Tumgik
#but that if we ourselves get the idea or image in our head without it being prompted it's different
nhasablogg · 2 years
Note
Lee Eddie and ler Steve with some good ole tummy raspberries 🥰
I'm gonna be real with you. If this is a prompt it really doesn't strike my fancy because I'm not a fan of raspberries (I could MAYBE write raspberries to the neck) but I can also just not picture them doing that lmao? I'm sorry, it's a cute image tho!
7 notes · View notes
wndaswife · 1 year
Text
young fidelity
「 wanda maximoff x gn!reader 」
tags: smut, angst, fluff, mentions of trauma, depictions of violence, blowjobs, degradation, some slightly boring avenger mission details, sub!wanda maximoff, dom!reader. MINORS DNI.
word count: 10 872
summary: Even months after Ultron's death, you haven't forgiven Wanda despite her attempts to become close with you. You plan to get by with little interaction when you are partnered together for a mission, but she has other intentions.
Tumblr media Tumblr media
“We’ve received signals of active HYDRA technology in northern and eastern Nunavut. There are approximately two bases north and two in the east,” Steve announced to the conference room. “But because of the nature of the province, it’ll be much easier to split up into pairs — take down each base together, separately.”
“Nature of the province?” asked Sam.
Steve pulled up an image of Nunavut’s map onto the projector. About a third of the province in the northeast was dispersed up into dozens of distinct sections of land.
“North can mean this,” he said and circled about twenty different patches of land before doing the same for the right-hand side of the province, “and East can mean this.”
He continued, “It would consume too much of our time to travel between each patch of land to the other. Fortunately, what we can tell for certain is that these bases are small. The signals they’re sending out are from HYDRA technology nonetheless, but the signals are weak and the technology is outdated.”
“A base of about ten or less,” Natasha noted, leaning back in her seat with her arms crossed and facing the projector screen.
Rhodes added, “Or much less.”
“Exactly,” Steve conceded. “We’ll head out in two days, give ourselves enough time to pack for the climate. Here are the pairs I’ve outlined…” He continued to announce the mission’s partnerships, but the back of your neck prickled with the feeling of being watched. 
You looked over your shoulder to see Wanda’s eyes on you. She looked away quickly when your eyes met and she shifted in her seat, crossing a leg over the other and looking up to pay attention to Steve.
“Then lastly, Wanda and Y/N.”
At Steve's words, Wanda’s head lifted slightly in piqued interest and you looked back at him.
“Why do we have to pair up at all?” you questioned immediately. “Each of us could easily take ten or more on our own.”
“I know that���s right,” Rhodes agreed cockily before exchanging a nod with Tony, who considered your commentary comedic.
“These areas of Nunavut, of Canada, are unexplored territory,” Steve answered. “The weather conditions are extreme up there, and the terrain may not be safe or predictable enough for us to go out in it individually. This will be a quick mission, three days and no more, during which a portion of it will be trying to map out the province. The actual overtaking of the bases will take much less time.”
You weren’t able to find a way to object to that, so you sank down in your seat, something bitter brewing in you at the thought of having to work alone with Wanda.
“We’ll be picked back up the same way we’ll arrive — by the Quinjet in an isolated area at the edge of Nunavut where the land is much less dispersed, closer to the centre of the province but not nearly as populated,” Steve said, and with that, he concluded the meeting.
When Wanda stood from her seat, she spent a few extra moments tucking her hair behind her ear, adjusting her rings, and playing with her sleeves as an excuse to wait for you to walk ahead first so she could approach you. 
But Vision met with her first and she looked over at you hesitantly, worried that she’d miss you leaving the room.
You began heading forward but instead of leaving, you started a conversation with Steve.
Now sure that she could spend a few moments talking with Vision without losing sight of you, she entertained his commentary on the upcoming mission despite not being included in the list of Avengers that were going.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” you told him, leaning back on your heels nonchalantly as you attempted at repressing what felt like a raging wildfire set ablaze in your chest.
Steve turned off the projector and started storing away some of the wires. “Two days isn’t enough to prepare, is it?” he questioned suddenly.
“No, two days is fine, I think,” you said.
You continued with a quiet tone, aware of Wanda and Vision conversing only a few feet away, “Wanda isn’t trained to go out with only one other person yet. She’s not ready for this.”
“She’s been doing just fine during training and other missions,” he reasoned.
“But she’s always supervised, and always with people who can support her if she screws up.”
With a smile of slight inexplicable amusement, he replied, “Then you can train her.”
Your fingers twitched at the mere suggestion.
Then, a voice chimed in from behind — Wanda’s. “No, I can fight. I’ve been training for months,” she insisted.
From the corner of your eye, you could see that she’d stepped away from Vision and was now standing by the edge of the table, only two or three feet away from you. 
Wordlessly, you left the room, overcome by her very proximity. 
Wanda followed after you, initially silent. She spun her rings around her fingers, watching the back of your head as she trailed behind you. 
“So… when are we going to start training?” she eventually asked. 
You walked through the hallways, heading straight to your room and avoiding having lunch until you were sure Wanda was no longer following you like an aimless puppy.
“I thought you said you didn’t need training.”
Suddenly filled with joy because you had actually answered her instead of ignoring her like you often did, Wanda sped up and joined your side.
“No, I never said I didn’t need training,” she corrected. “I just said that I could fight. But I would like to train with you. Before our mission. I think it would help. When can we start?”
“Not now,” you replied.
“Then when?”
You reiterated stubbornly, “Whenever I feel like it.”
Wanda bristled and she said wrapped her hand around your forearm. You tore it out of her hold and she looked at you, shocked at your resistance to be touched by her. 
She swallowed and straightened in spite of herself then said, “I’m just trying to do my job”
“It’s not your job to bother me.”
“I’m not trying to bother you, I’m just trying-"
“To do your job,” you interrupted. “Right.”
She stared at you silently, unsure what to say yet not wanting to walk away from you. 
“Is that how you rationalise things?” you inquired, your eyebrows furrowing together. “Is that how you rationalised what you did?”
Now feeling desperate for your validation and worn from the way you’d been avoiding her since the battle on Novi Grad, Wanda opposed, “I know that you’re angry, but everyone has forgiven me for what I have done. You are the only one who hasn’t.”
“You want to train?” you asked out of the blue. 
It took a moment for Wanda to realise what you were asking and to decipher if you were being sincere in your question. When she supposed you were, she nodded cautiously.
“Then let’s go,” you muttered and turned to walk the other way, down to where the gymnasium and training room were.
When both of you changed into the proper clothes for training, you met Wanda in the middle of the holopad. You programmed a few rounds of holographic HYDRA members to attack her, and a few other adversaries the Avengers had previously fought to fill the time.
Wanda strapped on her sensory gloves, designed by Tony to signal to the holopad where she directed her powers and with what magic she used for the holograms. It had been helping her with her training to a great extent as it allowed her to use the technology in the training room as every other non-magic-wielder did.
She stepped onto the ten-by-seven metered platform and you set the tablet down by the staircase.
You noticed her looking over at you before the holopad flashed white once, signalling the beginning of the training session, and Wanda then looked away from you.
It began slowly at first, several scientists running at her from different directions and Wanda’s red magic flowing out of the centres of her palms and darting out from the tips of her fingers. Her magic made contact with the holographic foes, Wanda’s sensory gloves connecting the direction and intensity of her magic to the location of each moving hologram. They scattered into tiny pixelated squares when her magic came into contact with them, floating up and dividing into smaller geometric shapes before disappearing entirely. 
The speed of the enemies quickened and with it Wanda’s reflexes. 
This was the first time since the final battle against Ultron on Novi Grad that you’d seen Wanda’s fighting. Several months have passed since then, and she improved substantially. You’d never say it aloud, and you looked away from the brunette to avoid even admitting it to yourself, but she would be the perfect partner for the mission to Nunavut.
Eventually, the holopad flashed white, indicating the end of the training session when Wanda defeated the enemies you programmed her to fight.
She stepped off of the platform and stood in front of you, a glistening sheen of sweat on her body. She was panting softly and you blinked inquisitively for a moment at the grin on her face. “Come on,” she said and took your hand before pulling you up onto the holopad with her.
Wanda positioned you on one side of the platform and she stepped back from you. “So, what will you show me?” she asked.
“I don’t know how to train someone with magic.”
“We can go hand-to-hand,” Wanda suggested, running her palms down her sides. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
When you did nothing but stare at her, perhaps out of scepticism or curiosity at her mood switch, she added with a laugh, “What? Are you scared?”
There was not a single person in the compound but you who knew this side of Wanda; a playful side of her, one that was presently unburdened by the weights of her losses and the solemn monotony that cast over her like a stagnant shadow when she was with anyone other than you.
There was a feeling of laxness that settled within her in your company, a freedom she felt with you that she hadn’t been familiar with since her time with Pietro.
You chose to think little of this lest you fall victim to Wanda’s deceptions as you had when you first met her. The very recollection of that moment of weakness awakened chills up your spine and formed a terribly large pit in the centre of your chest.
“Okay,” you said. “Fine. A quick skirmish, that’s all.”
If she was lucky, she’d sometimes walk in on you training and watch you for as long as possible while being as inconspicuous as she could manage. She’d watch the way you fought and moved your body, the confidence in your strikes and flexibility of your limbs. You were nothing less than inspiring. 
In many ways, Wanda idolised you.
The corners of Wanda’s mouth tugged upwards before she made an attempt to repress her giddiness to have a serious one-on-one with you. She raised her fists and bent her knees, eyes darting down your form to correct her posture accordingly. She took notes from you where she could.
In training skirmishes, the objective was to take the other down, get them off their feet and cause them to lose balance. 
You watched Wanda’s footing, the way she rounded and approached you by subtly cutting away at the inches of space that lay between the two of you.
Despite the sternness of her brow, there was a vague outline of a smile on her lips.
Your attention on her incomprehensible smile sullied your focus on the skirmish; Wanda extended her leg and in one swift movement, rounded your body so she stood outside your line of sight. Her knee lifted to nudge your thigh forward and throw you off balance but you turned quickly, a hand wrapping around her hip. 
Before you could push her back and move your legs out of her range of contact, Wanda’s foot raised and she knocked the back of your knees forward with the length of her shin. You tumbled backwards, and with your hand gripping Wanda’s hip, you pulled her down with you. 
Her arm extended past the side of your head, a wispy lock of red magic coursing out of her palm. The burst of magic slowed the speed at which you fell, breaking your fall and letting your back meet the ground softly.
It was only when the brief panic of falling backwards abated that you heard Wanda laughing. Stands of dark hair were falling in her face, her expression light and free of the burdens that normally followed her around like a shadow.
When her laughing settled into a fit of giggles, she opened her eyes and looked down at you, her gaze flickering between your eyes and your parted lips. She pushed her hair back and she lifted herself up with the heel of your hand placed on the platform by the side of your head. 
Her chest parted from yours but her hips stayed pressed against your own, your legs intertwined and her other hand resting on your stomach. 
You removed your hand from her hip and let it fall to the floor underneath you, damning yourself for the way you watched every movement of her soft lips.
“Come on, you’re not even trying,” Wanda teased. She used her hand by your head and the other on your stomach to prop herself up, slipping off of your body and getting on her knees by your hip. She then proposed, “Let’s go again.”
“I promise I’ll go easy on you this time,” she jested and extended a hand to you.
You sat up on your own, Wanda’s hand dropping into her lap. “I said we’d only do one,” you reminded her and stood up. “We’re done.”
Following you, Wanda got onto her feet. “You’re such a sore loser,” she joked with a laugh and trailed behind you as you stepped off the holopad. She unstrapped her gloves from around her hands and set them by the tablet. 
“What will we do next?” she asked.
“Nothing,” you told her, picking up your things and heading to the gym exit.
Wanda’s smile fell as she heard your stern tone. “But we’ve only just gotten here. There’s still so much I want you to show me before we leave,” she reasoned, speeding up and trying to get your attention as you walked ahead without regard for her trailing behind you.
You told her with finality, “Get someone else to show you.”
You exited the gym and Wanda decided to stop following after you. She watched you speed away, hands by her side as she stood alone in the training room. 
Dejectedly, she wondered if she had done or said something wrong — something to drive you away. It seemed she couldn’t do anything right around you when it was you she desired companionship and intimacy from the most.
You exchanged not even a word with Wanda for the remainder of the day, though dinner was filled with yearning stares from her across the table and never any words, partially because Vision filled her time with endless conversation. He was fond of her, and you often wished she would’ve glommed onto him instead.
The following day, you saw Wanda for a short time during a meeting in which Tony outlined the rest of the mission.
Deliberation between Tony, Agent Ross, and the provincial officials of Nunavut resulted in the Avengers’ permission to enter and explore their grounds granted they limit any destruction of the land and would provide the required funding necessary to repair any damage otherwise caused.
After the events on Sokovia, it was also decided that it would be best if the mission went as smoothly and as covertly as possible. This meant that the Quinjet would only take them as far as the edge of the northeast to lessen chances of being seen in the air, and would be stationed in an isolated space until everyone returned from their respective missions.
Additionally, government action would be taken to set a seven-mile radius around the Quinjet prohibiting any public access and ensuring the mission stay entirely under wraps.
Comms would stay open during each individual operation and after three days or less, they’d all meet back up at the Quinjet to depart as simply as it had arrived.
Everyone was working on their preparations for the rest of the day — going over Nunavut’s map and geology, Tony refining communication technology to guarantee they work throughout the mission despite the distance that would be between the team throughout it. 
The evening before the morning of departure, you were preparing for bed when a quiet knock came at your door.
Wanda was at the door holding a saran-wrapped dish of some type of pastry in both hands. “Hi,” she greeted with a tiny smile when you opened the door. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, I’m just getting ready for bed,” you answered.
“I made blinis,” Wanda said, holding up the plate of what looked like a small stack of thin pancakes.
You stared at the dish for a moment then questioned, “At eleven in the evening?”
“Ever since moving here I’ve developed a bit of a habit of cooking when I’m nervous,” she explained, fingers tapping against the rim of the plate. 
Then she continued, “You can save these in the fridge if you aren’t hungry.” It was a kind gesture, though you were convinced she hadn’t made them with you in mind.
You hadn’t spoken with Wanda since her training session. You wondered how she was doing with her practice and wanted to ask what was making her anxious. But you withheld your questions, having learned from experience the faults of coming to Wanda’s aid.
“Thank you,” you uttered and took the plate from her. Wanda seemed grateful that you accepted her dish and smiled at you when she transferred the plate to your hands.
An awkward silent moment passed between both of you. Wanda inhaled, her shoulders raising as she readied herself before asking, “How are you feeling? Are you nervous?”
“No,” you answered. “I’m sure it’ll be like any other mission.”
There was a strange look of despondency that struck momentarily across Wanda’s face at your response. She smiled at you then nodded. 
“You have always been so strong,” she said, her gaze softening as she ventured through your eyes with her own. “I knew it from the moment we met. You’re different from them. Strong-willed. That’s why it was harder for me to-”
She cut herself off, her mouth closing to ensure she doesn’t slip up and let the next few words out: ‘That’s why it was harder for me to take over your mind.’
You looked at the floor between the both of you and took in a breath, then nodded. “Thank you for these,” you told her, lifting the plate of blinis up.
“O-Of course,” she replied and tugged at the hem of one of her sleeves. “Then, goodnight.”
Wanda headed back to her room in deep remorseful thought, tugging at her necklace and going over her conversation with you. She hadn’t meant to bring up bad memories, let alone the one that caused the divide between you and her, one that could not be crossed or mended no matter how hard Wanda tried. 
She had only intended to compliment you, to offer to you in her hands what she stored so close to her heart — an affection and admiration for you.
But she failed to reconcile things with you. 
Again.
That night you dreamt about your time with Wanda, before the fight between Ultron, the twins, and the Avengers.
You met Wanda before the rest of the team had even heard of the twins, a few weeks before their retrieval of Loki’s sceptre. 
It was a strange series of events. 
As was typical before the sceptre’s retrieval, you monitored any signal of its usage, any similar waves of power or sighting reports. After detecting a faint ring of energy in a mountainous plain of isolated land in Sokovia, you chose to go out on your own. What you saw on the monitors was a completely empty plot of land, but upon arrival you discovered a heavily-guarded compound stationed at the foot of a mountain and reaching an astounding height, and a young girl sitting by the edge of it, near the still water and under the waxing moon.
You never told any of the team about her nor her twin brother whom you never saw before the Avengers travelled to the HYDRA research base to retrieve the sceptre.
Wanda knew little of Loki’s sceptre, only that it was kept in a heavily protected sector of the compound. Despite the time you spent together, which eventually ended up being every night after the base’s scientists retired for the night and you were on your own in the lab, you couldn’t avoid telling your team about the sceptre’s location.
Retrieving it was part of something larger than your budding friendship with Wanda, though you still refrained from telling them anything about her and Pietro and their enhanced capabilities.
When the Avengers breached the HYDRA research base, you held no ill will to Wanda. The both of you were simply on opposite sides of a conflict that was long-running and complicated. You continued seeing each other though things became largely difficult once Ultron found the twins.
