don’t connect the pain to its root for some time. Instead, a gentle sigh whistles through your nose as your chest rises and falls, and you send several lazy blinks up at the ceiling.

You have to summon the strength to turn your head over on your pillow and squint at the little red numbers flashing back at you from the clock that’s perched on your bedside table.

‘4:12am’

Your lungs deflate with mild relief.

If nothing else, at least there’s still plenty of time to catch a few more hours of sleep before you have to get up for work. Maybe, you muse in your sleep-addled brain, you can ignore the twinges and the pressure on your lap, and simply drift right back off to sleep.

You just need to relax.

Turning your head back to the ceiling, your senses still clumsy and dull, you sink against the pillow and smack your lips, relishing the softness beneath your skull.

…. Wait…

No sooner has your head touched down however than your eyes flutter open again, brows furling together into a quizzical frown.

‘Work…? No… That’s not right…’

Another timely spike of pain twists down the outside of your ankle.

And just like that, clarity sets in with such harsh ferocity, your heart just about takes a nosedive off your sternum and plunges down into your guts, dragging with it the grim truth of a reality you’d managed to forget in your sleep.

‘Ah… Right…’ you lament to yourself with a grimace, ‘The ‘incident.’

The endo… Stella… Monty coming to your rescue…

There in the darkness, your brain arduously begins fitting the puzzle pieces together, though it pauses once you reach the part where Doctor Timpson handed you a prescription for a bag full of painkillers, and suddenly, that’s all you can focus on.

Wincing, you suck in a breath through your teeth and shift uncomfortably on the bed as the pain grows from tender to worrisome.

Now you know why you woke up.

Your painkillers must have worn off during the night.

… Figures…

Heaving a weary sigh, you reach up to scrub your fingertips roughly over your eyes, groaning like you’re scratching a satisfying itch until little bursts of colour and light start to flash across the black expanse behind each eyelid.

The painkillers, of course, are not on your bedside table, because it would have been too much to expect of yourself to place them there next to a handy glass of water…

No.

Instead, they’re still sitting by the bathroom sink in their crumpled white bag alongside a dry toothbrush and the neglected care instructions for your cast.

Just then, your ankle gives another unpleasant throb, hot and swollen within the confines of its bulky stocking.

Yielding to the fact that you’ll never get back to sleep unless you take those pills, you let out a belligerent moan and thrust your hands off your face, reaching down the length of your body instead to grasp the duvet that’s been scrunched up around your waist.

You move with every intention of tossing it aside so you can heave yourself out of bed. What you don’t expect however, is for the tips of your outstretched fingers to collide painfully with a smooth, solid obstruction nestled heavily in your lap.

There’s a dull ‘clunk!’ followed almost immediately by your squeaked, “Aah!”

The shrill bleat of alarm ruptures an otherwise peaceful twilight, but the compulsion to cry out is too overbearing to bite down on. After all, you’ve just been rocked by a very palpable wrongness in learning there’s something on your bed that definitely should not be there.

Violently, like you’ve just been burned, you rip your hand away and flail clumsily on the mattress, making a pitiful attempt to shimmy yourself backwards up the headboard only to find that your legs are trapped by the inexplicable weight still settled over them, far more noticeable now that you’ve been jolted properly awake.

In the next second though, you grow very still, frantically stuffing your lips together and choking on an expletive as your shock ducks aside to allow abject horror to take its place.

Whatever it was you’d struck utters a sharp, throaty grunt that sends reverberations rattling up through your bed frame. Without warning, the unseen obstruction gives a rough lurch and promptly shoots upright, and as it does, the weight in your lap disappears.

Your eyes - still unaccustomed to the dark - stare wildly at a massive black shape that shifts against the ebony backdrop of your bedroom, its edges indiscernible despite how you try frantically to search for definition.

Are you still dreaming? Is this a nightmare?

The bones in your ankle sing as you jerk your legs up, curling the one not in a cast as far from the silhouette as you can bear.

And then, with a mechanical whir, two spots of vivid, blood-red light sputter into existence, hanging side by side several feet off the ground, far higher than any human’s eyes ought to be.

For just a split second, you’re a child again, laying in your bed late at night with the covers pulled right up to your chin, plagued by thoughts of red-eyed monsters rising out from under the bed to eat you or kidnap you or do whatever it was monsters did to overimaginative children.

Then all of a sudden, it speaks.

The voice is gruff and pitched deep like the growl of some wild, feral animal. It fills the room, pulling a visceral flinch out of you before the words even reach your ears.

“Ugh, Lady? Whus’wrong?” it slurs drowsily, muffled as though it’s talking to you over an untuned radio, “Y’okay?” A sharp burst of static buzzes through your eardrums, and this time when the voice speaks again, there isn’t a hint of drowsiness to it. Just clear and abrupt urgency. “You hurt!?”

And just like that, the neurons in your brain light up, and the final puzzle piece shoves itself back into place, such an obvious and unmistakable piece that you wonder how you didn’t see where it fit in the first instance.

“Monty!” you gasp out in a rush, only mildly relieved by the revelation as those fearsome red lights above you start to take on a softer tinge of pink, illuminating the rounded tip of a familiar, green snout, “Jesus Christ! You scared the shit out of me!”

Eyes – ‘optics,’ you remind yourself – swivel wider before they narrow again, then turn into little halfmoons hanging above you, a sign that he’s shuttering his plastic eyelids, leaving them to droop dejectedly over the lights of his LEDs.