Though for a moment before the Maximoffs teamed with the android mastermind and they were unsupervised and not experimented on for the first time in several years, everything was blissful with Wanda despite everything else that had been going on between Ultron and the discourse within the team.
You saw her for hours at a time instead of a few fleeting minutes. You could travel anywhere with her rather than having to stick to the research base for the entirety of your time with her. You talked about anything that came to mind, sitting by a remote riverbank or under an evening sky discussing everything from Wanda’s childhood to your time with the team. 
You cared for her and Pietro where you could, organising for them to stay in an unoccupied safehouse the team owned and keeping their activity there off the monitors.
When you returned to visit her one morning, their place was cleaned out and you found no trace of either twin. It was only until the Avengers made contact with Ultron that you realised where they had gone, who they had aligned themselves with and on what side of the battle they chose to fight for. 
The team took a hard hit, each one of them falling victim to Wanda’s mind tricks, yourself included. She knew what specific memories to conjure, what fears to incite, what nerves to press on. She knew it because you’d told her all of it. She asked you for the best way to take the Avengers down and you told her — willingly.
You could never forgive her nor yourself for becoming the weak and unsuspecting piece in her game.
None of your teammates blamed you for what happened and made an effort to convince you that you had no hand in the Avengers’ collective loss. But you blamed yourself in spite of that. It was your fault.
You skipped breakfast with the team in the morning, your dream weighing heavily on you and the recollection of your blunder from months ago eating at you again as you recalled you’d have to spend the next three days with Wanda. Your mistake did not bring you as much guilt as it had months ago, but rather it made you angry. It made you bitter.
Despite having missed breakfast, you met up with the rest of the team by the foot of the Quinjet as planned. You packed a single bag full of your things, making sure to pack light to make sure travel wouldn’t be so tiresome.
Natasha recapped everything that happened while you were gone in the morning, which wasn’t much. Steve took some of the bags into the Quinjet while everyone else buckled themselves in.
Wanda, who was yet to be seen, finally arrived. 
“Y/N, I’ve been looking for you,” she said, slightly breathless when she stood beside you. “I thought you were still in your room, so I was going to get you.”
You weren’t sure what to answer her with and you considered ignoring her and boarding the jet. But if you wanted anything from the mission, it was to come back to the Quinjet successful and to have minimal conflict with her.
So you answered with an acknowledging nod, “No, I just got here.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, placing a hand on your upper arm. “You skipped breakfast.”
“I’m fine. I wanted time to myself.”
“But-”
Natasha intervened, beckoning the two of you over and saying it was time to leave.
Wanda looked over at you, concern still drawn across her expression. But you ignored it and walked ahead, boarding the Quinjet with Wanda following silently behind you.
The high speeds the jet could reach allowed for the trip to Nunavut to be no longer than three hours, which wasn’t all too strenuous as trips often were before the latest Quinjet models that now incorporated several rooms and even a kitchen.
Despite the room on the jet, Wanda stayed in one place for a majority of the journey. She got up twice for the kitchen, but largely sat around the main seating deck where you were. No conversation took place between the two of you though you did catch Wanda looking at you several times.
As planned, the Quinjet landed in its designated spot.
Comms were secured and designed to reach the very northern tip of Nunavut to the very east, though bases were expected to be no further than six-hundred kilometres out, allowing for the team to exchange updates throughout the mission.
After double-checking each other’s supplies and going over the mission plan once more, you each set out for the HYDRA bases.
High-speed snowmobiles charged for week-long usage were supplied for travel. You drove the vehicle while Wanda clung onto you from behind. You had the company of Rhodes and Tony for the first forty minutes before they branched off, following the signal of their assigned base. 
Though it was snowing heavily and there was nothing but blinding white plains and mountainous terrain in the distance for as far as the eye could see, the tracker Wanda held grew stronger as you travelled further into the snowy Nunavut.
She fed you directions from behind every so often, arms wrapped snugly around your midriff.
You couldn’t see the way Wanda laid her head against your back, often forgetting to give you directions as she hugged herself close to you, feeling the most secure since the two of you last spoke before she partnered with Ultron, even if you didn’t converse very much. It’d been quite a while since the two of you spent so much time alone together.
“It’s ahead, Y/N,” Wanda told you after fiddling with the tracker and ensuring it was working properly. 
“Ahead?” you repeated. “Already?”
Wanda replied after a moment, likely adjusting the antenna of the tracker and double-checking the screen wasn’t broken. “It seems like it,” she said finally.
You sped ahead, eager to get the mission over with and head back to the Quinjet.
“There’s something strange about the signal… It’s getting stronger. Stronger than the signal back at the compound.”
“I know visibility is pretty low right now, but I can’t even see it. How is the signal that strong?” you told her. “Are you sure it isn’t picking something else up?”
Wanda assured, “It has the same signal impression, so it’s definitely the same base they picked up. But the technology they’re using is a lot stronger than what the compound detected.”
“Stronger… So, modern technology?”
“Which means more scientists,” she figured. “And the signal is only getting stronger. There’s maybe a lot more than ten scientists, Y/N.”
You looked ahead, letting the sound of the blowing wind and snow null things out momentarily as you considered the options. “How many more?” you asked Wanda.
She estimated, “If I were to guess and assume that the signal was only to get stronger before we arrived, then maybe thirty of them. I think we should wait for one of the others to finish. I don’t want to go in without knowing what’s waiting.”
“You said thirty of them.”
“But that’s only what I think. I’m not Tony or Steve, I don’t know how to read this as well as them. I’m not as experienced either.”
You heard the twinge of self-criticism in her words but you kept quiet about it, looking ahead and focusing on driving forward when your mind couldn’t detangle itself.
When several more moments passed without a response from you, Wanda’s arms squeezed gently around your waist. You felt the reassuring pressure of her embrace through your layers of winter gear. 
“What are we going to do, Y/N?” she asked.
You gnawed at your bottom lip. “It’s only been about two hours since we left the Quinjet,” you uttered, shouting above the noise of the wind. “Even if we waited for help, it’d probably be at least eight hours until even Stark and Rhodes could meet us, and they’re the closest to us right now.”
“So we meet them instead? Come back together?”
“No,” you answered. “There’s not much else we can do but power forward for now. We’ll map out the base, try and get an estimate of how many scientists we have to deal with, and if things seem to be in our favour we’ll continue with the plan. If not, we’ll wait.”
There were several small safehouses scattered around northeast Nunavut built covertly by SHIELD decades ago. The plan was to clear out the HYDRA bases, avoid casualties if possible, rest in the nearby safehouses whose coordinates were also programmed into the tracking devices, then head back to the Quinjet as soon as the journey could be made. If you had to wait for help, you’d have to do it in one of the safehouses.
The both of you chose not to alert the team of the base you were approaching for fear that it might distract them and take them away from their respective missions. They would be updated only in the case that the base would be too much to handle without help. There was nothing to gain in telling them what wasn’t absolutely necessary.
Wanda guided you forward for the next thirty minutes, her arm squeezed even tighter around your waist then it previously was. “We’re approaching,” she told you then looked past your shoulder.
You squinted through the thick blanket of snow, looking for a light or an outline of a building, anything for you to pinpoint where the base was visually.
“Can you see it?” Wanda asked.
“No, I can’t. Are you sure we’re close? Maybe we’re still a few miles out.”
Then in an urgent demand that made you break the snowmobile so hard that you nearly fell out of it, Wanda blurted out, “Stop, stop!” 
After catching your breath to calm your thumping heart, you looked back at her. “Holy shit, what?” you gasped.
“The HYDRA base should be right here,” she said. At the sight of your mistrusting expression, she lifted up the tracker and showed you the blinking red dot representing the base and the smaller blue dot that represented the snowmobile. They overlapped each other, meaning that it should’ve been right in front of you.
You got off of the vehicle and walked ahead, squinting and looking around at the snowy plain. Greys and whites stretched on for as long as you could see, and it was all you had been seeing for the last three hours.
Wanda got off of the snowmobile too, wrapped up in a heavy layer of winter gear and walking up to you as a circular ball of jackets and scarves. “Do you think it’s really out here? Maybe the tracker got water damaged or something.”
“I don’t think so,” you replied, stepping through the blinding white sheets of blowing snow.
The young witch ran up beside you, afraid to lose you in the hurricane-like winter. She buried her face further into the shelter of the scarf, leaving her eyes uncovered to allow herself to follow you closely.
“The signal and… now this,” you continued apprehensively. “There’s something that isn’t right with this base, and not just because we can’t see it.”
In the white expanse of snow that went on for kilometres more and mountains that lined the horizon, there was a single outlier.
You approached what looked like a metal pipe coming out from the ground, uncovered by the snow despite the way it had been coming down for the last three hours. A steady release of steam bellowed out from the pipe. You removed your glove and steadied your hand on top of the steam, only for it to be warmed. The snow that fell on your hand melted on-contact.
“Look how strong the signal is now,” Wanda mentioned, pointing to the edge of the screen.
You lifted the tracker up again, looking back down to those overlapping red and blue dots.
“The base is underground,” you told her, your eyes running across the snow you were standing on, then further down where you were sure the building stretched out below.
Eventually, an entrance was found after wandering through the shadowed tundra — a snowy stone walkway and a metal door rusted from years of usage and neglect. 
“Should we… go in?” Wanda asked you, clinging to the sleeve of your jacket with both hands. “Is it safe?” 
In concealed irritation, you took your arm away from her and opened the door. A warm burst of air hit your face and you kicked away the inches of snow behind the door to allow yourself enough space to step inside.
Wanda followed after you, her cheeks tinting a soft pink when the door closed behind her and the two of you were immediately developed in the warmth of the underground bunker. She pushed her hood back and removed her gloves.
The entrance den was small, giving off the illusion that one had found a storm cellar instead of a research base of an underground terrorist organisation.
You walked forward despite Wanda’s quiet whispers of forewarning, across the slotted floors that made visible piping from below and a leaky cement foundation that made you wonder how old this base must be. 
As you walked deeper into the bunker, the tracker’s coordinates of the technology that was sending out signals became more precise. It was stronger, quicker, and indicative of transmitting hundreds of gigabytes of data every few minutes. It wasn’t nearly as fast or efficient as the monitors Stark found in Sokovia’s research base where Wanda and Pietro were stationed, but perhaps only a few models behind.
Voices could be heard from around the corner, and the tracker specified that their primary monitor was but a few metres away.
Wispy tendrils snaked around Wanda’s fingers as she readied herself for any sudden attacks.
Carefully, you unzipped your jacket and pulled out a thermal camera. The base didn’t seem to be well insulated, which was likely why they had to make up for it with the amount of heating they used. Fortunately, this meant that the thermal camera could detect individuals through the wall you were hidden behind with ease.
They were positioned poorly around the lab, as if not under any suspicion that someone might intrude their base. There were six people walking on a levelled platform a few metres up by the ceiling, rounding the room’s perimeter and doing nothing in particular. Five people circled around the southern area of the large room, and there were seven in the centre where the lab monitors were.
You expanded the thermal camera’s range until it reached the outer borders of the bunker and found no outliers.
“Eighteen of them?” Wanda whispered, looking over your shoulder as she stayed close to the wall. “Why so few of them for such advanced technology?”
“For somewhere so far out and underground, maybe they had to overcompensate,” you supposed.
Wanda looked around, then at the details of the ceilings and elevated levels. “It looks like this used to be a bomb shelter repurposed for HYDRA,” she observed. “Pietro and I were experimented on in something similar.”
You bristled at the mention of their experimentation. You recalled the hours spent with Wanda as she talked about what Strucker did to her and her brother, the inhumane treatment and the trauma she received from it.
“If I go from up top and bring them down, we can move in on them in the middle of the lab,” you proposed, fidgeting with the thermal camera and looking up at the elevated floor above the staircase ahead.
“Wh- We’re going to separate?” Wanda whispered.
You reasoned, “We’re not going to take on eighteen of them coming in from one direction.”
“But where will you go?”
“Stay here and wait until you see me come through right there,” you said and pointed at the wall wherein the entrance to the lab’s elevated walkway could be seen beyond it.
Wanda stared at you as if to survey whether you were being sincere and looked away when you met her gaze. “Okay. I’ll wait here,” she uttered and stepped back, away from the view of anyone in the next room while having a clear view of the walkway.
Without another word, you turned and went back up the staircase you descended. You took a left and followed the path down to where the other side of the room became visible. 
Wanda watched you intently, ready to come to your aid if you were to suddenly need her help. Her eyes darted between you and the walkway in the other room.
You weren’t much for combat, so you helped Tony design weapons similar to Natasha’s Widow’s Bites. Vial-like ammo were ejected from small silent guns, attaching to a target’s exposed skin, preferably the neck, before releasing a toxin and attacking and incapacitating a target’s nervous system for up to an hour. From complete stupefaction to a remarkable loss of one’s senses, they were perfect for a swift in and out.
The first four people went down quickly with the other two fleeing for the stairs. They made to escape through the exit Wanda was waiting in but were quickly paralyzed with a wave of her fingers.
At the sight of you jumping down from the walkway, Wanda kept the scientists in the lab from escaping while you stunned four of the ones by the corridor and knocked the fifth unconscious.
You quickly disposed of the empty gun and switched to the other, landed two vials on two different scientists while Wanda clouded the minds of the last five.
You eyed them when they dropped to the floor.
“They’re just in a trance,” Wanda explained suddenly when she saw you looking at them. “I haven’t done anything to their minds.”
She hadn’t used her magic to brainwash anyone since her and Pietro’s fight with the Avengers, and certainly not after her argument with you.
Ignoring her, you moved to the monitors and took out a USB before extracting data from the primary console. The parts were easier to navigate because they were older, but there was a lot of data to extract. You’d get data out first then corrupt what the base had left.
Wanda was flipping through their files as you did your own work, looking up at you occasionally and eyeing your body for any sustained injury.
The monitor screen flickered on when you moved the mouse accidentally, and on it was a file that caught your eye. Though it was in Cyrillic, it was easy to read — The Enhanced.
A gasp came from Wanda that startled you and you looked over to her to see she was holding a file in two hands.
“What is that?” you asked.
Her words were firstly a jumble of stutters, but she eventually answered you. “It’s information on me and Pietro. They were studying the experiments on us.”
You looked at the file on the monitor.
The Enhanced.
She read from the file and thought out loud, “Underground and in an old bunker like this, they were trying to replicate the experiments, make new weapons and reuse the progress that Ultron made with the Mind Stone.”
After making the connection, Wanda looked around at the research base then at the scientists on the ground. Her hands trembled and she dropped the file, running her fingers through her hair and scratching at her palms to ground herself. 
“I cannot be here. We have to leave,” she told you.
“Just a few more moments, Wanda, this is almost finished.”
But she insisted angrily, “No, we have to go now! You do not understand the kinds of things these people do. I cannot be an experiment again. You cannot.”
She suddenly reached her hand out and placed it on top of the USB. The progress percentage on the console boosted up rapidly. Its internal wires glowed a dim red, an advanced version of Wanda’s neuroelectrical manipulation.
Within seconds, the data finished extracting and Wanda ejected the drive and placed it in your hand.
“Let’s go now,” Wanda told you hurriedly and took your hand, rushing the two of you up the stairs and down the walkway.
You left the way you came, but when you turned to get onto the snowmobile parked just outside, Wanda was still standing by the exit. 
“Wanda, what are you doing?” you called down to her, the loud blowing wind encapsulating the two of you once again. 
“We need to get rid of this base. Forever.”
You walked back over to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Limited casualties,” you reminded her. 
When she turned to you, her eyes were filled with tearful fury. “Let me do this,” she said sternly.
You stared at her for a few moments before nodding and letting go of her. 
A gas pipe was snapped in half, so it blew out into the bunker.
With shaky hands, Wanda sped up the release from the heating pipes, bundling them up into a focused ball of hot steam so its temperature rose.
It continued to rise until the metal from the pipes and walls distorted from the heat, and you were sure Wanda’s wrath on its own contributed to that ball of heat’s temperature. 
At the first sight of a spark and a quick lick of a flame, Wanda shot the ball to the side at the expelling gas without warning. 
It happened within seconds; the bunker filled with purple flame and rushed right up to Wanda’s face. 
You reached over her shoulder and shut the bunker door before wrapping your arms around Wanda and moving her away. Her back made harsh contact with the stone wall adjacent to the door when you pushed yourself against her body, protecting her from the explosion. 
The purple flames cooled into orange, bursting out from the frames of the door and turning the snow on the ground to water. 
“Holy shit,” you breathed out, your heart racing.
You looked back over to Wanda, whose face was flushed pink with parted lips. She was no longer crying but her eyeliner was smudged beneath her waterline. She was looking at you though you could see the reflection of the flames in her green eyes. 
“Are you okay?” you asked. 
Her mouth closed and she swallowed. She blinked and simply nodded in response.
You nodded and said, “Okay. Good, okay.”
You stepped back from her and zipped your jacket up then put your gloves back on.
“We should head to the safehouse now,” you advised. “Update the team then get some rest, and we can leave for the Quinjet tomorrow morning.”