“Oh…” the animatronic mumbles, and you hear the heavy thud of his foot as he takes a step back, away from the bed, his pistons hissing with renewed activity, “… M’sorry…”

You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to hearing an apology escape from Montgomery Gator’s speakers, and you might’ve even taken the time to recognise its rarity if you weren’t so abruptly swept up in a whirlwind of alarm and borderline panic.

All at once, your limbs spring apart as you sit ramrod straight in the bed and try to pick out Monty’s features through the gloom, ignoring the angry jolt of red-hot heat that sparks a fire in your ankle.

That heat is nothing compared to the broiling ruckus currently churning in the pit of your stomach.

“The Hell are you still doing here!?” you blurt out, all but throwing yourself sideways to fumble for the lamp on your bedside table, “You should have been long gone by now! Oh, my fucking…-! What’s your battery on!?”

Scrambling fingers find the little push switch on the side of the lamp, and you waste no time flicking it on, instantly hissing at the intrusion of light that rudely sears your retinas and forces you to squeeze your eyes shut.

“My battery’s fine,” the gator retorts, unseen, sounding less morose and more like his usual self, “I was in standby… Low energy consumption.”

Your eyelids protest valiantly when you attempt to pry them apart, but little by little, you coax them open again and blink through bleary vision at the wobbly blob of green towering above your bed. “Standby,” you echo flatly.

As if that even vaguely answers the question as to what he’s still doing in your room.

Montgomery Gator, in all his great, green glory, is standing at the side of your bed when he really, really shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t be anywhere near your bed, in fact, not when he was supposed to have made his way back home hours ago.

It still comes as a shock to see how much larger he appears without the high roofs and vast rooms of the Plex as a backdrop.

In here, stuffed between your bed and the wall, with the top of his mohawk almost brushing the ceiling, and his tail sprawled out across your carpet, he seems over twice his normal size.

Apparently oblivious to the crisis of his own making, the animatronic tips his long snout down at you, the black, plastic brows on his head slotting neatly together as he declares, “S’your battery you should be worryin’ about. Can’t’ve got much charge yourself.”

You resist the urge to scoff as you match his disapproval, scowling right back up into his optics, half hidden behind his glasses.

“Humans don’t have batteries,” you argue at last, gingerly extracting your legs from the bed and lowering them over the side, taking care not to let your injured appendage bump against the floor. All the while, you have to suppress a wince.

Because watching you like a hawk, Monty grunts, “You know what I mean.”

With a shake of your head, you brace your hands on the edge of the mattress and peer glumly down at the cast covering your leg as a question springs to mind; Is this really an argument you want to have right now…? Is this an argument you want to have at all? The shock of waking up to find the animatronic in your room is slowly but surely receding with each subsequent second.

You suppose having him all but break in last night was about as shocking as it could get. Anything that follows simply doesn’t measure up. And besides, getting into a verbal spat won’t change the very glaring fact that he’s still here… All it’ll do is sap what little energy you’re pulling from your reserves, never mind what it could do to his.

It’s too early. You’re too tired. You’re in too much pain. And you do so hate to fight…

Your ears twitch when the gears in Monty’s jaw spin softly as he opens it to ask, “Did you get any sleep at all?”

The ‘you look terrible’ comment remains unspoken but conceals itself badly behind his teeth.

Tearing your eyes off the cast, you bend your neck back and release your longest sigh yet. When it ends, you just blink languidly up at the gator, and at last reply, “Doesn’t matter. A few hours’ll have to do for now.”

Under your breath, in a voice deliberately pitched so quiet that he can’t pick it up, you softly mutter, “Painkillers…”

As you start to push yourself off the squeaking mattress, you hear an unhappy grumble from the speakers of the massive animatronic, and in just one swift stride, he’s suddenly hovering right above you, curling his thick, sturdy palms under your elbows and gently lifting you onto your feet with far more care than such a formidable bot should possess.

“Does matter,” he retorts petulantly, keeping his hands under one of your arms whilst you bend awkwardly and fish around on the floor for the crutch you’d discarded near the side of your bed.

“Why’d you wake up anyway?” he continues to grouse, “I was comfy…”

Blowing an exasperated huff through your nose, you straighten up and slip your unoccupied arm through the crutch’s handle, tugging your captured appendage from the gator’s palm and making the awkward squeeze around his sizeable bulk.

“Gee, I don’t know,” you yawn, raking your fingers across your scalp and cringing at the oily slickness clinging to your hair. When did you last have a shower? “Maybe because I realised there was a giant gator in my lap. Who probably shouldn’t still be here.”

Heavy footsteps clunk after you into the ensuite bathroom. “You said I could stay!”

“For a little while, I recall,” you snap waspishly over your shoulder, running a hand over the wall until your fingertips find the light switch. With a dull ‘click,’ the tiled, white room is suddenly flooded in a buzzing fluorescence that hurts your eyes. Not a second later, you’re already regretting the sharpness of your tone.

Hissing a sigh through your teeth like a pressure valve being released, you hobble forwards to the sink and brace your front against it, lifting your eyes to the mirror and peering at your reflection.

‘Ugh.’

Well… you suppose the dark bags are a given, but did you have to drool so profusely as to leave a line of dried, crusty spit down the side of your chin?

Wetting your fingertips under the dripping tap, you scrub them fervently at the spittle and turn your gaze instead to the reflection of the large animatronic lurking behind you in the doorway.

He doesn’t meet your gaze. He’s too busy frowning down at his feet, brows resting heavily above his optics.

In contrast, your own expression softens, weary and apologetic.

“Look,” you say in a far less agitated tone, turning off the tap with a squeak of metal and inspecting your now clean chin, “I’m sorry. I don’t want to argue with you, Monty. I just want you to go home-”

“-Why’re you so keen to get rid of me?”

What follows is a silence so fragile, you could probably drop a feather and it would shatter into a thousand, fibrous pieces.

Your fingertips find the edge of the sink and flex bruisingly on the porcelain whilst you stare through the mirror, at a loss for words.

This time, Monty is looking back. His optics are set into a hard, unflinching scowl, aperture pupils shrunk down to mere pinpricks.

You’re not about to let that slide…

“That,” you snap, “is not what this is, and you know it.”

And the thing is, he does know it. Even as he admonishes himself for asking the question, he knows. You wouldn’t… do that to him. Time and again, you prove to be a better person than he consistently expects you to be.

But experience has driven a recognisable pattern right into his code that isn’t so easily shaken loose.

Montgomery Gator knows rejection far better than he knows acceptance. Humans want him gone more than they want him around, it’s been that way since he was first turned online, and proceeded to malfunction so badly, his tail broke several laptops and a workbench. Good things don’t tend to last for bots like him. He’s told himself that before. It’s a notion that’s been haunting the back of his processor from the day he met you.

There’s always another shoe, and it’s always about to drop…

He… doesn’t want you to be the one to drop it.

Anyone else… anyone at all…

Just not you.

He hadn’t realised before just how much he needs you to choose his presence over his absence. And although he knows you’re right, it’s bad that he’s here, it’s bad for both of you that he’s here… something in his programming, something that shines as green as the snout on his face, selfishly vies for your acquiescence.

Then all of a sudden, you’re doing it, you’re turning arduously around until your back is to the sink, and you’re staring him in the optics straight on, not through the surface of the mirror.

Suddenly, he finds himself straining his audials in anticipation, every wire and node in his frame poised to hear you tell him he can stay. Here.

With you. 

Instead, you do something else entirely.

In a fashion he should have expected by now, you step delicately into the middle of the playing field, no man’s land, neither telling him you want him here, nor that you want him to go.

“You think I want to say goodbye and not see you for six weeks?” you ask plainly instead, bringing his processor to a grinding halt, then viciously knocking it off its tracks with the follow-up, “I don’t want to get rid of you, Monty, I want you to be safe.”

Safe…?

Several of the gator’s systems have to reset themselves, his optics first and foremost, flickering narrow then wide again as he shutters his lids in a few rapid-fire blinks.

Dumbly, he has to thump a fist against his chest when the speaker inside it stalls on a clumsy, “Huh?”

But you don’t seem all that willing to let him get his thoughts in order. “What do you think Mick’ll do if he finds out you’re not in the Plex? Hm?” you press on, “And I really hope it is ‘if’ and not ‘when’.”

… Safe…

Unbidden, one of the gator’s hands worms its way up to lay over the cavity of his chest, rubbing tenderly at the plastic casing as if it’s sore.

“I’m sorry, Monty...” you tell him, earnest and frank, setting aside the grief of your leg in favour of spending a few more moments consoling the animatronic, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to have to say it, but…” Hesitating, your brows dip, and you offer the gator a sad, tired frown. “Not everyone is on your side.”

‘Understatement of the century,’ he gripes to himself. But why should he care about that? So long as you’re on his side, things will be okay.

“But lot of people are,” you squeeze out with conviction, pouring as much encouragement into your words as you can fit, “I’m on your side. That exec came around too, didn’t she? Stella, and her mums. Andy is starting to trust you! Andy Flowers! Hell, even the public are seeing you properly for the first time. But it’s the people who aren’t on your side who you need to tread carefully around. People like Mick,” you continue, earning a sudden, guttural thrum from the gator’s speakers that you deliberately ignore. Let him be angry. You’re pretty angry too if you’re being honest.

Resisting the urge to wring your hands together imploringly, you add, “Right now, Mick is gonna be looking for any excuse to hurt you.”

You’re hardly surprised when Monty sticks his snout into the air and expels a haughty grunt, his prior astonishment all but forgotten in the overpowering wake of his pride.

“I’d like to see ‘im try,” he declares, jamming the pad of a thumb against his chest, “I protected you from an endo, an’ I can protect myself from old Mick too. I’m stronger than that pipsqueak by a mile.”

His bluster, however, is almost immediately knocked back out of him when you abruptly shove yourself off the sink with an exasperated shake of your head. “It isn’t about how strong you are!”

In your haste however, you stumble on your bad foot, and just like that, Monty is there, stooping forwards with his arms outstretched to catch you by the shoulders. At the same time, your own hands clasp feverishly on top of the gator’s wide wrists, squeezing at the plastic panelling as if you could physically press upon him the gravity of the situation.

“Monty,” you chew his name through clenched teeth, meeting his stare behind those star-shaped sunglasses, “He can hurt you – No, stop–! He can.” You have to interrupt him when his jaw opens to argue.

“Mick can hurt you,” you reiterate once the gator’s fangs click together again, “Without even touching you, Mont. All he needs is a reason. And you being here instead of the Plex?” One of your hands leaves the silent animatronic’s wrist and ventures up towards his face, cupping your palm gently over his rounded cheek. “That’s reason enough for him,” you finish, watching as the black holes of Monty’s apertures swirl wider and wider with every second that the warmth of your fingertips seeps through to his sensors.