Wanda only nodded again. She watched you as you ascended the steps and mounted the snowmobile. She fitted her hat back on and then her gloves, and caught her breath as she followed after you. 
She took her seat behind you on the snowmobile and wrapped her arms around your waist.
“Ready?” you asked. 
She nodded, feeling the back of your jacket against her cheek. “Ready.”
You held the tracker in your other hand as you drove to the nearest safehouse. Tony and Rhodes wouldn’t be there, for their nearest one was thirty miles south. But you didn’t dread being alone with Wanda as much as you did before. 
A part of you that hadn’t been awoken since the last you spent those evening hours awake talking with Wanda sparked a modest flame. Recollections of your time with her spread out during the last few months came to you in the blinding white plains of the Nunavut tundra.
On the way back to the compound after a mission a few months ago, Wanda had stayed with you in one of the rooms and tended to your injuries. She was surprisingly proficient in bandaging you up and keeping you elevated, and while you sat in quiet disdain for her, she reminisced aloud about how she and Pietro had to care for themselves for most of their life on their own and how caring for someone else often made her think of him.
The journey to the safehouse was a twenty minute drive. The building was larger than you envisioned.
You dug through the depths of your jacket for a key safely stored for the safehouse and opened the garage. It was miraculous that it still worked. 
The team was reassured that the buildings were safe from being built with any malicious intent during SHIELD's active operation, and were nearly forgotten until the exploration of Nunavut was proposed. 
You stepped off of the snowmobile and had Wanda unlock the door and take the bags in while you pulled the vehicle into its proper storage inside so it wouldn’t be frozen outside by the time you left in the morning. 
Locking the door behind you when you stepped into the house, you shedded off your layers and hung them from the hangers, moving your boots to the side beside Wanda’s. 
The place felt brisk the moment your jacket came off so you wandered around looking for a thermostat. From what you were all told, each safehouse came with three bedrooms and bathrooms, a common room, and a kitchen. 
You found the kitchen first, then a hungry Wanda who was standing by the counter with canned tuna and a glass of tap water. 
“Are you hungry?” she asked you, offering you the can of tuna. 
Looking around, you took the fork from her. “Where did you find this?” you inquired with a laugh. 
“There’s some food here, but they’re all raw or canned. Made to last, I would think,” she noted and took out another can from the pantry before peeling the top open. She took a fork from the counter.
“I turned on the heat when I came in,” she told you. “It should get a bit warmer in a few minutes.”
You looked through the pantry and took out a box of macaroni and cheese, then turned on the oven, feeling the prongs heat up. “Do you want to share some pasta?” 
“Yes, please.”
Within forty minutes, you’re sitting on the common area couch with Wanda in silence, eating cheesy boxed macaroni.
For the first time, you felt strange looking back at your history with Wanda before Ultron. It twisted something in your stomach and made your shoulders tense. 
Looking at her docile expression, unsuspecting and delicate as she sat across from you, legs crossed on the couch as she ate with you. The dim lamp from the corner of the room beside the broken television cast the silhouettes on her face you often used to follow with your eyes when she laid beside you in the plot of grassy land in front of the hideout she and Pietro used for a period of time after Strucker vanished. It was warm – the last few weeks of summer.
It was March now, months since the battle on Sokovia and even longer since the last time you spent this kind of time with Wanda.
Wanda put her empty bowl down and took a sip of water. She wrapped her fingers around the cold glass, her thumb running over the ring on her index finger.
“I know you don’t like me,” she uttered suddenly, “so I would understand if you never forgave me for what I’ve done to you.”
You looked up from the bowl in your lap and at Wanda, who was looking down at her fingers avoidantly.
“But I will always look up to you,” she continued. “You are so brave and kind. You are what I had wished I was becoming when I worked with HYDRA, and when I allied with Ultron. But I made a mistake. And I keep making mistakes.”
“You’re doing okay,” you told her suddenly before you realised what you were saying.
Then you added, “Everyone thinks so.”
Wanda looked at you, studying your face for what felt to you like quite a while. “When I looked inside your mind,” she said, “I saw something pure. I feel the same for you as I did before, if not with more gravity. I want to know more about you and these things I can feel that you love.” 
“What do you want to know?”
“This Shakespeare — I have read him and understand very little of what he writes about, or rather how he writes. I made my own way through several acts of Hamlet but found I could not pretend I found any sense of enjoyment in his writing. His works are enjoyable to you?”
And then you were laughing a kind of laugh that made you place your bowl on the coffee table to avoid spilling it over.
Wanda smiled as she watched you, the crinkling of your eyes that she found pleasing to look at and the unrestrained sound of sincere joy that came from you, especially when it was because of her and no one else. She laughed, quietly and with a few chuckles.
“That was funny?” she asked, still smiling.
You nodded and answered, “Yes.”
But she continued to look at you, anticipating an answer.
“He writes strangely, but because he lived from quite a while ago when the English language was different,” you said. “But also because he was an artist, and like any other artist, his work can be interpreted. Overtime, it’s become easier for me to understand his age of English, but the poetry of his works have become no less interesting to me.”
“What’s interesting about it?”
“There’s an eloquence to his style of writing, I think,” you thought aloud. “And for certain works like Hamlet, for example, it’s tragic and ironic, with beautifully written characters, all within a bound book of one of the most artistic styles of writing I’ve come across. He’s-”
Wanda leaned over, the sudden act making you halt your words and look over to her, only for her hand to find the side of your face. Her lips met yours in one swift movement and her eyes fluttered shut. 
Her nose was decorated with freckles.
You stumbled back in your seat and Wanda’s hand lifted to your knee. 
She parted from you, looking down at her hand on your knee and her fingers slowly retracting from your cheek.
“I-I’m sorry,” she stuttered, her cheeks flushing.
Carefully, you took the glass away from her and placed it beside her empty bowl. Wrapping your hand around her wrist, you pulled her closer to you until her other hand was forced to remove itself from your knee and lay itself down on the couch by your hip.
You kissed her with a sudden ferocity that made her breath hitch.
“Wanda,” you breathed.
She moved closer to you so she was sitting up on her knees in front of you.
Your hands moved down her body, arching her back with your fingers pressing into her sides so you could kiss up her stomach then between her clothed breasts.
With a pleasured sigh, Wanda’s hands came up to the sides of your head, her fingers playing with your hair and urging you to kiss her body. 
Now irritated by the distance between you and her bare skin, your fingers hooked around the collar of her long-sleeved white shirt and yanked down. 
Wanda hid a grin in your hair and kissed the top of your head. 
You kissed the swells of her breasts, burying your face in her chest and nipping at her delicate skin. You craved more and your fingers pulled down her bra, exposing rosy nipples. Your tongue ran up one of them and they hardened at your contact.
“I like that,” Wanda said, an arm wrapping around your neck and pulling you closer to her. 
“Yeah?” you answered, looking up at her from between her breasts. You kissed up her chest and neck, running your tongue up her pulse point and making her squirm. “What else do you like, pretty girl?”
She blushed at the pet name and hid her face against the side of your head. 
“Anything, Y/N,” she answered. “Anything from you.”
You wrapped your arm around her ass and picked her up from the couch, making her giggle and wrap her legs around your hips. Your other arm was wrapped around her waist.
Wanda kissed your forehead and your temple while you peppered kisses against her throat.
You carried her up the stairs and towards one of the bedrooms Wanda pointed at. You flicked on the lamp on the nightstand and lowered Wanda onto the bed. 
She pulled your shirt off when you leaned over her while you unbuttoned and slipped her jeans off. Her legs were smooth and you couldn’t help but run your hands up the sides of them, gripping at her soft thighs and her hips. 
Her shirt was pulled off next while you took your pants off. 
You tucked your hands under her ass and you lifted her further up the bed, which made her laugh. You leaned back down when she was laid in the middle and kissed her. 
Her hands ran up your stomach and undressed you until you were bare on top of her. You unclipped her bra and wrapped your lips around one of her nipples, kneading her other with your hand. 
Her back arched up against you and she wrapped a hand around the back of your neck, pulling you close.
“Gods, you’re beautiful, Wanda.”
She shuddered when your hand ran down her bare stomach and you grinned against her cheek when you realised how sensitive Wanda was. 
Your free hand pinched one of her nipples between your thumb and index finger and she yelped before burying her face in your hair.
You slipped her panties off and dragged your fingers through her folds that were already slick with her anticipation. 
Wanda’s cheek warmed your lips when you kissed them for she was flushed, overwhelmed and embarrassed being exposed for someone like you. She idolised you, regarded you with high praise and adoration. 
To have you kiss breasts and call her beautiful, to touch her in a way she hadn’t been in years. But even her first time had been rushed, a decision made at the snap of her fingers.
Your fingers were brought to your lips and you licked her juices from them. Wanda’s eyes widened at the act and you grinned down at her. You ran a thumb over her bottom lip and kissed her, her flavour melding between your dancing tongues.   
You reached down between your stomachs and jerked your hand around your stiff cock. Wanda’s eyes followed your hand and her lips parted at the sight of you. You pecked her lips, amused at her awe. 
A hand ran up her cunt, collecting her slick and coating yourself in it. 
“Are you ready, Wanda?” you asked, looking up at her. 
She nodded eagerly, hugging her arms around your neck tightly. “I’m ready.”
You entered her with a long groan, feeling her soft walls squeeze around your cock. Her eyes were squeezed shut, shaky whimpers leaving her. 
“Y/N,” Wanda groaned. “That hurts.”
“You’re so tight,” you told her. “I’ll be careful.”
She opened her eyes and pulled you down to her so she could kiss you. “No. I want you, please. Harder.”
You wrapped an arm around her waist, lifting the lower half of her body from the bed and angling her hips down against your thighs. 
With two hands on either of her hips, you pulled her up and down, fucking her on your cock as Wanda’s mouth fell open, broken moans and cries of pleasure singing from her throat. 
She reached a hand down to you and you took it, interlacing your fingers as you dug your other hand’s nails into the side of her ass. 
Her ass slapped down against your thighs and you could only stare at her in admiration, watching her breasts bounce on her chest with every thrust into her, the sounds that came out of her that were for you, the sound of your name on her tongue that was moaned in a way that no one would ever have the pleasure of hearing for their own names. 
Your hand moved between Wanda’s hips and you laid your hand flat against her lower stomach while your thumb began drawing circles around her clit. 
“Oh my, Y/N!” Wanda cried. “Oh, I feel so strange.”
She was quite sensitive, nearing her climax so soon. You kissed up her stomach and let go of her hips, laying her flat down on the bed and mounting yourself over her. You kiss her and massage one of her breasts.
“Let me see you, Wanda. Come for me.”
Wanda buried her face in your neck, her hot breath panting against your chest while your thrusted into her and grasped harshly at her hip to maintain a strong hold on her delicate body while you fucked her. 
She babbled out a mess of half-finished words and her walls tightened around you. 
You lifted your head to see her and Wanda’s head was thrown back, her fingernails digging into your upper arms as she came. Her orgasm washed over her in heavy forceful waves, making her shudder and tighten her knees around your hips. 
There was a certain pride in making Wanda come, a young girl so often taken by timidity and whose inner feelings were unshared with those she did not find solace in. To have her shudder under you, hands grasping desperately at your body while she cried out your name sent bursts of warmth up your chest.
She took your head between her hands and pressed shaky kisses to your face, up the bridge of your nose and against your cheekbones, to your forehead and finally back down to your lips. “Let me get you off,” she whispered.
You switched positions with you now laying on your back, Wanda on her knees by your ankles. You reached down and ran your fingers through her hair in admiration, then down her cheek. Wanda smiled at you and kissed your hip.
She firstly took your cock with both hands, flicking the tip of her tongue against your tip. She ran her tongue through your slit gently then wrapped her lips around you, hands jerking you slowly.
When she had you with your head thrown back and your cock stiff in her hands, Wanda let go of you and kissed up the length of your shaft.
“Y/N, you’re so beautiful,” she said, looking up at you from below. “The most beautiful person I’ve ever been lucky enough to know. I haven’t treated you as I should. I do not deserve your patience, and certainly not any permission to see you this way. But I hope to show you how much I adore you. Because I do. I truly do.”
“Wanda…” you uttered quietly, ready to protest before she wrapped her lips around your tip again and bobbed her head down.
She took a few inches at a time and you felt her throat open up for you as she moved her head down. One hand rubbed at your thigh and the other was placed atop your hip. She adjusted her position, kneeling and arching her back to get as low as she could, her ass stuck up in the air. She inched further down, relaxing her throat until her nose brushed your lower stomach.
She took your hand with hers and placed it against the back of your head.
You took hold of her hair and pulled her up along your cock and back down. You could hear Wanda’s mouth attempting to accommodate you with every entry into her mouth. She breathed through her nose, her grip tightening around your thigh as she drooled around your cock.
You pulled her up further occasionally so her lips reached only your tip, allowing her space to breathe before pushing her back down.
Wanda never protested, only looked up at you with sheer determination to bring you pleasure. She did gag at the depth you were fucking her throat in, though still that seemed to please you and Wanda was satisfied.
After ten minutes, you pulled Wanda off of your cock, wiping the drool from her chin and uttering, “Good, Wanda. That was good.”
But she was drunk on the taste of your cock, the pre-cum she was treated with occasionally when she curled her tongue around you a specific way and sucked at you with a certain velocity. 
“I want more,” she objected and kissed up your cock again, her tongue running up your veins and kissing your tip, running it through her lips and sucking at it teasingly. She rubbed her cheek against your wet cock then ran her tongue up it.
So you took her head between both hands and positioned her over your cock. She parted her lips instinctively and you jutted your hips up into her face, thrusting her throat down onto your dick at a speed vastly different than before, your speed having increased tenfold.
Wanda grasped the blankets and scratched at your hips while she tried her best to take you as deep and fast as you wanted, using her for nothing but your own pleasure. Her eyes filled with tears and her saliva coated the base of your shaft.
Your hips bucked up into her face and Wanda looked up at you, studying intently the line that formed between your eyebrows and the way your eyes squeezed shut. She flattened her tongue and wrapped it around your cock, flicking it side to side where it could fit. 
“Wanda- Fuck, I’m coming!” 
You shot your cum down her throat, your hands on either side of her head pushing her back gradually to fill her mouth with your cream, then finally you pulled out altogether to cum onto her face. 
With the tip of your cock, you rubbed your cum against her lips and cheeks. Wanda smiled and kissed your shaft proudly.
You wiped it off her face and ran your coated fingers through her messy hair while Wanda swallowed what she could, licking your cum from her fingers too.
“God, you’re fucking filthy.”
Wanda grinned and climbed up.
You wrapped your arms around her body, kissing each other’s tired faces. 
She twirled your hair around her fingers and with her cheek pressed against yours lazily, she whispered, “I’m tired, Y/N.”
“Sleep,” you answered and put a hand to the back of her head, letting her rest her head on your chest. You kissed her hair damp with sweat, and rubbed her smooth bare back as she dozed off. 
You muttered confessions of your adoration of her against her head, kissing her forehead in her sleep and eventually covering your bare bodies in thick blankets.
For now, she wouldn’t know how you admired her, her intelligence and her kindheartedness, her strength and her beauty. The green of her eyes and the softness of her smooth curves, the feeling of her lips and the smoothness of her skin.
But perhaps she would know at some point or another, and that brought you joy – a future you could imagine with her.
You pulled Wanda against your chest and kissed the top of her head.
A future with her.
The very thought comforted you, and you fell asleep soon after her.
656 notes · View notes
violet-lazer · 2 years
Text
Pride, Incumbent
Content / Warnings : Terzo/Reader, Explicit, Gender-Neutral Reader, Dirty Talk, Friends with Benefits, 1.7k words. Thanks, please enjoy! (AO3 here)
Terzo has a hard time with a bet of his own creation.
“If I were you,” Terzo says with maddening condescension, “I would be realistic in my expectations for tonight. Specifically, about my chances of winning this little wager.”
It’s late, you’re sitting on Terzo’s bed reclining against one of his (many) decorative pillows, and he’s fixing you with a gaze so infuriatingly cocksure you’re tempted to get up and leave just to spite him. But. You’re here for a reason. He smiles at you.
“For example,” he continues, “I do not mean to be presumptuous but I am already sensing a distinct aura of you wanting me to pin you to this mattress and fuck you senseless.”
“I don’t think you should be putting words in my mouth like that,” you say. “I think that’s cheating.”
“I am sorry. Is there something else you would prefer me to put in your mouth?”
You’re feeling worse about your chances by the second. This hadn’t been on your bingo card for today, but escapades with Terzo were rarely predictable. You’d been happily minding your own business at lunch when, without so much as a hello, he’d dropped into the seat opposite you and said, “Would you like to make a sexy little wager in the name of self-restraint? More specifically, would you like to see who can keep their hands off the other for the longest?”
As most atrocious ideas do, it sounded great at the time. Of course your self-control is better than Terzo’s, a man who has never paused to consider resisting an impulse in his life. Easy. But now you’re face to face with him, your friend and occasional lover, and you swear he usually has his shirt buttoned higher and it’s strange, actually, that he’s wearing fresh paint this late in the evening. You’re not complaining, mind, you always joke about how you fancy him more with the papal paint on and- Ah. He’s playing dirty.
There’s a part of you that wants to skip the pretences and just get underneath him. Terzo is a busy man, with no shortage of nocturnal offers from Siblings (and he, in all of his charity, is committed to giving everyone a turn) and it’s been too long since he’s had his hands on you. You should make the most of the night, right?
No. You’re not losing to Terzo. If there is one thing you value more than getting laid, it is retaining your pride. Consequently, you’re going to effortlessly brush off his comments and absolutely not think about him putting his cock in your mouth and about how proud he sounds when he’s praising you while he’s fucking the back of your throat. Great. You’re in the clear.
“Alright,” you say, the very picture of internal peace. “Remind me of the rules.”
He leans back and props himself up on his elbows. “Simple. We kiss. We keep our hands to ourselves. We see who folds first, hm? Who is so overcome with desire that they simply must touch the other. Oh, and no touching yourself. This is not a mutual masturbation session. But we can schedule one in later if you fancy it.”
Deciding not to linger on that image for too long lest you lose this contest before it begins, you sit up.
“Right. And where did this idea come from in the first place, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Terzo shrugs. “Ah. It is a fun thing they are doing on the internet. Aether told me about it. And I thought of you.”
Oh. Well. That was nice of him. Or perhaps he reckons you’re an easy target. Judging by your so-far shambolic control of your own desire, he may be right.
Terzo tilts his head and looks at you almost pityingly. “I just want you to know that there is no shame in losing, hm?”
You’re going to make a mess of this bastard if it’s the last thing you do.
He shifts closer to you and makes a show of putting his hands behind his back. You opt to let your hands rest by your side, casual-like.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
Terzo’s slow about closing the distance between you, savouring the anticipation you’ve no chance of hiding. He presses a gentle kiss to your lips in reacquaintance. Then, he pulls back to meet your eyes- gaze challenging, the quirk of a smile playing on his lips- and kisses you again. His tongue pushes into your mouth and you can’t stifle the moan that escapes you. He sets a torturously slow rhythm, tongue sliding against yours, deliberate and insistent.
Spend enough time at the Ministry and you’ll be privy to whispers, claims, hushed gossip in the corridors about the Papas’ talents and proclivities. Of course, there’s always room for exaggeration and downright fabrication (you don’t think Primo drinks blood, probably) but on Terzo there’s an unholy consensus: kiss him and prepare to be absolutely ruined for the rest of the week. Terzo kisses like he’s in love with you, as if there’s a hunger in him that you alone can sate, as if he was Hell-sent to show you pleasures you couldn’t even dream of.
It is rather inconvenient tonight that he is an exceptional kisser.
It’s impossible, mouth full of him, not to think of the nights that have started like this, the little rituals you’ve cultivated, memories of his fingers digging into your thighs and deliberate, unbroken eye contact as he sinks his cock into you. But- this isn’t the time. As much as you’re trying to ignore it, there’s a pang of desire settling between your hips. And who could blame you? As if it will do something to satisfy your need for touch, you wind your hands into the plush bedding beneath you. You can feel his hair falling in your face, he’s kissing you so persistently he’s almost pushing you backwards, and you don’t know how much more of this you can take. You want something, anything; pressure, stimulation, a bit of movement; it’s pointless to deny your arousal so you’re going to have to hang on through sheer willpower. He’s nipping at your lip and you’re stifling moans, but you’re not out of the game yet, not while your fists are clenched at your sides. Come on why won’t he just fucking touch you-
Terzo pulls away with a frustrated groan, eyes blazing, breathless. “You want me to fuck you? Touch me,” he growls.
You look down. He’s gripping the sides of his thighs, hard enough to leave marks, as hard as he’d be grasping yours if he could only touch you. More importantly, you can see the outline of his cock straining against his trousers. He always did know how to compliment you. You’ll have him yet.
You shake your head. “I’m going to make you fold, Terzo.”
And you kiss him, hard and messy and laced with desperation. He’s stubborn, giving it right back to you, allowing you no quarter. For all your bravado, you can feel your resolve weakening; if it’s this, if it’s Terzo kissing you like his life depends on it, then you might not last after all. It’s time to step your game up.
When you press the first kiss to Terzo’s neck, you feel his jaw tighten in response.
“This is cheating,” he says.
“It isn’t,” you murmur against his skin. “I’m not using my hands.”
This isn’t what he means, of course. He means it’s cheating because if you know anything about pleasing Terzo, you know to go for the neck. Terzo wants your tongue grazing over his skin, for you to bite and suck hard enough to bruise, he’s happiest with your hands around his throat. He’ll beg for it. He’ll whine underneath you. You’ve seen it first-hand. And you think, trailing slow kisses downwards, feeling the rumble of annoyance in his throat, this might be his fatal oversight tonight. So confident, so cocky, so convinced you’d come undone before you had the chance to make him buckle here. Lucifer knows how much willpower he has left in him, but- oh?
You feel it. You know you feel it. With your face buried in his neck you don’t see it but you’re sure- the slightest brush of his hand against your arm. But it’s light enough that he can claim plausible deniability, so it won’t do. You want to ruin him, unequivocally.
Meeting his eyes before you descend on him, you slowly, deliberately, run your tongue across his skin. He should’ve picked someone else. Someone who didn’t know exactly where to stop, where to press wet, open-mouthed kisses, someone who didn’t know the timbre of his moans. It’s easier, now, to ignore your own arousal when your heart is hammering at the thought of beating Terzo at his own game. You let your teeth graze his skin. Teasing. He craves the bite.
“Come on, ” he whines, and it’s more to himself than to you, and you glance down and his hand is hovering over his cock, fingers twitching. It’s a beautiful sight. Frameable.
You bite down.
“Fuck.”
It’s sharp, laced with arousal and annoyance. He pulls back from you, breath heavy, flushed beneath his paint. Your eyes meet.
“What have you done to me, hm?” 
And then he’s kissing you again, and- there are hands cradling your face while he kisses you deeply, feverishly. Terzo drops his hands to your waist and pulls you on top of him, grunting as the back of his head hits the mattress. You shift to straddle him and he runs his fingers up your thighs, hands settling to grab your arse, and he bucks his hips up to grind his cock into the base of your hips.
You’d have to be a saint of some description to attempt to hide the smile creeping over your face. Unfortunately for Terzo, you are nothing of the sort. Having him underneath you, hands kneading your flesh, cock hard for you- mixed with your own, blazing, triumphant desire- you can’t help but laugh. 
“Just to clarify,” you say, with what you’re sure is an infuriating smugness, “I win, yeah?”
Terzo rolls his eyes at you.  “Yes, yes. Well done. Your pride is intact.”
You lean down until you’re face-to-face with him. “What do I get?”
For a moment, he’s still. Then, hands firm on your hips, he pushes you sideways so he can roll you over, beneath him, submissive. He pulls your legs apart with ease. With one hand, he works his belt undone.
“Ah. You can get fucked.”
974 notes · View notes
Text
Escalation
Wheeljack was on the beach when Bumblebee and Bulkhead trudged out of the water.
“I’d lie low until mornin’,” the Wrecker advised them. “Prime ain’t happy, and you know Ratchet and Prowl aren’t gonna be any help.”
“You know, you could be some help,” Bumblebee told him flatly. “You could’ve been some help, up there! If you’d told Bulkhead to get off my back, then none of this would’ve happened!”
Wheeljack huffed. “No, no—I’m stayin’ outta that kinda nonsense, kid.” He snorted. “I mean, puttin’ it nicely: that was a mess.”
“You mess around in fights all the time!” The yellow mech protested.
Wheeljack nodded. “Yeah, but I’m not tusslin’ with your everyday petty thief. This is human business, and we should let the cops handle it.”
“Yeah, ‘cause those police ‘bots were doing a really good job of handling it.” Bumblebee rolled his optics. “If we see something wrong, then we should stop it. That’s what heroes are supposed to do, right?”
Wheeljack frowned. “I’ve never been one to call myself a hero. Way I figure it, if you’re givin’ yourself the title or chasin’ it, you’re goin’ about somethin’ wrong. You do what you think is best, and that’s the end of it.” He looked away. “And we learned the hard way back home that the right way of things was keepin’ the humans outta our business as well as we could—otherwise, the ones we cared about got hurt… and the ones who hated us caused a whole lot of hurt.” He looked at Bumblebee. “… I’m not sayin’ we should ignore it when humans are in trouble. I’m not gonna stop fightin’ fires or savin’ people, and I also agree that we should be held accountable when we make a mess of things on this planet. When we break a city block with one of our brawls, I’m never gonna protest fixin’ it.”
“You complained about getting concrete in your joints,” Bulkhead pointed out.
Wheeljack’s optic twitched. “Work with me, here. I can get my hands dirty in just about every way there is, but I was never in construction.”
Bumblebee snorted. “Proceed.”
“Tch.” Wheeljack shook his head. “When people are in real trouble, we should help—and we need to keep up a good image, since the humans in this city know about us and we don’t have a liaison to smooth things over. So, no complaints… mostly.” He looked at Bumblebee and Bulkhead again. “And somethin’ like Prometheus Black and Colossus? They probably couldn’t have handled that on their own without someone gettin’ hurt. But… Ratchet’s test results proved that Meltdown was a disaster of our own makin’.” Bumblebee looked away, his expression grim. “… Just like a lot of the human threats back home.” The yellow mech looked at Wheeljack again, surprised, and he saw that the Wrecker was looking at him sadly. “And they hurt a lot of my friends… So, if we start gettin’ ourselves involved with every random human criminal, I just feel like someone is gonna get hurt here—and that will be on us… on me. So, I’m stayin’ outta this.” He sighed. “That’s just what I think is best, kid.”
“Hm.” Bumblebee slowly nodded. “I understand.” He put on a weak grin. “So, um… any ideas on where we should lie low?”
Wheeljack cracked a smile, then he glanced at the destroyed dock they were standing beside. “Well, this thing won’t rebuild itself—and it would be a shame to miss the fireworks.”
“How can you be both awesome and terrible at the same time?” Bumblebee asked him genuinely, then he snickered as the Wrecker reached up and rubbed the top of his head.
Wheeljack smirked. “Practice.” He looked up at Bulkhead. “Whaddya say, buddy? Up for some late-night construction?”
“I dunno,” the green mech said teasingly as they walked off together. “Since it seems like you’re volunteering… are you gonna complain about splinters, this time?”
“Hey!”
By daybreak, the three Autobots had managed to get the necessary supplies and fix up that dock—so they made their way back to the Plant, where Wheeljack convinced Ratchet to knock the dents out of Bumblebee and Bulkhead with only mild grumbling despite being woken up early. That tumble into shallow water had left a few marks.
Once they were all patched up, Bulkhead and Bumblebee shuffled out into the main room with Ratchet and Wheeljack trailing behind them and talking about whatever those two grumpy old mechs likes to talk about. They’d been a little closer since the whole Lockdown incident.
Bumblebee figured he’d paid his dues, and that his lesson for the dock had been learned.
He was wrong.
“Feeling refreshed after a midnight swim?” Optimus asked, optics narrowed and servos on his hips. He’d just been standing there, waiting.
“It wasn’t my fault, I swear!” Bumblebee shouted right away, because he just knew that he was going to be blamed for this.
He always got blamed.
Optimus held his servos up. “This isn’t about assigning blame, Bumblebee.” He then pointed at Bumblebee, like that wasn’t gonna make him feel like he was being blamed. “It’s about using your head instead of your thrusters, like I thought you learned from Wheeljack.”
“Prime.” Speak of the Wrecker. Wheeljack stepped forward to face the Prime, frowning. “The dock really wasn’t his fault.”
“Err…” Bulkhead reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, seeming embarrassed. “Wheeljack’s right, there. That was my bad, boss.”
“Hm.” Prime’s face softened. “I see.” He looked down at the yellow mech. “Then, that’s my bad, Bumblebee. I’m sorry.” He looked at Wheeljack, growing serious again. “But he still should’ve just turned the thief over to the police rather than needlessly escalating the situation.”
Wheeljack crossed his arms and raised an optic-brow. “Says the guy who listens to police scanners durin’ his ‘breaks’ and went after the-… Now, what was it? Angry Archer?”
Prime was not amused. “Hm.”
“Just sayin’. Hypocrisy in the chain of command can cause real problems.” Wheeljack shrugged, then he sighed. “… This one’s on me.”
Bumblebee looked up at the Wrecker in surprise, and Optimus blinked. “What?”
“He learned it from me, or at least learned that it was okay,” Wheeljack said. “Not always takin’ things seriously. Messin’ around when there’s work to be done.” The Wrecker smirked, raising his shoulders. “I mean, please: we all know how I get.” He grew serious. “… I take responsibility.”
Bumblebee just stared at him, then his face fell.
“You mess around in fights all the time!”
The yellow mech’s fists clenched at his sides.
“… Wheeljack-”
“Wheeljack, I was there when you were training Bumblebee,” Optimus argued, not convinced. “You didn’t teach him this.”
“I don’t hafta be direct. I can be a bad influence, right?” Wheeljack asked, and Ratchet gave him a look. Sari, who had just arrived, looked up at the Wrecker with a frown. “Look, Bumblebee and Bulkhead stayed up all night with me and rebuilt the dock. They took accountability.”
Optimus sighed. “And I’m glad, but I need to be sure that this doesn’t happen again. It put that human last night in danger, so it’s a risk.”
Wheeljack frowned. “Prime-”
“Wheeljack, you mess around—but in the end, we all know who’s in control,” Optimus insisted.
Wheeljack tensed, something flashing in his optics, then it disappeared or at least got harder to see as he smirked. “You do? ‘Cause I don’t.”
“Wheeljack.” Optimus looked at the Wrecker pointedly. “Enough…. Bumblebee was reckless and irresponsible long before we met you. He doesn’t have your experience, and he needs to learn. End of discussion.”
“He’s a kid,” Wheeljack said quietly. “Don’t you think you’re bein’ a little-?”
Optimus‘s optics narrowed. “Even kids have to grow up sometime, Wheeljack. If we excuse everything Bumblebee does with nothing but a slap on the wrist, he never will.”
Bumblebee watched as Wheeljack’s servos fell and clenched into fists at his sides.
“For one reason or another… there aren’t a lot of kids, where I’m from.
Sometimes, you just gotta let ‘em be kids—and bear with ‘em through it.
Better than makin’ ‘em grow up too fast.”
Bumblebee looked up at Wheeljack, frowning, then he sighed and looked at Optimus.
“Alright, fine. What’s the verdict?”
“Well, I did want you to work with Prowl and Bulkhead today,” Optimus told him. “But now that I know that Bulkhead was involved too…”
Bulkhead cringed. “It was an accident.”
“You nearly hit a human with your wrecking ball so that you could keep yelling at me,” Bumblebee said flatly. “Then, the dock collapsed.”
Bulkhead sighed. “Yeah…”
Optimus looked between the two of them, his optic twitching, then he looked at Prowl. “Do you think you can teach both of them self-control?”
“Perhaps, with backup,” Prowl replied, and he pointed at Wheeljack.
Optimus looked at the Wrecker, who just smirked and waved, then he rested his face in his servo. “Allspark, help me.”
“Maybe call Primus, too,” Wheeljack joked.
Bumblebee snorted. “And that Sandy Claws guy Sari was telling me about.”
Wheeljack looked down at him with wide optics. “Okay, seriously: why do you keep makin’ those comparisons?”
“But I had plans with Bumblebee today!” Sari suddenly cut in, running forward, and she looked up at Bumblebee with a grin as she held up a remote. “Remember that prototype I told you my dad was building?”
A press of a button, and a garage door lifted and a trailer rolled in, carrying- “Turbo-boosters?!” Bumblebee ran over to look at them, his optics shining. “Suh-weet!”
Bumblebee didn’t see how Wheeljack smiled, hearing that exclamation. He wouldn’t have known why, if he had.
Optimus grimaced. “You’re not actually thinking of hooking those things up to yourself, are you?”
“Oh, of course not!” Bumblebee looked back with a frown, then he smirked. “I was gonna ask the doc-‘bot to do it for me.”
“Have you got your processor up your exhaust-port?” Ratchet asked flatly, resting his fists on his hips, then he held a servo up and actually started counting off safety hazards. “These things are untested, incompatible-!”
Sari grinned. “And totally wicked-fast!”
“How fast do you think I could go with them?!” Bumblebee held the boosters up to his back just to see them there, grinning. “Two-hundred?! Five-hundred?!” The boosters were promptly tugged out of his servos. “Hey!”
“Forget it, kid!” Ratchet used one of his magnets to deposit the boosters in a free servo. “I just got through pounding dents out of you. I won’t let you put in more.”
“What?!” Sari looked up at him, her arms crossed as she grew agitated. “My dad’s equipment is perfectly safe!”
“Hm.” Ratchet looked down at her with a raised optic-brow, then he smirked. “… Hey, Wheeljack?” The Wrecker looked at him in surprise. “Before Prowl drags you out on that training op, wanna do me a real quick favor… and give these a look?”