If he was capable of swallowing, he would. His optics swivel over to your hand near his teeth, and once again, Monty finds himself slamming a firewall down to cut communications with the gears in his tail. This is not the size of room where the overeager appendage will be subtle if it starts swinging.

There’s a thought pinging around his processor, one he doesn’t dare give voice to lest the truth of it betray just how much the great Montgomery Gator has come to rely on the presence of another when the only back he’s watched for so long is his own.

How… How in the world is he supposed to survive for six weeks without you?

Almost of its own accord, his processor starts to run several hypotheticals detailing emergency protocols he’ll have to follow in the event of an incident occurring while you’re not with him.

And on the opposite side of the equation, he can’t help but wonder what you’ll do without somebody to watch over you when he’s not around?

It’s an unforeseen element of Friendship he hadn’t factored in until now, this… this worry.

Monty casts about for a better word, one that doesn’t have so many connotations attached to it, but he comes up empty, failing to marry his unease with anything more applicable.

He’s worried. And that in itself is worrying.

The blooming warmth emanating from your palm suddenly retracts, and Monty jerks his head upright, realising with some alarm that he’d been leaning his cheek quite heavily against your hand.

You’ve dropped it back down in favour of scrubbing it tiredly over your face. “I’m not sure what I’d do with myself if you got decommissioned because of me,” you admit sullenly, forcing him to cycle back several moments to recall your last words.

Still, the guilt woven through your tone is surprising.

“Cause of you?” he grunts, “Why would it be your fault what they do to me?”

You look up at him then, your eyes focused and sharp like whetted blades. “Monty,” you say slowly, “Why are you here?”

The question stops him in his tracks.

Because the answer is simple. It’s standing in front of him, staring him quite literally in the face.

It’s you. He came here tonight for you. He left the Plex for you, risked being found out for you, is still risking his own safety… for you.

It wouldn’t be your fault if Management does something drastic to him.

But it will be because of you.

Slowly, so slowly he half wonders if there’s a fault in his systems, Monty’s optics droop to observe your hands. The tiny appendages – so much smaller than his own – are clenched with a rigorous fervour, one around the handle of your crutch, and the other into the shirt you fell asleep in, twisting the fabric between your fingers that have gone white at the knuckle to expose the bone underneath.

You're scared. 

“So please. For my sake,” you continue, drawing his gaze from your hands to your face, “To stop me from worrying about you so much-“

The gator’s lips twitch in a wince.

“-Will you please go back to the Plex?”

And this time, with a new perspective rolling around in his processor and gumming up the gears in his jaw, he doesn’t bother to open his mouth, relying on his speakers to offer a concise and muted response.

“Okay.”

And maybe… Just maybe… the tired but dazzling smile that flutters then blooms across your expression and brightens the room makes his acquiescence all the more worth it.

“Thank you, Monty,” you tell him, the fatigue in your eyes never once stealing from the sparkling gratitude you’re trying to drown him in, “Thank you.”

And Hell, maybe he’s inclined to let your palpable waves of relief wash over him for just a bit longer.

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

You never shut the window last night…

Standing awkwardly like a looming giant in your - now rather chilly - living room, Monty’s optics trace the scrapes and gouges he’d inadvertently torn from the wooden frame in his haste to reach you after you took that tumble yesterday.

Wincing, he clears the static from his voice box with a sheepish cough and mutters, “Uhm… I… um… Sorry, ‘bout your window…”

Leaning on your crutch beside him, you ponder the same destruction, one palm clasped around your chin.

With the painkillers now working their quick and heavenly magic around your ankle, the thoughts in your head are less of a nuisance to put together. Monty had almost tripped over his own tail in his haste to get you your requested glass of water from the kitchen. It was the only thing you could think of that would make him feel helpful and get him out of your bathroom long enough for you to splash some water on your face and idly tousle your hair.

Needless to say, it worked like a charm.

Now, you have to take several quiet breaths, in through your nose then out through your mouth before your momentary alarm at finding your window wide open starts to fade away.

It could have been worse, you suppose.

Oh certainly, the window’s frame will need to be repaired, but you’re less concerned about such a potential cost now than you would have been before Faz Co. paid you that hush money. And sure, someone could have broken in while you slept, but somehow, knowing you had a gigantic animatronic alligator on standby diminishes that particular concern. Besides, nothing looks to have been stolen. There isn’t really much to steal, after all, and you don’t live on the ground floor, a fact which deters all but the most desperate of thieves.

Besides…  

“Windows can always be fixed,” you tell him, turning to flash him a warm tilt of your lips, “You, on the other hand…”

He doesn’t miss the none-too subtle hint.

Monty’s snout tilts up towards the ceiling, his tail thwacking carefully against the carpeted floor in mock exasperation. “A’right,” he huffs, venting out a hot blast of air from the regulator valves in his nostrils, “I’m goin’, m’goin’…”

Leaning your body on the crutch, you bite the inside of your cheek and muscle back a grin when Monty takes a slow, lumbering step towards the window, dragging his tail like a dead weight across the living area.

A performer to the end…

He doesn’t even make it to the window before he stops once more, twisting his nose over a shoulder strut to peer down at you, his crimson LEDs glowing faintly behind his glasses. “You sure you don’t-?”

“-I’m sure.”

“But what if somethi-!?”

“-It won’t.”

“… Right…” he concedes quietly, turning back to the open window.

With laboured movements betraying a reluctance that clogs his every motor, Monty meticulously begins navigating his too-large frame through the window, taking great care that his shoulders don’t scrape any more paint off the wood as he goes.