“Oh, uh-“ Wheeljack blinked as the field-tech put the boosters in his servos. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll just… do that.” He looked at Ratchet. “… You sure-?”
Ratchet tilted his head. “You’re an engineer, aren’t you? This is your speciality.”
“… Heh.” Wheeljack looked down at the boosters with a small smirk. “Been a while since that was the one folks were lookin’ for… Alright, on it.”
Wheeljack left the room, heading for the med-bay—and Optimus looked at Ratchet with the same confusion everyone else seemed to be feeling. “So, uh… What was that about?”
“In this universe, Wheeljack is known for surviving the impossible while also having the absolute worst luck with keeping volatile technology intact. Putting it bluntly, there’s a fifty-fifty chance of everything just blowing up in his face—but he tends to come out alright,” Ratchet replied. “So, since we have our own on-site Wheeljack… the way I figure it is that, if those turbo-boosters are dangerous, we’ll know shortly.”
“… You’re letting Wheeljack poke them to see if they explode because you’re pretty sure he won’t die if they do?” Bulkhead asked, his optics wide.
Ratchet crossed his arms. “Yep.”
“By the Allspark,” Prowl said, stunned. “I know I never- But by the Allspark.”
“Hey, it’ll be good for him,” Ratchet argued. “Kid’s been fighting too long. A nice little engineering job is just what he needs. Besides, it’s a fifty-fifty. I think he’d like those odds.” He paused. “… Wait for it…” He blinked. “Huh. He made it to the med-bay in one piece. Maybe Sari’s right.”
“You’re terrible,” Sari told him, shaking her head.
“Heh.” Ratchet chuckled. “Yeah…”
Wheeljack was sitting at Ratchet’s work-bench, and he had just opened up one of the boosters and was using a tool to delicately pry open a secondary panel within when-
“Hey, Wheeljack—are you dead?” Optimus asked as he suddenly poked his head into the room.
The Wrecker looked back, surprised. “What?”
“Nothing. Sorry.” With that, the Prime was gone just as quickly as he had come.
“… Huh.” Wheeljack looked back at the turbo-booster before him, an optic-brow raised, then he shrugged and shook his head.
He’d started to learn that questioning these kids too much usually resulted in more questions.
Prowl eventually dragged Wheeljack away from his work, and the two of them dragged Bulkhead and Bumblebee out onto the motorway.
Bulkhead, who seemed genuinely apologetic, stayed close to Wheeljack during the drive and maintained a good speed. However, Bumblebee had other ideas and pulled ahead of the others.
“Slow it down, Bumblebee—and don’t call attention to yourself,” Prowl chided as he tried to drive up beside Bumblebee, only for the small yellow car to cut him off.
“Two commands that just aren’t in my programming, Prowl.”
Prowl maneuvered to pull up beside Bumblebee, whether his younger teammate liked it or not. “The point of this exercise is to teach you to blend into your environment.”
“Oh, right!” Bumblebee replied snarkily, though he did fall back. “‘Cause nothing says ‘blend’ like a motorcycle driving itself!”
Prowl summoned a hologram—one that he scanned off his vehicle-mode’s original owner—and willed it to look back at Bumblebee with a little smirk and a raised eyebrow. “Happy?”
“Ugh.” Bumblebee’s argument was lost, so he found another one. “But hey, like Wheeljack blends! At least we’re emergency vehicles! Looking around Detroit, those are a credit a dozen! He’s -like- some classy, custom sports-car! Muscle-car?” He angled a mirror to glance back at the Wrecker. “Dude, what are you?”
“Frag if I know,” Wheeljack replied.
“Whatever he is, he is not subtle!” Bumblebee insisted. “And whenever we pull up to an emergency, humans can immediately tell that something’s up! Like, ‘oh, no—this must be really serious! it’s a few cops, a SWAT transport, an ambulance, a fire truck, and… some rich jerk?’.”
Wheeljack snorted. “I’m the main character.”
Bumblebee huffed. “Yeah, no fraggin’-”
“Focus, Bumblebee!” Prowl insisted, then he sighed. “Wheeljack, I asked for your help.”
“Alright, on it.” Wheeljack pulled forward to drive alongside Bumblebee. “Kid, drivin’ slower allows you to be more aware of your surroundings—and not drawin’ too much attention to yourself before you make your move can be an advantage.”
“Right, right.” Bumblebee sounded annoyed. “I always forget that you’re a ninja-‘bot, too.”
“Despite everyone’s insistence upon callin’ me that, no,” Wheeljack retorted. “I’m a Wrecker.”
Bumblebee twitched his mirrors. “Y’know, that doesn’t sound like the most subtle group.”
“Well, there’s a reason I’m still around,” Wheeljack told him. “Though I did… have my moments.”
“Oh, like what kinda moments?”
“Omaha, Seattle, and the Scottish bluffs.”
“… Wait, what?” Bumblebee asked, confused.
Wheeljack’s hazard lights briefly flared before shutting down. “Let’s not get into it.”
“Whatever.” Bumblebee scoffed. “Seriously, I’ll never get that ‘robots in disguise’ nonsense. Why hide when you can accelerate?” The yellow mech pulled forward, only to immediately regret it as he nearly rear-ended another vehicle. “Ah!”
They had come across a traffic-jam, one that seemed to stretch on for at least a mile.
“What if you can’t accelerate?” Prowl asked him.
Bumblebee was quiet as several police cars drove past them in a separate lane, their sirens blaring, then he transformed one arm free and attached his light to his roof before turning his siren on and entering that lane as well and speeding off.
Prowl tried to remain calm as he activated his comm. “What do you think you’re doing?”
:What’s it look like? I’m blending!:
“… You good?” Bulkhead asked, as Wheeljack had gone strangely quiet—even for him.
“I will never get used to the fact that you guys can just… do that,” Wheeljack admitted.
Prowl huffed. “Your optics glow in the dark.”
“His arm just-!” The Wrecker groaned, deciding if wasn’t worth it. “Whatever. Let’s go.”
“But Bumblebee was right about one thing: you’re not an emergency vehicle,” Prowl noted as both he and Bulkhead activated their lights. “I thought you wanted to set a better example.”
Wheeljack’s engine revved, then he sighed. “I did acknowledge the fact that I’m not settin’ a good example—but technically, I never said that was gonna be changin’.” He angled his wheels. “Now, you fellas ever hear of a police escort?”
As it turned out, Bumblebee was leading Wheeljack, Prowl, and Bulkhead into another run-in with the thief from the docks—who’d upgraded with some sort of speed-enhancing suit, which Bumblebee obviously took as a challenge.
The thief managed to get the best of Prowl when the ninja-‘bot got cocky and was far too fast for any vehicle to stand a remote chance, but that didn’t stop Bumblebee from chasing him anyway.
So, Wheeljack ended-up chasing after the yellow mech—and he found himself following the kid down a stretch of road leading up to some train tracks, where he saw the lights begin to flash.
He opened his comm when he saw that Bumblebee was just not slowing down as the wooden barriers started to lower and the thief crossed the tracks with ease, but he thought better of it as the train rapidly came into view.
Worst case scenario if Bumblebee kept going? Some broken barriers, a few hours spent on repairs, maybe getting a few dents knocked out by Ratchet, and a scolding from Prime.
The kid was way too close to those tracks and going way too fast. If he hit the brakes and his traction failed, he could slide out onto-
:Bumblebee, remember Prime’s orders! Use your head, not your thrusters!:
Wheeljack’s engine stuttered, then he put metal to the pedal. “Prowl, don’t!”
:What? What do you mean?:
“I can make it, I can make it-” Bumblebee suddenly hit the brakes and slid with a horrible screech from his tires as black streaks were left on the pavement, and he crashed through a black and yellow barrier and out into the path of the train. “I’M NOT GONNA MAKE IT!”
“Kid!”
Wheeljack was too far away, and he knew it—and one of Bumblebee’s wheels was stuck in a gap in the track, and the train wasn’t stopping.
‘No, no, no, no, no-’
The train suddenly came to a screeching halt, every inch of the massive vehicle groaning in protest as its engine roared and pressed onward against whatever was holding it back.
Bumblebee stopped struggling to free himself—still a vehicle, but his astonishment was clear nonetheless. “I’m not scrap metal?”
“What are you waiting for?!” There was Bulkhead at the back of the train, metal plating crumpled under his servos and his face scrunched up in effort. “I can’t hold this thing forever!”
And he didn’t have to.
Wheeljack hadn’t slowed down.
He transformed as soon as he reached the tracks and ran over to the yellow vehicle, where he got down on one knee and didn’t think twice before detaching the trapped tire so that he could lift Bumblebee out of there and out of the way.
“Bulkhead, now!” He shouted just as soon as Bumblebee was clear—and Bulkhead grunted as he released the train, the abandoned tire being shredded beneath it as it thundered past.
Wheeljack watched it go, his optics wide, then he looked down as Bumblebee transformed into his ‘bot-mode and stared straight forward.
“Hey, hey.” Wheeljack kneeled in front of him and rested his servos on his shoulders. “Kid?”
Bumblebee didn’t even seem to hear him.
“What were you thinking, Bumblebee?!” Bulkhead marched over, frustrated. “You could’ve been-!”
“Yeah, I think he knows,” Wheeljack said quietly.
Bulkhead blinked, then his face dropped. “… Bumblebee?”
“I-…” The yellow mech shook his head. “I wasn’t fast enough.”
“Hey, look at me,” Wheeljack insisted quietly, and Bumblebee did after a moment. “You just had a real nasty scare, kid, but Bulkhead had your back.” He glanced up at the green mech. “Great job, big guy. You good?” When Bulkhead nodded, the Wrecker nodded back before he turned his gaze back to the yellow mech, whose expression had gone vacant again. “Bumblebee? Hey, kid-”
“I could’ve made it,” he mumbled. “I could’ve. It-… It’s just a human thief in a stupid suit, and a train.” He shook his head. “Why did I-? Why couldn’t I-? I’m the fast guy. I should’ve-…”
Wheeljack gazed down at Bumblebee sadly, then he looked back as he heard a familiar engine followed by the sound of shifting metal.
Prowl stood up and walked over, visibly concerned. “Is everyone alright?”
“Call Prime, let him know we’ve got another enhanced human on our hands,” Wheeljack said. “Just a thief, this time—not a threat. Fanzone can handle it, with a heads-up—set a trap and catch ‘im.” He looked back at the yellow mech before him, his expression forlorn. “We should just take care of Bumblebee, now—get him home.”
“Understood.” Prowl nodded, raising a finger to his comm. “Optimus, we have a situation.”
Bumblebee pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them there as he stared at the ground, and Wheeljack pulled his servos back and just looked down at him. He hadn’t realized how hard his spark was still pulsing in his chest.
So close to such a huge fraggin’ loss, and over what? A cocky human thief in high-tech spandex and an ill-timed training reminder?
Less than two months before, another enhanced human had nearly murdered the two youngest members of his team—but he was made of living acid, he was genuinely dangerous.
This was just a chase gone wrong.
Still…
How could everything be so fragile?
“… Hey, Wheeljack?” Bulkhead spoke up after a long moment, and the Wrecker jumped a bit before glancing at him. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Wheeljack nodded, a bit too shaky for his liking. “Yeah, ‘course… I’m fine.”
Prowl noticed a change in Wheeljack after their return to the Plant. It was quiet, so the other team members seemed to miss it—though Ratchet did cast the Wrecker an extra glance after he brought Bumblebee in to have his lost tire replaced.
But not Prowl.
He watched as Wheeljack stood by the tinted front windows of the Plant and observed while, just outside, Bumblebee raced in frantic circles while Sari timed him with a stop-watch—and as the Wrecker’s optics followed the yellow mech around the Plant while Bumblebee desperately tried to convince Ratchet to attach the turbo-boosters, which still sat on the work-bench where Wheeljack had left them earlier that day, without any protest or support from the engineer.
Something had shaken Wheeljack, placed him on the highest alert—made him watchful, protective, thoughtful. He was worried about Bumblebee, after whatever had happened at the train tracks.
Prowl had his assumption: Bumblebee didn’t listen to his warning and got himself stuck, and he was nearly struck by a train. Wheeljack and Bulkhead intervened, and he lost a tire… but that theory didn’t explain that two-word, frantic comm message from Wheeljack. The Wrecker had disagreed with what he had said, out there.
More than that, what Prowl said scared him.
Why?
Well, Prowl supposed the swiftest and easiest way to find out was to be up-front about it.
“Wheeljack.” He walked over, his arms crossed, and Wheeljack blinked before glancing down at him. “Earlier, you told me ‘don’t’. Why?”
“… Are you kiddin’ me?” Wheeljack asked, keeping his voice quiet as he glanced around the room before looking at Prowl again with what looked to be annoyance mingled with frustration. “Prowl, for someone who focuses so hard on his timin’—that was-” He saw the look on Prowl’s face, and his own face dropped. “… You didn’t have a direct line of sight when you called, did you?”
“No, I just knew he was after the thief,” Prowl told him, a weight settling in his spark. “Wheeljack, what happened after I spoke to Bumblebee?”
“Look, he’s-” Wheeljack immediately tried to backtrack. “It’s alright. Don’t worry about it.”
“Wheeljack.” Prowl’s optics narrowed and his shoulders raised. “Tell me what you saw.”
Wheeljack just looked at him, then he sighed. “… Bumblebee was headin’ right for the tracks—bein’ reckless, just like we were tryna teach him not to be.” He frowned. “He was real close to the tracks, goin’ real fast… and it’s a lot harder to suddenly stop than to just keep goin’. Objects at rest and objects in motion, basic physics.” He took a deep vent. “… If he’d just kept goin’, he would’ve busted through the barriers and we could’ve given him an earful and sentenced him to some community service once he lost that guy. End of story. But…”
“But?”
“… Look, I get what you and Prime are tryna do. I really do,” Wheeljack admitted. “Bumblebee does need to learn how to think things through, or that kid’s gonna land himself in serious trouble.” He shook his head. “But there’s a big difference between makin’ that kid look before he leaps… and makin’ him doubt himself right when he’s comin’ up on the edge, especially in the crucial moments.” Prowl blinked, then his optics widened as it hit him. “It wasn’t your fault, it just-”
“He stopped on the tracks,” Prowl realized, and he stepped back and sank down to sit on one of the conveyor belts. “… He stopped on the tracks.”
The marks on the road. The broken barrier. The shredded tire that could’ve been his teammate.
How quiet and shaken Bumblebee was, those wide optics, all of those frantic laps outside.
He stopped on the tracks.
“… There’s a real fine line between caution and doubt,” Wheeljack said quietly, sitting down on another conveyor belt so he was facing Prowl.
“Hm.” The cyber-ninja glanced up at him wearily. “Wise words from a Wrecker.”
“Heh.” Wheeljack gave a weak grin. “Well, I can’t take the credit for ‘em. That little gem came from a Wrecker way wiser than me.”
Prowl raised an optic-brow. “Oh?”
Wheeljack nodded, his shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. “… Long time ago, reckless as I am now, I was worse—way worse.” He looked down at the floor. “Before I joined the Wreckers, I-… I was at a low. I figured that everythin’ I did was gonna blow up in my face, so why even bother with caution? It all ended the same.”
Prowl blinked, surprised, then his optics widened.
“Putting it bluntly, there’s a fifty-fifty chance of everything just blowing up in his face—but he tends to come out alright.”
Alternate universes…
“So, I went into everythin’ just bracin’ myself for the worst… but still kinda numb to it, ‘cause it was just typical,” Wheeljack went on while Prowl just stared at him in disbelief. “The worst was my normal. Nothin’ mattered. War was gonna last forever, I wasn’t. Way I figured, I was on borrowed time.” He looked up at Prowl, and he gave a weak smirk. “So, I wasn’t reckless—I was way worse. I was self destructive, careless with my life.” His smirk slipped away. “… Trust me, there’s a difference. You know it when you see it.” He shifted in his seat and folded his servos, hunching over them a bit. “And this old Wrecker, he didn’t much like it when he saw it.” Wheeljack huffed. “He didn’t much like my attitude in general, but we don’t need to get into that. So, he told me… ‘You’re drownin’, kid—and you’re lettin’ it happen. Now, I wanna throw you a lifeline—but… I need you to know there’s a point, or else there really isn’t one’.” His expression softened. “Hm… ‘There’s a real fine line between caution and doubt. You keep holdin’ onto that doubt, and it’s gonna snap and you’ll go under. No one can help you, then’.” He gave a small smile. “… ‘But you learn how to see the value in your life, be as careful with it as any of us knows how to be… and you might just make it through this fraggin’ nightmare’.” He closed his optics. “Heh. ‘So take a damn cue, you little idiot, and grab hold… And don’t you dare let go’.” After a long moment, he opened his optics and looked up again, and he raised an optic-brow. “What?”
Prowl was honestly at a loss.
As Wheeljack had spoken, it had been the strangest thing, but… as weary as he had appeared, speaking the words of an old mech who was likely long gone, he had undergone a sort of transformation.
It lasted only for a few moments, and likely just a trick of the light, but…
Prowl could have sworn that the Wrecker had looked so much younger.
And Prowl wondered how old he actually was—chronologically, but also relatively.