You’re grateful for his effort, enough to swallow back a laugh when his mohawk clunks solidly on the wood above him and he releases an audible hiss of annoyance, swivelling his optics up to give the frame a dark glare.

It isn’t lost on you that two weeks ago, if you’d asked Monty to ‘be careful,’ he’d more than likely go out of his way to do the exact opposite.

You really are proud to see the work he’s put in to improve his standing at the Plex.

As the gator turns to feed the length of his tail through your window, you give your head a fond shake and step forwards, following his path to the sill and leaning against it on your elbows and watching your breath billow out of you in a soft cloud of white.

Awkwardly sized on the fire escape, Monty manoeuvres himself about to face you, ducking his head low and dropping down onto a knee, bringing himself to your level.

His massive frame rises and falls as he synthesises a sigh, reaching up to sweep the sunglasses off his nose and drape his forearm over a bent knee.

“Guess this is it, huh?” he gripes aloud, brightening ever so slightly when you give a husky laugh.

“Monty. It’s not forever, you know.”

“Might as well be.”

Blinking, your lips quirk affectionately, and you lean your chin on a palm, tilting your head to one side. “Aww~. I thought Freddy was meant to be the charming one.”

As you should have expected, Monty’s plating immediately flares around his neck and he draws himself up, thoroughly affronted. “I’m plenty charming!” he declares.

Flashing him a sly grin, you reply, “So I’m gathering.”

You can see the moment his CPU connects your words together. The animatronic’s brows tick up his forehead and his jaws promptly snap shut with a loud ‘clack.’

You figured he’d appreciate ‘charming’ over ‘cute.’

Even with the nightly bustle of the city drifting into the alleyway, you can hear several of Monty’s gears kick up a notch, whirring noisily in the relatively peaceful alleyway.

Taking pity on the stupefied animatronic, you tip your head upright again and lose the teasing lilt.

“It was very kind of you to come and check on me, Monty.”

Optics click shut, then open again, spinning prettily as they land on you. Without his sunglasses, you find him all the more expressive. An odd realisation for you to have about a robot.

“Yeah?” he utters softly.

Humming, you nod your head, slapping on a sickly-sweet smile and a tone that oozes warning. “Yep… Don’t you ever do it again.”

Dipping his nose sheepishly, Monty rubs at the back of his neck, avoiding your stern glare.

“You’ll head straight back to the Plex?” you add.

“Uh huh.”

“And you’ll be careful and make sure nobody sees you?”

“Mmhmm…”

The façade crumbles and you’re smiling again, still weary, but a smile all the same.

The animatronic catches it when he braves a glance up, and his contrition melts away at the sight of it, as it seems to be doing more and more often of late.

“Good,” you murmur, swaying your torso further out the window, hardly putting a lot of thought into what you’re about to do.

Later, you’ll blame it on the ungodly hour dulling your senses, and the bud of gratitude for Monty swelling in your chest until it was large enough that you thought nothing of stretching your neck out and pressing a gentle, chaste peck on the very tip of his nose.

It’s over and done in a moment, nothing noteworthy about it, just a fond farewell between friends.

But that’s only half of the collective perspective.

Because Monty…. Well, he could have lived in that second for the rest of eternity.

The warmth of soft, tender skin squashing against his snout is at first surprising, thought it almost immediately gives way to something a little more abrupt once his processor registers what you’re doing.

When it does, a surging jolt of electricity thrusts his internal fans into overdrive, riding the currents of his wiring all the way through his frame and overloading several core systems. One after the other, they shut down, rebooting after a nanosecond, and still your lips are on him, so, so perilously close to his teeth.

His jaw motors fail then, followed immediately by the hydraulics in his arms, letting them fall slack to his sides. His optics flutter closed in blissful contentment as his entire frame threatens to buckle and teeter sideways, held aloft when the fail-safes in his limbs lock them into place to prevent damage from a fall.

The warmth – the sheer, unutterable warmth is there for eons, and for a mere second – and then…

Cold. The spot you’d graced with a fabled kiss is cold once more, and Monty’s optics snap open and his fingers fumble to resecure their slackened grip on his sunglasses.

You’re there, in front of him, haloed by the golden light of your living room, looking every bit the angel he’s only seen on Christmas cards they sell in the gift shops. 

They don't hold a candle to real thing, he realises mutely. 

“Goodnight, Monty. Be safe, okay?” you ask. 

Is that all? Don't you realise you could ask him to bring you the Moon and he'd find a way to do it? 

Starstruck, the gator just nods his head dumbly in response, barely paying attention as you withdraw from the windowsill and raise your hands to the frame over your head, slowly drawing it shut. He’s still standing there when your hands slide around the curtains and you cock a smile, flapping one arm at him in a shooing motion.

With his frame still buzzing and sparking with excess electricity, Monty’s residual processing power manages to turn him about on a heel and take the stairs one at a time, each clanging footstep growing faster and faster as his systems burst back to life.

He doesn’t recall how he made it to the rooftops again. Only that his thundering footfalls feel light – lighter than they’ve ever felt before, even when he’s performing on stage, even when the crowd is roaring with excitement.

Monty flies over the buildings, he’s sure he’s flying.

Perhaps there’s a hidden feature the engineers snuck into his programming that would cause him to barely notice his own weight because this euphoria shouldn’t be possible for an animatronic made of wires and codes.

The early morning is dark and bitingly cold.

But Monty only has sensors for the patch of warmth his silicone still remembers on the tip of his nose.

Already, in the corner of his HUD, the feedback of that moment is playing on a loop. 

When the lights of the Megaplex come into view on the city’s outskirts, he almost believes he could leap right off the current building and soar all the way over the immense carpark to the rooftop he began his journey from. He only stops himself when logic catches up and reminds him that he definitely cannot fly.

Keeping his promise to you, he scales down the wall and slinks silently across the vast ocean of tarmac, sticking to the shadows on the perimeter of the Plex until he finds the same spot he’d jumped from last night.

It’s just as easy – easier, in fact with the residual energy coursing through his systems – to launch himself halfway up the towering wall, grabbing onto a gutter and then kicking off again, hauling himself hand over hand and digging his claws into the brickwork until he’s vaulting over the guard rail and onto the roof proper.

There, he turns - his chest bloated and bursting with elation – to face the city.

Somewhere among those shimmering lights is your home. And by extension, you.

He knows where you are, and that alone is enough to soothe the glaring code that longs to be within reach of you.

He’ll stay at the Plex to make you happy, and he’ll do so gladly.

Because Montgomery Gator is not about to jeopardise his chances of getting another kiss.

[noornight]

Long distance besties. This definitely happened after the third movie (source: trust me bro)

Based on this

[pjs-everyday]

*immediately loses their cool* lmao 🤓 // linework >> grayscale // ko-fi

[supporter-of-my-fav-ships]

Five x Lila - The Umbrella Academy (2024)

[lorax-devito]

I like to imagine that Finn and Noah will exaggerate the Byler kiss soooooo much

like the duffers will make it big,I know they will because it’s so important but Finn and Noah will put their heart and soul into that kiss

they will make it the best kiss in cinematic history,even if the script was ‘soft peck on the lips/cheek’ you know they would full on snog each other

they know what the Bylers want and they will deliver

they will make it so dramatic and do whatever it takes to make it so Milkvans can’t say Will forced himself onto Mike,or that Mike didn’t enjoy it

basically Byler kiss will have so much effort and heart from everyone involved that it will more than satisfy the needs of Bylers everywhere whether or not it’s they way you would’ve wanted it to go (ie.some ppl want a rain kiss some want a church kiss/UD kiss)

[itsmespicaa]

"Whoops, so sorry. Where are the shears for the least expensive clothes? Looks like it's not this one."

[spearxwind]

Happy 10th birthday to Cercerion!

OUGHHH UR RIGHT CERCIE IS 10 YEARS OLD NOW !!!!!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABY BOY BELOVEDEST DID NOTHING WRONG EVER IN HIS WHOLE LIFE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[bscgirl99]

If it's make believe why does it feel like a vow we'll both uphold somehow?

[darsynia]

Surprise blurb bomb!

You’re at a conference and a little worried because your boss has enlisted you to present. You’ve got about a day to go, so you’ve been in pacing in your hotel room rehearsing. However, the frustration mounts every time you hear yourself make a little mistake. Your next door neighbor has heard all of this, so they come to knock on your door, checking that everything is alright. When you explain what’s going on, they nod sympathetically, having to present as well. They kindly offer to help you practice, which leads to the two of you falling asleep collapsed on top of each other on your bed. What happens after that? Who’s your babe?

Thank you so much for this!! I chose Steve, and this is teeth-rotting fluff with my signature little characterization moments. I hope you enjoy!!

gif from @askthesuperhusbands

Notes: Pre-Ultron, no warnings, 2,447 words, first draft so I get it out without fussing

Excerpt:

“I get it. Public speaking is hard enough when it’s important, but it’s even harder when there are no friendlies in the audience.” Steve smiles wryly. “That won’t happen here, I promise. I’ll be in the room, because just like with the war bonds, I’m a symbol of what you’re fighting for.”

Always On

“The idea of ‘public relations’ has fallen into disrepute, just like ‘human resources’--and I think their tarnished reputations are related,” you say, hands clutching the edges of the wooden desk chair ‘podium’ precariously balanced on the hotel bed. “I know everyone in this room is well-acquainted with the concept of finding common ground with a myriad of people-- Argh!”

You frown, feeling the judgment of the rumpled sheet hanging on the wall. It’s covering the mirror that had pulled your focus away for the first twenty minutes of this practice exercise, but you still know it’s there. At this point, the sheet is a fig leaf covering your dignity and your inability to stay focused.

It’s past midnight, and the long day is getting to you. The introductory paragraph of your presentation is in the bag, but paragraph two isn’t working at all. It’s your thesis statement, the crux of the whole project, and you know you’re fighting an uphill battle. Without help from the well-respected UNITY Project, the governments of the world might try something extreme to keep the Avengers in line. Each year the group of philanthropists, aid workers, humanitarian lawyers, and other notorious do-gooders meet and choose ten groups to endow aid or oversight on. You’re hoping for the oversight, but it’s a long shot. The group has a sterling reputation, and their clout might be enough to get Secretary Ross to back down.

Your hands ache from where you’ve been clutching at your makeshift podium, but you square your shoulders and try again. “What we’re seeking is a partnership, a way to celebrate this team’s efforts and smooth over their rough edges.”

The sheet is mocking you, so you close your eyes and picture the faceless group you’re going to be appealing to.

“Citizens around the world trust your judgment and their heroism. Together we can ease fears and--” You stop, struggling to remember the word you’d thought up in the rental car on the way to the hotel. No amount of squinting at the note cards does any good. Your notes are rain-splattered and ruined in exactly the wrong spot, of course.

Throwing your head back, you let out yet another miserable groan.

Seconds later, there’s a gentle tap on the door. You recognize the pattern.