How had his war aged him?
Where did he actually fall relatively between Prowl’s age and Ratchet’s?
Would the answer break their sparks?
Prowl’s spark was already aching, hearing how his newest teammate spoke of his life—but still… he recognized it for the gift that it was.
For the trust that had been offered.
“Hm.” The cyber-ninja sighed and let himself relax. “It’s just that you usually avoid these topics: your past, your friends, your war.” He saw Wheeljack’s face flash with surprise, then the Wrecker averted optic-contact. “And the way you just spoke, it-… It’s strange, to me.”
“I’m glad.” Wheeljack looked at him again and shrugged. “You can’t be doin’ too bad here if war isn’t somethin’ you’re familiar with.”
“No, the- The words of your mentor,” Prowl insisted. He wasn’t ready to talk about his true age, Master Yoketron, and the Fortress—not yet. “That’s how you were taught, even in war? Even as a Wrecker? He told you to value your life?”
“‘Course.” Wheeljack nodded. “Wreckers usually didn’t think much of their worth, but… the way he figured it, I was still just a kid.” Again, he must have seen the look on Prowl’s face. “Kid?”
“… I had a feeling, but this confirms it,” Prowl said softly. “It seems that ‘kid’ is thought of differently between our realities, our Cybertrons.”
Wheeljack frowned. “Whaddya mean?”
Prowl took a deep vent. “When you speak of a ‘kid’, you speak of someone who is younger than yourself and who needs to be nurtured and protected to the best of your ability.”
Wheeljack squinted. “… That’s what a kid is.”
“Most here view a ‘kid’ as someone who has much to learn, and must take it upon themselves to do so or else be a burden to those around them,” Prowl said, and Wheeljack blinked. “Kids are frustrating and lack discipline. Kids need to grow up already and become productive members of society, or get out of the way and stop wasting valuable time and resources.” The cyber-ninja looked away. “I believe it’s a viewpoint that developed during the war. Ratchet was protoformed before it and does not seem to subscribe to those beliefs, but-” Prowl glanced up, and he found himself frozen in place. “But-…”
Wheeljack’s expression was blank—but if Prowl had to describe the look in the Wrecker’s optics in one word, it would be dangerous.
“… But maybe that’s why Prime wasn’t too big of a fan of it,” Wheeljack said quietly. Prowl always wondered why Wheeljack spared Optimus of the title, and this still didn’t give him an explanation because the Wrecker clearly hadn’t known any of this information beforehand. The Wrecker wasn’t one to stop with a seeming term-of-endearment because he was asked. “And why it’s no defense for Bee…” He stood, his servos closing into fists at his sides, then he turned and looked out the window. “… Un-fraggin’-believable.”
Prowl grew worried. “Wheeljack?”
“Your war’s over. Apparently, the ‘Bots won a long, long time ago,” Wheeljack spoke in a strange, almost-mocking tone—then he looked back as his shoulders raised and his optics narrowed. “So, why in the slaggin’ Pit does everythin’ I learn about this place make it seem like they lost—or never even fought the damn thing in the first place?! Oh, kids and different frame types are second-class citizens! They better shape up or be cast aside!” Wheeljack stopped himself and took another deep vent, and he raised a servo to his chest after that as he grew bewildered—then he shook his head. “Sorry, I-… I didn’t mean to snap like that. I’m not yellin’ atcha, if that makes any sense. It’s the situation.” He looked back at Prowl. “But I shouldn’t’ve.”
“Oh.” Prowl blinked. “It’s alright.”
He hadn’t thought anything of it.
His teammates got loud all the time. Even Prowl had his moments where he would shout in rage.
Wheeljack shook his head again, dropping his servo from his chest, and he huffed before he looked at Prowl again with a frown. “Let me tell you somethin’, Prowl: King ‘Con’s next move is just around the corner. He’s already five decades late—and to be completely honest, it might not even be Megatron this time. Doesn’t hafta be.” He crossed his arms and looked away. “What I’ve been learnin’ about how things are runnin’ here, you can’t treat people like that. They’ll fight back. Eventually, one way or another, they will always fight back.” He scoffed. “Megatronus, Megatron—he had his way. Orion Pax had his way. I had my own ways. This doesn’t just… get to happen.”
Prowl just looked at him, at a loss. “You make your war sound like it was a rebellion on all sides.”
Wheeljack looked at him. “It was. The one thing that the Autobots and Decepticons always agreed on was that Cybertron couldn’t stay the way it was. When somethin’ is broken, you don’t just keep pushin’ at it in the hopes that things will magically improve—you either fix it or replace it.”
Prowl didn’t know what to say to that, then he blinked as Wheeljack just turned and started to depart. “Where are you going?”
“I can only deal with one crisis at a time,” the weary Wrecker told him. “I gotta figure out this mess with Bee. That kid’s fraggin’ scared, and-” He paused, and he sighed as he looked back. “… And I gotta find a way to throw him a lifeline.”
Prowl slowly nodded, and Wheeljack nodded back before he walked away.
Ratchet found Wheeljack in the med-bay that afternoon, examining the turbo-boosters again, and he had half a mind to take his magnets and tear the boosters and tools out of the Wrecker’s servos—explosion be damned.
“You better not be thinking what I think you’re thinking,” the field-tech told him sharply. “If you enable that kid’s petty fraggin’ grudge-“
“Ratchet, I don’t think this is just about a grudge,” Wheeljack insisted, not looking up. “Trust me, I know grudges better than anyone. There is one here, but there’s more to it than that.”
Ratchet glanced at the boosters. “Then, why-?”
“Bumblebee wasn’t just too slow.” Wheeljack paused and sighed, then he looked up at Ratchet with a frown. “… He froze on the tracks.”
Ratchet blinked, then his optics widened.
“What?”
Wheeljack looked almost pained as he nodded, and Ratchet knew why. The Wrecker understood just how sensitive the topic was, especially after the incident with Lockdown. So, if he was talking about it… he was serious.
“He froze, Doc-‘Bot,” Wheeljack repeated it, and Ratchet stepped back and sat on a crate. “I think it was too much for him, bein’ out-paced by this guy and the train comin’, and-…” He sighed. “And Prowl shoutin’ at him over the comms to use his head, it got to him—psyched him out. It was an accident, but… he’s a kid. Things can be too much—even outta nowhere, even when they’ve taken more before. He got scared.” Wheeljack looked back at the boosters. “And then… I’m the one who wasn’t fast enough. I couldn’t get to him. If Bulkhead hadn’t caught the train-…”
“… Frag,” Ratchet whispered, then he closed his optics and hung his head. “Frag.”
“Yeah… but that’s not how it’s playin’ in his head,” Wheeljack went on, and Ratchet glanced up at him. “He figures he just needed to be faster. If he was faster, then-…” He shook his head. “Frag.”
“Hm.” Ratchet glanced at the boosters. “… So, you wanna give him the upgrade?”
Wheeljack sighed again. “I don’t know.”
“Are the boosters safe?”
“Well, I made a few tweaks. If they’re attached properly, he should be able to control them.”
“You’re sure?”
“I wouldn’t even be considerin’ it if I wasn’t.” Wheeljack looked at Ratchet in all seriousness. “Not after what I saw today.” He looked back at the boosters and turned to them, using the tools to begin sealing them up again. “… That scout I told you about, the youngest on my team. He was fast, especially on his wheels. That was why he lasted as long as he did. Fastest thing you’d ever see, defied physics.” Wheeljack cracked a small smile. “I mean, I’m fast—but him? Somethin’ else. He was proud of it, and deserved to be.” His face fell. “… After I first came to Earth and met him, I was away from the team for months at a time. And he changed. When we first met, he-…” The Wrecker paused his work, then he looked at Ratchet. “… I’m told that, when he first came to Earth, it could still be too much. Even after all he suffered, he was still just a kid.” He shook his head. “Not towards the end. I saw it myself. He changed, grew up too fast. It got to be too much, so much… enough. And then, he wasn’t a kid anymore—not really. He didn’t hesitate.”
Ratchet frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, he was the youngest,” Wheeljack said. “… And if you ask me? That scout was the one who ended our war.” He looked back at the boosters. “It never should’ve been his war to fight, let alone finish.” He closed his optics. “… I don’t care what your Cybertron thinks of kids, I really don’t. As bad as today was, I don’t wanna see this kid grow up too fast.” He opened his optics and glanced at Ratchet again. “Not like that.”
Ratchet gazed at him sadly. “Like you did?”
Wheeljack shook his head. “That’s different.”
“Why?”
“I was young, Doc-‘Bot—but despite what older ‘bots would call me, I was never a kid,” Wheeljack insisted. “Not like this.” He finished sealing the boosters up and set the tools aside, then he rested a servo on one of the boosters. “… I don’t like the idea of us gettin’ involved with human matters, but we’re involved now—and it’s just a thief. As long as we have Bumblebee’s back out there, this Nanosec shouldn’t be much trouble.” Wheeljack looked at Ratchet. “And Bee needs to be the one to do this, Doc-‘Bot. It won’t sit right with him if he doesn’t. The part that’s a grudge, or the part that made him freeze today.”
“He’s tied too much of his worth to his speed,” Ratchet disagreed. “He should be allowed to be proud of it, but not so proud that questioning it for a second could get him hit by a train.”
“I know,” Wheeljack agreed. “But he’s a kid, and he’s scared—and I don’t know what else to do. I just-” He sighed. “… I don’t know what else to do.”
“… You’re good with him,” Ratchet tried. “Better than any of us. Talk to him, make him see reason.”
“I get him because I’ve been where he is, and I recognize certain things in how he’s actin’ now.” Wheeljack shook his head. “I wouldn’t listen if someone told me to stop, not if I was like this.”
“Like this?”
“… Hurt.” Wheeljack looked up at Ratchet again, frowning. “And someone else is gonna get hurt if we don’t help Bee however we can. This is about damage-control, now. We hafta be there for him.”
Ratchet frowned at the Wrecker. “You talk like you’re speaking from experience.”
“… I might not know much about bein’ a kid, but I know hurt,” Wheeljack said quietly. “And I know the part of this that’s a grudge, Ratchet. One way or another, he’s gonna go after Nanosec again.”
“Hm.” Ratchet shook his head as he stood up. “I can’t say I agree with this.”
“I know.” Wheeljack nodded. “I can’t say that I do, either.” He shifted uncomfortably. “But… I mean… it’s just a thief. As long as we have his back… and watch out for oncomin’ trains… he’ll be okay.”
Ratchet just looked at him, and his fists clenched. “… I want no part in it, kid.”
The field-tech turned and started making his way out of the med-bay—but before he was gone, he heard an almost-silent: “Me neither.”
Bumblebee didn’t know why Ratchet and Wheeljack didn’t seem to be talking later that day, but that didn’t stop him from snatching the turbo-boosters off of the med-bay’s work-bench once the coast was clear and following Ratchet around with them in his second attempt to try and get the field-tech to attach them.
“You don’t understand, Doc-‘Bot!” Bumblebee insisted with a strained smile. “If I was just a little faster, I would’ve caught him! So, how about giving me that turbo-booster upgrade now—huh, doc? What do you say?!”
Ratchet cast the yellow mech a scathing look over his shoulder. “Not even if Megatron himself forced me at blaster-point!”
Wow.
Harsh.
“Nanosec just robbed a research lab!” Optimus suddenly came rushing into the room, followed by Prowl and Bulkhead. “He was spotted heading east on I-94. Let’s put the brakes on this speeder before he-” The Prime cast a critical look at Bumblebee. “Or anyone else… causes any more damage. Transform and roll out!”
Just like that, four of Bumblebee’s teammates had put on their wheels and were speeding off into the city—leaving the yellow mech standing alone in the doorway, dejected.
“Like I’ve even got a chance of catching him,” Bumblebee mumbled, glancing at the floor.
Nanosec made him look sluggish, and with how his last attempt to catch the human speedster had gone… what was even the point of trying?
“You know, there might be another way to get that turbo-booster upgrade,” Sari remarked as she walked over to him.
Bumblebee looked down at her with a frown. “But… Prime’s orders-”
“Were to catch Nanosec.” Sari smirked, holding up her Key. “He didn’t say how.”
Bumblebee blinked, then he smirked right back at her. Seriously, Sari was the coolest.
“Wait,” someone suddenly spoke up, and the two of them glanced back into the Plant.
“Ugh.” Bumblebee turned to face the Wrecker, his shoulders sagging. “What, Wheeljack?”
Wheeljack walked over to face him, then he glanced down at Sari. “… That doohickey’s handy in a bind, but Bumblebee should have those boosters attached by a professional—make sure the connection’s stable.” He then looked at Bumblebee, and he gestured. “Well?”
Bumblebee blinked. “Hold on, wait a second… I thought you were staying outta this.”
“… Before I change my mind, if you would,” the Wrecker said, his optics narrowing.
Bumblebee blinked again, then he nodded and followed the Wrecker to the med-bay—with Sari trailing after them. Once they were in there, Bumblebee handed his teammate the turbo-boosters before transforming—and Wheeljack got down on one knee and got to work.
“Right. Now, listen to me,” Wheeljack began. “You need to decelerate before you make any turns, or you will either wreck your tires and cause severe damage or flip and crash.” He looked down at Sari as she found a place to stand and watch him work. “Sari? You’re ridin’ with me, just in case.”
She rested her hands on her hips. “Hey!”
“I’m not arguin’ with you, on this,” Wheeljack told her sternly, then he looked back at Bumblebee. “Bee, do not turn off your tracker or your comm. If anythin’ goes wrong, I need to be able to get Sari to you as soon as possible. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I understand.” Honestly, Bumblebee’s head was spinning. What was going on?
“One more thing.” Wheeljack’s shoulders raised. “You come to tracks and there’s not a train in your way or in your periphery, don’t slow down. Speed up, even if there’s a barrier dropping in your way.”
“But isn’t that-?”
“You’re gonna wanna bust through anyway. Might as well make it a part of the plan,” Wheeljack said. “You keep drivin’. You don’t stop. Those barriers can be fixed.” The Wrecker set his tools aside and rested a servo on the roof of Bumblebee’s vehicle-mode. “… And you will make it, kid. Only stop if the train is in your periphery or right in front of you—‘cause the odds are our thief’s stoppin’ too, or turning. He’ll probably turn with the train rather than against it, try to race and get ‘round it.”
“Should I try to do that?”
“No.” Wheeljack shook his head. “Not with those gaps, with your tires. You could get hurt. Best to wait it out, catch him once the train passes. Let him wear himself out over nothin’.” He gave a small smirk. “That stupid suit of his makes him fast, but he’s still only human. He has to get tired sometime… and I’m told that, on Earth, it’s taught that slow and steady can win the race.”
“Hm.” Bumblebee tilted a mirror to look at him. “And what’s taught on your Cybertron?”
Wheeljack quirked an optic-brow up. “One of our medics is a speedster who wants to ensure that one of the more archaic social hierarchies, the speed-based one, stays dead and buried in honor of his conjunx. We’re all supportive.”
“… Wow, okay.” Bumblebee genuinely did not know how to respond to that. “Wait, speed was respected on your Cybertron?”
“It was one of few things that could make you stand out, regardless of class,” Wheeljack told him. Class? How rough were the schools, where Wheeljack was from? “But all that is slagspit anyway.” Wait, what? “Bankin’ all your self worth in that nonsense, I mean. The stuff you’re built with, the stuff you add on—that doesn’t say a damn thing about what you’re worth.” Wheeljack looked over at Bumblebee’s side-mirror, and he gave a small smile. “Now, the stuff you do? That shows what you’re really made of.”
Wheeljack scooped Sari up before he stood and stepped back, and Bumblebee really didn’t know what to say except… “Thanks.”
“…. Thank me when this is over, kid,” Wheeljack told him, looking strangely sad.
And Bumblebee knew he had to get this right.
Optimus caught Nanosec single-handedly with the help of an oil-slick and his grappling-hooks, though the thief did give him some trouble.
That would have been the end of it, if Bumblebee noticed the oil slick and stopped before reaching it instead of slip-sliding straight into his leader’s legs on accident—resulting in Prime face-planting into the pavement (leaving a cartoonish imprint) and the thief getting away with his prize, which Ratchet soon shouted over the comms to inform everyone was actually unstable destronium.
:Destronium?: Wheeljack asked, confused. :What the frag is that?:
:What?: That was Bulkhead. :You’re joking.:
:No, I’m not. That sounds like some sorta comic book element,: Wheeljack remarked. :What, is our villain of the week runnin’ this op for Doc Ock?: A snort. :Nah. Doc Ock’s too cool for him. Who’s a really stupid villain?:
:Condiment King?: Sari offered.
:Wait, is that an actual comic book villain?!:
The good news was that Bumblebee was able to regain his bearings quickly and resume the chase, even if he had to mute the calls coming in from everyone except Wheeljack (hey, the Wrecker would probably make him scrub the oil off of that overpass if he didn’t keep his word).
Eventually though, Wheeljack asked him to fall back and regroup for a recap, so he agreed… and found his friend dealing with a lecture.