“Go away Steve, I’m busy dying of frustration!”

There is silence for over thirty seconds, but you’re not fooled. After counting to fifty-five, you stride over and throw the door open right before Captain America’s knuckles strike the wood again.

“Yes?” Your withering glare doesn’t faze him. Steve just raises his eyebrows and holds his hands up in a ‘surrender’ gesture.

“Three ‘arghs’ in fifteen minutes gets a visit, you should know that,” he tells you with mock sternness.

Hot embarrassment has you stepping back in dismay. “You could hear that?”

“A few words of the speech, too,” he nods, prompting another ‘argh’ from you.

Your choices are to spontaneously develop superpowers so you can drop through the floor, or do as you always do in this friendship--or let Steve Rogers be the hero. Your dilemma must show on your face, because for once, he doesn’t wait for you to ask for help.

“Something tells me the board of United International Continuing Acronym won’t be convinced by those noises,” Steve says, using Stark’s nickname to cover for the way he pushes past you into the room. For a few seconds, the fronts of your bodies brush against each other, and the heat from those few seconds burns through you.

By the time you recover, Steve’s already across the room, clearing his throat. “I sympathize, believe me. Doesn’t matter how much public speaking I’ve gone through, it still ties my stomach into knots.” He turns and gives you a look of teasing determination. “I have a few suggestions, but I’d have to swear you to secrecy.”

Your crush surges up to color your voice with maybe a little too much affection as you say, “Captain America has secrets?”

The look he shoots you has the same sort of heat from seconds ago. “Here,” he says, pulling a folded page from his pocket. “This is a new one, but back when they first put me in tights, I practiced my script in a room set up with some of these.”

Steve hands you a drawing of a crowd of people, some smiling, some frowning, some turning to their neighbors instead of looking forward. It’s got all of the charm of his usual drawings, despite being more simple than usual. When you look up at his face, his sheepish expression tells you why. He must have drawn it right before knocking on your door.

“Steve,” you breathe, touched by the gesture but also the way he’s captured the spectrum of audience reaction. It reminds you of everything he’d gone through to be the man he is now, the man you’ve fallen for as inevitably as a crowd cheers for a brilliant performance. You couldn’t help it.

“Not now, all right?” he whispers, a kind of pleading in his eyes. “Speech first.”

You blink at him. Did he just acknowledge that something’s different between you? What is it about this corporate hotel hundreds of miles from the home that’s turned everything deliciously sideways? He’s already on the next Act, and you shove those feelings aside to focus like he’s asked you to.

“My place was a quarter this size, but maybe we can…” Steve trails off, propping his drawing on the draped wall sheet and flipping off all but the lights above the bed. Somehow it works, limiting distractions and changing the covered mirror into an easel for his thoughtful drawing.

There’s only one problem.

“Are you planning to lurk behind me?”

“Well, I’d sit in the chair, but--”

“Steve!” You can’t even glare at him, because all you can see is the glint of the fluorescent light reflecting off of his shined shoes. He pushes off the wall and steps forward just enough so you can see the kind look on his face.

“I get it. Public speaking is hard enough when it’s important, but it’s even harder when there are no friendlies in the audience.” Steve smiles wryly. “That won’t happen here, I promise. I’ll be in the room, because just like with the war bonds, I’m a symbol of what you’re fighting for.”

There’s no way he could know how romantic that sounds, so you swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat and nod at him.

You start again, and suddenly it works. The chair is a podium. The crowd is real. Steve is somewhere out of sight, rooting for you. You get through the whole thing, and it feels great. You can hear Steve clapping for you through the relieved buzzing in your ears.

Then it all falls apart. When you let go, the chair falls over and smacks you in the face, and the little breeze from your flail of pain knocks the drawing down. Steve rushes over to help, but he bumps into you, and you both fall sideways onto the bed.

The giggles last for a glorious few minutes, and then he says, “Okay, since everything went sideways, can I make it worse?”

You’re lying on a bed with Steve Rogers and his smile is like an early sunrise, so you say yes.

“The concept is good, but you sound like you’re using big words to impress. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s not really us. Tony’s irreverent, Clint’s the salt of the Earth, and Bruce is the kind of scientist that puts everyone at ease, at least until he turns green.” Steve turns onto his back, but he doesn’t get up, which feels consequential, despite his criticism. “Nat’s public persona is standoffish but not pretentious, and I’m--”

“You’re folksy,” you interrupt, still stinging from the unfortunate truth of the word ‘pretentious.’ “The epitome of ‘plainspoken.’”

Steve shoots a look over at you, and you realize those two words are exactly what he meant.

“The guy next door,” you add. Inside, you’re crumbling a little bit. Does he think you’re pretentious? Are you pretentious?

Steve rolls to face you again, reaching out to brush his thumb gently across the place the chair had struck you. It’s covered by your hair, but he somehow knows exactly where it is.

“You still have a full day left of the conference before it’s your turn. I could have colored that drawing and given it to you tomorrow, but that wouldn’t have helped tonight.” He pulls his hand back, but sets it on the bed between you. “That’s what makes us a team.”

You’re confused, but comforted nonetheless.

“You paint with words. It’s not that different from art, and every artist chooses how much effort to put in each piece,” he explains patiently. “It’s the same for this. You’re representing everyone, and that means you have to save some of that energy for the physical part of it. Not everyone realizes that.”

“Oh, God,” you blurt out, sitting up. “You are a symbol, just like you said. You’re always on, even at the Compound! How much energy does that take?”