“Of all the reckless and irresponsible things you’ve done since joining the team, this has to top them,” Optimus said. “You were completely out of line, and I hope you know that I’ll hold you personally responsible for any damages done to the city while Bumblebee uses those things.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Wheeljack replied, and Bumblebee could faintly hear music playing. Was he trying to make sure that Sari didn’t have to listen to the argument? “I already figured as much. Say, have you been speakin’ with my commander recently? I swear, you sound just like him right now.”
“Wheeljack!”
“Hey!” Bumblebee pulled up between the two larger mechs, shutting his boosters down. “Catch me up to speed?”
That received a lot of groans, but the argument was put on pause.
The destronium Nanosec was carrying was highly volatile, and likely to explode if they did not intervene—and when they did, they had to do so carefully. Prowl, Ratchet, and Bulkhead had also seen that Nanosec’s hair had turned white, a feature which Prowl noted was often associated with aging in organics.
That gave Bumblebee an idea—and he was supposed to use his head, right? Using his thrusters too was just a bonus.
He managed to snatch the destronium away from Nanosec, and led the thief on a chase throughout the city—playing an admittedly reckless game of Keep Away while matching the speed from the thief’s suit with the speed from his boosters, and eventually outmatching it as Nanosec collapsed.
Bumblebee transformed and looked back as the others caught up, clutching the destronium canister in his servo as he carefully approached Nanosec and turned the fallen speedster over. The human was absolutely exhausted, and the hair on top of his head was almost gone—but a long, white beard had grown from his face.
The others transformed, and Wheeljack looked down at Nanosec with wide optics before clutching Sari a little closer to his chest.
“What happened to him?” Sari asked, not seeming to notice the Wrecker’s reaction.
“That suit did more than just make him look older. It made him turn older,” Bumblebee explained, frowning. “The more he used it, the faster his body aged—until he finally ran outta time.”
Ratchet cautiously took the destronium canister from Bumblebee and held it up to his optic as his examination mod slid into place, then the mod slid away as the field-tech quickly recoiled and gestured. “That stuff’s gonna blow and take us all with it in about thirty nanoclicks!”
Without even thinking about it, Bumblebee walked over and took the canister back from him. “I can move it someplace safe fast!”
“At this point, the only safe place would be the upper atmosphere!” Ratchet told him, gesturing up to the sky.
Optimus looked at the yellow mech with a grim expression. “Bumblebee, your turbo-mode is fast—but it can’t fly.”
“… Maybe it can, with a little help,” Bumblebee disagreed. “I think I have an idea.”
Sari frowned. “Bumblebee, my dad made those boosters! They weren’t designed to fly!”
“But Wheeljack changed them,” Bumblebee said, then he looked at the Wrecker. “… Could they?”
And Wheeljack just stared at him.
Wheeljack knew what it was like to be responsible for someone else’s life. It was painfully familiar.
The other Wreckers, the Dinobots. Bulkhead, a bomb wired to his chest. Ratchet. Miko. The whole team, over and over again. Species. Planets. Everyone he ever cared about, all the sparks and souls he’d ever fought alongside—on his head, his spark.
He knew what it was like to be responsible for someone else, he even knew what it was like to lose someone he was responsible for. All the same, it had been a very long time since he had actually been looked to as if he was responsible—like it was this real and recognized thing rather than just some unconscious mission that he’d taken upon on himself.
His Dinobots were probably the last ones to look to him like that. If he was honest with himself, Miko might have—but never like that, so blatantly.
But that kid, that young and energetic alternate of the youngest Cybertronian left after the war in his universe, was looking to him with genuine trust and Wheeljack was suddenly responsible… and he felt as though he had been asked to sign the mech’s death sentence.
Wheeljack knew, given a boost from Sari's Key and some momentum in the right direction, the turbo-boosters on Bumblebee’s back could do what was needed—and the clock was ticking.
It was either risking one ‘bot, or letting the whole city get wiped out—because there was no time, and no one else could do it. Wheeljack didn’t have a ship and he was too big, not streamlined enough—and the boosters weren’t on his back.
They were on Bumblebee.
But frag, he was just a kid…
And Wheeljack hadn’t been taking this seriously.
Not really, not as he should have been. He had been worried about safety and taking care of his teammate, but he underestimated the enemy.
It was just a human, right? Just a petty thief, none of their business since he was no threat to any lives. The police could handle him. Since he had been enhanced, Bumblebee could just chase him down to let off some steam after his big scare.
Suddenly, the “non-threat” thief could kill this kid.
How did Prime and Ultra Magnus ever do this job?
If Wheeljack ever saw them again, in this life or the next, the first thing that he would have to do was apologize. He’d tell them how sorry he was.
Wheeljack had carried the responsibility of lives before, but he never understood the burden they carried—the burden of having to risk someone else’s life—but… he was terrified that he would.
Soon.
“… Yeah, kid. They could fly.”
Ratchet, Optimus, Wheeljack, and Sari watched as Bumblebee’s plan was put into action.
Prowl perched himself atop Bulkhead’s primed wrecking-ball, holding Bumblebee while the yellow mech held the destronium canister.
“Ready for liftoff?” Bumblebee asked, his battle-mask sliding into place.
“Ready for liftoff!” Bulkhead replied, then his wrecking-ball deployed and launched Prowl and Bumblebee into the air.
Once that initial momentum subsided, Prowl activated his thrusters to carry himself and Bumblebee even higher—and when he could go no further, he threw Bumblebee higher and let himself fall. As Ratchet held a magnet up to catch the falling cyber-ninja, Bumblebee activated his turbo-boosters and flew—soaring high into the sky, until he was out of their sight.
Wheeljack had set Sari down on the ground, and he crossed his arms and seemed to shrink in on himself as he watched the sky. Ratchet could have sworn he detected a flinch when the sky lit up gold and a massive circle of energy spread across the upper atmosphere, signaling the detonation—but his focus was on that sky as he searched for any sign of his youngest teammate.
“Come on, kid,” he muttered.
And suddenly, there he was—falling out of the sky in a rapid, uncontrolled descent.
“He’s not gonna make it!” Sari shouted frantically, clasping her hands together.
The mech’s armor was red-hot, and the boosters had fallen away with his re-entry.
He was going to crash and burn.
“Ratchet!” Prime was suddenly looking at the field-tech, optics narrowed. “We need to slow him down and cool him down, stat!”
Without wasting any more precious time, Ratchet activated his magnets—and Prime activated his fire extinguishers. Within a few moments, Ratchet set the young mech down on the ground and shut his magnets down—exposing armor that had been scorched to a dull gray.
“You alright, buddy?” Bulkhead asked worriedly as he, Prowl, Optimus, and Ratchet ran over to check on the young mech.
Bumblebee silently collapsed onto the ground on his back, but he was smiling tiredly when his mask slid away. “Hoo. What a ride.”
Ratchet sighed, relieved, then he got down on one knee and took out his scanner—running it over the young mech. “… I don’t know how you managed it, idiot, but you’re still in one piece.”
Just a few dents to knock out.
Typical.
“Yay.” Bumblebee held a thumb up and closed his optics. “I’m just gonna… take five, now.”
“Five minutes?” Sari asked him as she arrived, tilting her head and smiling.
Bumblebee groaned. “Five days, minimum. Five stellar cycles would be nice.”
Bulkhead and Sari snickered as Prowl and Optimus smiled, and Ratchet shook his head as he stood before he looked back.
Wheeljack had not moved from his spot, and was still just staring at the scene from a distance.
Ratchet’s optics narrowed, and he quietly made his way over to the Wrecker—leaving the kids to their business. He could deal with this himself.
“Wheeljack?” He asked, and the other mech did not seem to hear him. “Wheeljack!”
The Wrecker nearly jumped out of his plating before looking at Ratchet in alarm. “Huh?”
“What has gotten into you?!” Ratchet demanded, trying to keep his voice low.
Wheeljack just stared at the field-tech, lost. “… It would’ve been my fault.”
Ratchet blinked. “What?”
Wheeljack looked young, unfairly young—and he glanced back towards Bumblebee. “It-… It would’ve been my fault.”
Ratchet’s face fell. “Kid.”
“Huh?” Wheeljack blinked, then he shook his head before raising a servo to his forehead and closing his optics. “Sorry, I-…” He opened his optics and looked at Ratchet with a wary frown. “Forget I said anythin’, okay?”
“… Okay,” Ratchet said quietly.
But he didn’t.
How could he?
After Nanosec was arrested, Prowl offered to race Bumblebee back to the Plant, so… Bumblebee figured that he must’ve done something right. He declined the offer though, choosing to walk after the day he’d had—and he took Sari home before making his way back.
He noticed that, when the other three drove off, Ratchet and Wheeljack had lingered behind—but he hadn’t thought much of it. That changed when he finally came back to the Plant to find Ratchet and Prime arguing.
“Just leave him be for the night,” Ratchet was pleading, his expression grim. “Whatever you have to say, Prime, it can wait until morning. Wheeljack needs space.”
The Wrecker wasn’t there.
He was probably in his room, on the roof, or maybe even at the work-bench in the med-bay since Ratchet had opened the space up to him—but maybe he wasn’t even in the Plant. Wherever he was, he wasn’t in the room to defend himself, so Ratchet did it for him.
“Ratchet, we’re lucky that no one was killed today,” Optimus argued. “Bumblebee having the boosters worked out for us, but Wheeljack still acted out of line. Someone could’ve been hurt.”
“And Wheeljack knows that—believe me, Prime, he knows,” Ratchet insisted. “I… knew what he was thinking of doing, and I talked to him about it earlier ‘cause I didn’t agree. It killed him to make that call, but he was only trying to help.”
“He still defied my orders,” Optimus said, visibly frustrated. “I know we’re all still adjusting to the new situation around here and that Wreckers apparently don’t ‘follow the rules’ to finish their missions, but he’s been getting more and more out of hand since he got here. Since when did the chain of command become optional?”
Ratchet cringed. “Well, uh—see, the thing about the Wreckers is that they-… Heh, well-”
Prowl crossed his arms. “Wheeljack’s actions may have led to complications with Nanosec’s arrest, but they also allowed Bumblebee to save the city. He acted out of line, but that doesn’t make him wrong.” He tilted his head. “Just this morning, you claimed to value his experience and control.”
“There was nothing about what he did today that was controlled,” Optimus insisted, gesturing with his servos. “It was reckless and-”
“My fault,” Bumblebee spoke up as he entered the Plant, and the others all looked at him in alarm. The yellow- well, gray mech’s optics narrowed. “I take responsibility.”
Optimus blinked. “What?”
“I was gonna have Sari attach the boosters with her Key,” Bumblebee said. Not a total lie. It was definitely headed that way. “No matter what, I was gonna use the boosters to go after Nanosec. I was being reckless, and only thinking about bringing this guy down because… I was scared.” The young mech took a deep vent. “I got scared, at the tracks, and… I wanted to make it stop, and feel like myself again—and I thought that taking care of Nanosec myself would do the trick.” He shrugged. “But to be honest, it… didn’t do much. I mean, getting that guy arrested didn’t undo me almost getting hit by a train—right? It just turned me into a meteorite.” He took another deep vent. “But, um… It really wasn’t Wheeljack’s fault. He just made sure that the boosters were attached safely. He was trying to help me. So, I take full responsibility.” He looked up at his teammates with a frown. “And I’m… sorry.”
“… Hm.” Optimus’s face fell. “I know.” He turned his optics away. “And… I’m sorry, too.” At that, Bumblebee grew surprised. “I… honestly forget what it was like being you and Bulkhead’s age, sometimes. It wasn’t as long ago as it feels, but… when I get frustrated, I tend to act how my teachers at the Academy always acted, and… that doesn’t seem to work with you.” The Prime huffed, shaking his head. “And I mean, it didn’t even work on me. Just look at how I turned out.”
“You’re not that bad, Prime,” Bumblebee said quietly. “Just a little bossy, and you’ve got a short fuse… and you act older than Doc, sometimes.”
Optimus rolled his optics. “Yeah, I know.” He sighed. “I’m just not good with… kids, I guess.”
Bumblebee tilted his head. “Hey, you’re not that old. And… you did chase down your own human arch-nemesis, didn’t you? The Angry Archer!” He raised his shoulders and grinned. “Hypocrite..~!”
Optimus shot a look at the yellow mech… then the Prime closed his optics and his shoulders started to shake… and he started laughing.
It was a good sound.
And it made the boss-‘bot seem young, again.
He could only be a couple tens of thousands of years older than Bulkhead and Bumblebee, yet he really did act like he was in his millions most days.
As much as Bumblebee wished he had become a member of the Elite Guard, the Academy had come to scare him since he’d met the Prime.
Ratchet looked between the two, shaking his head and smiling. “You kids’ll be the death of me.”
Optimus calmed down and sighed, looking at the field-tech. “I still don’t like that, you know.”
“I’ll probably stop calling you ‘kid’ the day you accept that that’s what you are,” Ratchet said flatly. “And that there’s nothing wrong with that. Whatever those idiots up at the Academy would make it out like, ‘kid’ isn’t a fraggin’ insult.”
Prowl shifted uncomfortably in place.
Optimus hummed, looking down almost-sadly. “Just young and… not dying on your watch?”
The field-tech pointed at him. “Damn right.”
“… Just this once, I’ll let Wheeljack off with a slap on the wrist,” Optimus decided, and Bumblebee snorted. “Haha, very funny.” He sighed. “I just hope that he doesn’t make a habit of disobeying orders. ‘Wreckers’ sound pretty rogue, but he’s gotta know when to draw the line—right?”
Bulkhead nodded. “Oh, yeah! I mean, he’s still an Autobot—and he had a commander… who he complained about… when you got bossy.”
Bumblebee could have mentioned how highly Wheeljack actually seemed to think of his bossy Wrecker commander, he really could have.
But the look of pure dread on Optimus’s face?
Yeah, he wasn’t gonna interfere with that.
Wheeljack was strangely absent for the next day.
It reminded Bumblebee of those early weeks, and he didn’t like it one bit. By the time night fell and his new paint dried, he had decided that enough was enough—and since Sari had come over, encouraging them to watch a movie with her, the once-again-yellow mech enlisted her help.
They checked his room and the roof, but he wasn’t there—so their last stop was the med-bay.
“Hey, Wheeljack?” Sari peeked into the room, and Bumblebee poked his head in as well. “You’ve been in here all day. You okay?”
The Wrecker was hunched over the work-bench, and he did not reply.
Bumblebee frowned. “We’re gonna watch a movie, man. We even saved your seat.” When he was met with further silence, he stepped into the room. “Wheeljack?”
“Bad idea!” Sari whispered warily, but that didn’t stop the Autobot.
Bumblebee walked over to the desk and looked down at Wheeljack, and he blinked in surprise before giving a small smile. “Heh. Old ‘bot’s back is gonna be real sore, when he wakes up.”
“Careful.” Sari ran over, looking worried as Bumblebee started to move tools out of the way—away from the sleeping Wrecker‘a face. He saw the blueprints pinned under Wheeljack’s head, sketches of turbo-boosters with some of the designs violently scribbled out and cheerily labeled with ‘not good enough’ or ‘unsafe’. “Isn’t this like poking a sleeping bear or something? Bumblebee, I think we should probably-”
“He looks… younger,” Bumblebee noted when he finally pulled his servos away, frowning.
Because… he did.
Bumblebee didn’t know what it was about how Wheeljack carried himself and moved his face when he was awake, but it aged him. It was only in the moments of genuine surprise or when he let his guard completely down that he changed.
The previous day, Bumblebee had watched Nanosec age decades in seconds—but the millennia melted off of Wheeljack as he slept.
Sari blinked, then she frowned. “… How old do you think he is?”
“I dunno.” Bumblebee shrugged. “He might work differently, y’know? Different universe. My best guess is… just… between Prowl and Ratchet. Probably right smack in the middle somewhere.” He frowned. “If he was from here, he would’ve been protoformed into the middle of the war.”
Sari squinted. “Dude, how old is Ratchet?”
“Hey.” Speak of the field-tech. Bumblebee and Sari glanced back to see the annoyed elder Autobot marching into the room. “What are you two doing in here? He’s trying to sleep.”
“We just wanted to ask him to come out to watch the movie,” Bumblebee tried. “We didn’t wanna leave him out.” He looked down at Wheeljack. “But he-…”
“… Let’s leave him be, kid.” Ratchet’s face softened. “He took what happened yesterday pretty hard.”
“What?” Bumblebee looked at him, surprised. “Why?”
“Hm.” Ratchet crossed his arms, and he gestured with his head. Bumblebee scooped Sari up, and he followed the field-tech out into the hallway—where the old ‘bot turned to face them. “… Something that I’ve come to notice about Wheeljack is that, when he cares about someone, he holds himself responsible for what happens to them. He tries to protect them, tries to shield them from the things that haunt him—or at least soften them.” Ratchet sighed. “He told me that, whether or not we helped you, you’d go after Nanosec—‘cause you were angry, and you were hurt. You were scared. Said we had to back you, or people could get hurt again. He had a feeling, and experience.” The field-tech shook his head. “I didn’t like the risks, so I didn’t listen. He didn’t like the risks either, but he made the right call and gave you those boosters. You saved the city.” He looked at Bumblebee forlornly. “But you nearly died, doing it. And the way he sees it-”
“It’s on him,” Bumblebee decided, and the field-tech nodded. “… He should’ve stayed outta it.”