He looks up at you, and the truth in his eyes is painfully intimate. “It’s not as bad now. When I came out of the ice, it kind of felt like I was still in tights. Always exposed for the greater good.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. It’s your job to book him for events. You’re the one shoving him onto the stage.

“No, no, don’t do that,” Steve says, sitting up and framing your face with his hands. “It was worse before, when it was Tony or some random person at SHIELD sending me out. I trust you. This conference was your idea--”

You scrunch up your face with guilt at that, and Steve gets this look of determination on his face. The next thing you know, he’s leaning forward and kissing you. It’s electric, stage lights blaring, orchestra in crescendo, and the velvet curtain rolling closed on the triumphant final scene to the roaring of the audience applause.

Then he’s pulling back, standing, and running his hand over his face. “That was out of line, I’m sorry.”

“It was a masterpiece,” you say, looking up at him with your hands clutching the blanket and your heart in your eyes.

The way his nervous tension completely leaves his body is even more reassuring than the softly-spoken “Oh. Good,” he lets out. His encore wins all the awards your heart has to give: “I didn’t practice that at all.”

Joy colors your voice. “You’re a natural.”

Steve’s ears turn red, and he says, “Well, I should let you get back to it. It’s past one--”

“You could stay,” you rush to say, standing up and stepping past him to pick up the drawing. Behind you, he makes a strangling sort of coughing noise, and you realize what you’ve said. “To practice!”

That just makes Steve gasp your name, clearly amused and scandalized in equal measure, and you groan in frustration. Feeling giddy just destroys your cognitive abilities.

“The speech! What is it about this hotel??”

“A new medium. Canvas instead of watercolor paper. A speech instead of short stories,” he says, setting the fallen chair back upright.

“You know about those?” you ask, surprised. You’ve made a point of working on them only during your downtime.

He has the grace to look apologetic. “Tony made a comment once, that I’d turn up in one of your stories if I offended any world leaders, when I was sent to the UN Grand Assembly.”

“Shit, I forgot I threatened him with that one time when he was being an ass.” Your grumble ended in a colossal yawn. “What time does breakfast start tomorrow?” The conference is a multi-day affair, and missing the early meal had not set you up to stay awake through the panels today. “I won’t have any time to practice this tomorrow night and you’re right, I really need to clean up the wording,” you add, feeling your elation at the kiss drain away with worry.

“Then let’s keep at it,” Steve says, taking the drawing and setting it back up on the sheet. He turns and gives you as wicked a look as you’ve ever seen on his face. “The speech, I mean.”

You wake up to the alarm with a sore neck, your dress pants digging into your hip, and a bed partner. He’s the farthest from a pain in the neck as a man can get, but falling asleep fully dressed with your head on his shoulder wasn’t the wisest decision you’ve ever made. You pull in a deep breath, trying to clear out the mental cobwebs scattered in happy glitter, and Steve tenses up under your head.

“I’m sorry,” you say immediately.

“Don’t be. I’m the one who should have left you to sleep.”

You sit up so he can slip out of bed, knowing that he needs to put distance between you for his own peace of mind.

“Be honest: have you ever voluntarily abandoned a woman who needs your help?” you tease. “In all seriousness, you were a huge help last night, and I’m sure that was outside your comfort zone. That was probably the most I’ve ever seen you talk outside of lecturing Stark!”

“I didn’t even notice,” he says, pulling the sheet off of the mirror expertly folding it over in the corner of the room.

He’s faced away from you, so you indulge in a back-arching stretch while muttering under your breath, “You have no idea how hot that is.”

“Right back at you,” Steve retorts, looking back at you with the sheet in one clenched fist. “I need to get going. Want me to pick up breakfast for you?”

You’re off script and floundering, trying to reconcile the sexy rasp in his voice with this attempt at professionalism. It’s exactly the kind of relationship you’ve always dreamed of, and you find your heart slipping further into romantic oblivion.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Thank you,” He says, holding out a hand to help you up. Once you’re standing, Steve holds your gaze and lifts his eyebrows in a very clear question. Heart pounding, you nod, and he takes your lips in a brief but fervent kiss. He moves back, pausing at the door. “I just thought of something, but it’s--”

“Tell me anyway,” you interrupt. “You don’t have to alter your wording for me.” It’s maybe too symbolic and cheesy, but you’re sleep deprived.

“I’m looking forward to another collaboration,” he says, flashing you a brilliant smile.

Note: I may have to write a sequel with what happens AFTER, given that I impulsively wrote this and missed that the prompt was 'what happens after that' I feel so dumb haha

[tangledinink]

im just saying that some of the people on this godforsaken webbed site would probably not survive watching siblings/young children interact irl

[peach-s0up]

hallelujah i say as ford prefect bends over to pick up his pen

[apocalyptic-byler]

IF BYLER’S FIRST KISS ISNT LIKE JANCY’S FIRST KISS THEN I DONT WANT IT

[eternalmomentss]

I feel like no one would be surprised if they revealed that orym and dorian have just been together and making out passionately all this time, it's just that not a single person has seen them do it

[hayaku14]

gymnast kaito x sharpshooter shinichi meet-cute in the olympics au

[littleblackraincloudofcourse]

Luke and Ryan both used "to the core" describing the closeness of their relationships (Polin and Buddie)

Nicola and Oliver both said they had natural chemistry with their co-star (Nicola saying they stopped repressing it, Oliver saying they just let it flow)

Now 911 is posting bees for next season!What in the friends-to-lovers is going on!!

[ollylotl]

the girls ever <3