“He was trying to help you.”
“I know.” Bumblebee nodded. “I was in trouble, and he did the best he could… but he doesn’t know that, does he?” He looked through the med-bay doors again, at the slumbering Wrecker and his blueprints. “… Come on. Let’s let him rest.”
“Bumblebee?” Sari asked as they started walking away, shifting uncomfortably in her spot on his shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Bumblebee glanced at her. “Just… wondering how I can clean up my mess and help my friend, I guess.”
Sari gave a small smile. “Maybe just try… talking to him?” The yellow mech raised an optic-brow. “I mean, it kinda seems like all of this happened ‘cause… both of you were scared.”
Bumblebee blinked, surprised, then he put on a small grin. “Heh. Wheeljack, scared? Nah. He worries too much, but he’s fearless.”
“… No one’s fearless,” Ratchet said quietly, not looking back at them as he turned to head out into the Plant’s main room.
Bumblebee paused in the doorway, frowning, then he glanced back towards the med-bay.
It was late in the morning when Wheeljack came out of the med-bay. His fuel-levels were low after a day of neglect and his back ached from the chair, so he groaned as he stretched before he made his way over to the Energon storage.
Bleary-opticed as he was, he still noticed when someone put a Energon canister in his servo before he had the chance to grab one himself.
“Huh?” He blinked, then he glanced down to see a familiar face. “Bumblebee? Oh. Thanks, kid.” The stasis shaken off, he noticed something amiss. “Hey, what is it?”
Bumblebee frowned at him, seeming… sad. “I’m sorry, Wheeljack.”
Wheeljack blinked again. “For what?”
He snuck a glance at the Energon.
Blue.
Good.
“… It wouldn’t have been on you,” the kid told him, and Wheeljack’s gaze snapped back to the young mech before him. “You know that I was putting those boosters on with or without you. You made them more stable, took precautions… If I got hurt, it wouldn’t have been your fault.”
The Wrecker nearly dropped his Energon canister.
Bumblebee must have seen the slip—because he reached up and rested a servo on Wheeljack’s to keep him steady, and the yellow mech gave a small smile and raised his shoulders.
Wheeljack felt like his vocalizer had stopped working, and he genuinely struggled for a moment. “… Bumblebee-”
“It wouldn’t have, okay?” Bumblebee pressed, then he sighed. “I know you try to look out for me, old-timer, but I’m an adult too. It was my decision to do… everything I did. So, just… thanks, for having my back while I did it.”
“Hm.” Wheeljack couldn’t shake the pit in his tank or the sinking feeling in his spark, but he reached up with his free servo and gently rubbed the top of the yellow mech’s head. “‘Course, kid.”
“Heh.” Bumblebee grinned, then he gestured towards the couch. “Come on. They’re playing last night’s movie again, and we gotta catch you up to speed before you hear spoilers.”
“Alright, alright.” Wheeljack chuckled. “I'm comin’.” He watched Bumblebee dart over to the couch and dive into his usual place with a smile, then his face fell again. “Hm.”
‘It would’ve been my fault.’
His grip on his Energon canister tightened, and he had to restrain himself before he broke it.
“Kid?” A voice spoke up, and he glanced back to see Ratchet looking at him worriedly. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Wheeljack nodded quickly. “‘Course.”
Before he could be questioned again, the Wrecker turned away and started walking towards the couch—and before he got there, the guilty turmoil in his mind finally managed to die down as a very simple, two-word resolution took its place:
‘Never again.’
150 notes · View notes
Text
Madame
Tumblr media
[Image description: Boring image generated by computer. It depicts rows of blurry white houses in a grid. In the lower right-hand corner is a square labeled "figure 5.3." End description.]
I am dreaming of electric sheep.
This is an instance of the sort of metaphor dreams are made of, the sort of stilted, corny figure of speech in which a person's dreaming consciousness addresses itself. Every dream begins with a verbal frame, an inadequate if not outright shitty verbal frame, until the dream beds its consciousness down into the subconscious and proceeds to something else, or, if not, then the dream lingers there, wallowing among cliches.
Madame and I are dreaming of electric sheep, or rather, she is. There is no speech in my dreaming consciousness to direct her. I follow.
We start out with the best intentions, begin as we mean to continue. We understand we are dreaming. Our bodies rest comfortably in memory, in the two hundred and five hours of dreaming we have shared as a team.
We see ourselves in bed. There is the pile of blankets, denim, plush, all pillows, all sheets and comforters. It presses all around our bodies.
We see the fluffed-up patch of our pillow. The pillowcase has a picture on it, obscured here, but a pony, a pony standing in a pile of trash, the trash falling into the background. It is a blank image, untainted by any shadow, but in memory it is dull and dirty.
I am aware of our bodies, their tactile balance, their movements as they follow the instructions of our brains, and I'm aware of them, the subconscious, dreaming consciousness, us both, and of that in turn conscious of itself. So many levels to absorb. I cannot understand anything fully.
We look out the window. A brick wall. Beige light shines in from the right and gives the brick a nice warm hue. I remember this.
An electric dog stands at the edge of the wall. It is small and ugly and white. It is motionless. We move our bodies. We get out of bed. We stumble in our slippers.
We walk toward the electric dog.
"This is an electric sheep," says Madame.
"Yes," I say.
We walk toward the electric sheep. It looks like shit, especially from this angle, and I can't understand how our dreaming brains managed to reproduce its details so faithfully. It is humanoid. It has white fur all over, and it's very dirty. Its torso is blunt and triangular, its legs stubby. Its head is animalistic, its eyes glint with intelligence, and they are focused on us. It has no mouth. It doesn't move.
"This is the third electric sheep we've brought in here," I say.
We stand before the sheep. The wall is also dirty, as all walls are when you get close enough. The plastic floor is also dirty, because dirty is what floors are.
We look at the animal.
"This is a bad one," Madame says.
"Yes," I agree.
We look at each other. We have gotten our bodies to make certain gestures in unison before, but this one is special. This one is predetermined, like a dance. It is not a kind of "we" that has other functions, but only this one, a creature of itself. I don't remember which of us first came up with the routine, but it is in the memory, waiting to be re-enacted, a fond memory, a shared joke.
So we do it. We step closer to the sheep and bump our shoulder into it. Madame is taller than I and her shoulder is stronger than mine, and so hers is the one that does the most. There is no impact, no change in the animal. We stand there, shoulder to shoulder with the sheep.
We have gotten a flawless execution of this bit, or almost.
"I have a bad feeling about this one," I say.
"I too," says Madame, and for the moment we are sisters, in the same mind.
I see the corpse of an electric sheep in my mind. It is a pile of plastic, metal, fur, blood, shit, dirt, wires, all in a horrible union.
I am aware of something else. It is a concept, an idea without content. It wants to be visual, but I can't see a shape or texture. It is hazy, a living emptiness, and it seems almost without shape, almost without name.
I turn to the sheep. I see nothing. Only the wall, dirty, like all walls, and the window, beige, in the background.
"I think the sheep might be closer than we think it is," I say.
"No, I think it's beyond us. Outside," says Madame.
"Yes, it is," I agree.
We have no useful image of the sheep's interior, but we have become aware of its location. In the memory, it is clear that the sheep is surrounded by open space, has no interior. It is just the skin of a very ugly animal, a poorly executed toy. We have not seen anything when we see it. It is a hazy, soulless concept, without face or form.
"What are we going to do?" I say.
"I don't know. Let's move a bit."
I take a step to the left. The wall is dirtier than I expected.
We have moved a step to the left.
"I think the sheep is closer to us than we are to it," I say.
"More to the right. Yes. I think we're about here."
We have moved our bodies. We are standing on the floor of our bedroom, looking at the wall. The wall is beige, as is the window. Our bodies are re-enacting a mutual dance. A tense, shared moment is upon us.
I step to the left again.
I see the corpse of a sheep. I don't know whether my eyes are open or closed. I am standing on a floor. I am standing on the floor of my room. I see the corpse of an animal, my memory matches it with the dead sheep.
I take a step to the left.
I see the corpse of a sheep. I am standing on the floor of my room. This is clearly my room. I have never been in this room. I was not here at all until now. I am in the memories of me, I am me. The corpse of an animal is right there. I see it.
My body is re-enacting a piece of dance with Madame.
I take another step to the left. My feet are on the floor. In memory, I am no longer standing on my bedroom floor. In memory, I am in the corridor. The corpse of an animal is under me. I feel nothing. I am an observer.
I reach to my right.
I am an observer.
I do not see what I saw before. There is just the floor of my bedroom. There is my bed, which is there in memory, and there is my body on top of it, but it is only memory. I don't see the corpse of an animal. I have never seen the corpse of an animal before. I can feel my foot on the floor of my bedroom, and that is memory. I am not here at all.
I was an observer. I am an observer.
I turn to look at Madame. She is an observer. I see myself, standing on the floor of my bedroom.
I want to scream.
I want to become aware.
I want to see the corpse of an animal.
I want to stand in the corridor.
I want . . .
I wish I could scream, but the wish is hollow.
I step to the left again. I am standing in the corridor, and the corpse of an animal is in front of me. I wish I could scream. I want to see the corpse of an animal. I am standing in the corridor, and there it is.
I am not standing in the corridor. I see a corpse. I see a corpse. I see the corpse of an animal. I see it.
I am not the corpse of an animal, but I see it. I am the corpse. I am outside the corpse. I am an observer. I am here. I am standing in the corridor, and the corpse is there.
No matter how loudly I would scream, I could not be here.
I move my body to the left. The corpse of an animal is right in front of me. I am going to touch it, and it is not
20 notes · View notes
subconsciousmysteries · 8 months
Text
I'm removing type from my bio. I'm sick of the primitive narcissistic way people use enneagram and I'm not even going to be polite about it anymore. If you know anything about this shit you know that you're supposed to work on ALL your ego fixations, all nine of them. Go read Almaas. Most of all you're supposed to balance all nine lines that exist inside of you which basically represent all your fragmented warring selves. Enneagram is a powerful healing tool when used right because it allows you to better visualize the fragments of your personality that are struggling with each other and need to be unified to make you whole. or as MPD therapists call it, "integrated".
I'm much more interested in that than going in circles debating how people shallowly perceive me over the internet. Or shallowly trying to perceive other people over the internet. Stop this obsession with how you are perceived. It's navel-gazing self conscious 4 bullshit that has become the promoted norm in this community. No wonder everybody is "mistyping" themselves as 4s, you have to be a walking dysfunctional 4 case who is obsessed with categorizing how others perceive you in order to fit in to this community at all. Stop looking for your true type. Stop thinking your One True Type even exists, cuz it probably doesnt. Start living life without the idea of type in your head and then during reflection time you can use the enneagram framework to see if you find patterns in your behaviors and feelings, and the behaviors and feelings of others. You'll find heaps. Remember if there is no movement, ie if you're saying something is "3" but there is no wing action, and no 9 or 6 movement to back it up and connect it back to the whole, your observation is kind of meaningless.
People are holding back so much authenticity in this community because they're scared of getting retyped if some sanctimonious wanker puritan typologer thinks that one thing they said is out of line with the way they were previously typed. It's such a shame because we draw the most typological insight when we are being totally authentic about our experiences and allowing ourselves to speak whatever comes up and relate to whatever comes up, which could really be fucking anything. When we limit ourselves to one core type or one tritype or one xwx xwx xwx, we make our scope of self realization so needlessly limited. The only people this serves are neurotic, narcissistic busybodies on the internet with a terribly unbalanced 1-4 line who want to turn everyone into a caricature for the sake of their own fragile, self-serving ideologies.
The truth is we have all nine types in us and we will exercise all of them at different moments. it's unhealthy image type nonsense (specifically unhealthy 1-4 line nonsense, also 5/6 resistance of ambiguity you're guilty too) to believe otherwise.
14 notes · View notes
feeling-grubby · 11 months
Text
Homestuck Headcanons
I have decided to collect all my homestuck headcanons and also color preferences to show others in one post. I don't fully expect anyone to read it nor care for that matter. I just want to ramble and get my ideas out.
To start things off I'll start with a normal looking troll. But for now we are putting the troll in the center and will be looking at the color bubbles and color bar. The colors on the left are the canon colors in homestuck and on the right are the colors I prefer to use. If you notice, the colors I use are not the actual colors, there you go. They aren't mutants or anything, it is just a color preference due to the canon ones being dull and muddy.
Now moving our focus back to the troll, you will see that I also put the canon colors to the left and the colors I use on the right. This will be a consistent thing throughout the images so you can see the differences of my colors and homestuck/hiveswap.
You should also take note that I have grouped the darker versions of colors together, the middle tones together, and the light colors I use together to help show off my head canons more effectively.
Outside of blood color I do have other color preferences you will notice some of the more notable ones being horns, hair, skin, and eyes.
With horns I like the lighter colors I use, but also have the headcanon, as you will see later on, that trolls can have darker or lighter horns. It is like genetic variation in coloration if that makes sense. Where some trolls will have more saturated horns, while others have more pale looking horns.
As for hair, I do not like using pitch black but I still like using a black color, though I also have a headcanon of trolls having a lighter black than the one I use as well as white being another color that trolls can naturally have.
I have four colors I tend to use for skin and three types of yellows for eyes. I just like having a larger arsenal for color.
With that we come to a close about the basic troll colors that will be used amongst any trolls I will make. So, we can now direct ourselves to more specific groups of trolls without being too lost in the sauce to know what's going on.
Tumblr media
Now moving away from the land dwellers and basic troll color palette to sea dwellers.
I think everyone at this point does not stick to the original design for fins and has split off from the canon on that front. For me personally I like to stay a little close to canon on that front and not go buck wild.
I do like to give the fins on the side of the head some color by making the membranes match whatever blood color the troll is, while keeping the ray of the fins gray to some notable degree.
Another idea I really like but haven't been able to use due to not having any sea dwellers is that the deeper a sea dweller is the paler they become (also possibly even more monstrous and giant) as for the pale-yellow eyes and white eyebrow that is more so to show the paler variants I mentioned before. If I was to make a new violet blood troll, I would most likely give them bright yellow eyes to contrast the pale skin more.
Tumblr media
Finally, I have some headcanons exclusive to honeybloods(goldbloods.) and some headcanons in general for trolls that I just put on the gold blood base.
The general headcanon is trolls having weird insectoid ears and it isn't too much of an issue that gets a lot of fuss out of people. It is like how cobalt's have more than one pair of eyes or more pupils than normal. Because the trolls do seem to be a very insectoid race. The real issue comes when they have more lusus like ears and you're treated more like a freak.
My headcanon exclusively for gold bloods involves their psyonics. I think it would be really cool if really powerful gold bloods with excessive amounts of energy sometimes glow when they are unable to release it. Like their cheeks or freckles will glow when they have a lot of energy stored up. I think of it like how when a stove top glows red when it's hot due to having a lot of heat and when it's not red you know that there is no heat and will not harm you. So, this makes finding possible batteries easier though there are probably some tricks to hide the glowing or discretely release their psychic powers.
Tumblr media Tumblr media
So now you know all about my troll headcanon's and how I have and will continue to design my characters. In addition, I will be adding the templets I made if anyone wants to re-blog this and share with me their preferences and troll headcanon's. I will be very excited if that does occur!
Tumblr media Tumblr media
17 notes · View notes
elenasunshinemagazine · 3 months
Text
How to awaken intuition and creative thinking?
Tumblr media
Insensitivity to oneself is a common and natural result of accelerating the pace of life. The development of creative thinking, intuition, building inner peace — all this is part of the field of important and non-urgent.
Skills and qualities, the study of which can significantly enrich life. Here everyone is responsible only to himself: there will be no deadlines, broken deadlines, and there will be no external encouragement. But it is important and non-urgent matters that fill life with meaning and form a special path for everyone.
How to awaken intuition?
Learn to listen to the inner voice; not be afraid to ask and find answers. To admit that you don't know something very important about yourself yet. And want to know. Not to invent, not to adopt from others, but to find your own.
#1. Setting up the subconscious
Intuition is an alternative to the logical and rational way of finding answers. Intuition works on a subconscious level and appeals to impressions, knowledge and experience. The connection is set up outside of a person's control, and the answer comes in the form of a sudden insight. Intuition and creative thinking fuel knowledge, information and impressions as fuel.
Tumblr media
High-quality incoming information teaches you to think in images. Intellectual films, classical literature, lectures, fine art, music, poetry and essays - all this feeds intuition. And a trained intuition can become a real effective tool that you can use in finding your right path.
#2. Surround ourselves with strangers
We need new experiences as much as air, food and sleep. It is common for a person to get stuck in the information comfort zone. Fueled by similar information, the mind goes through a familiar circle. On the contrary, intuition and creative thinking require a variety of impressions.
To develop intuition, you will have to abandon the usual picture of the world and look at the space around with a fresh look: without the usual framework and established ideas. Sometimes, when choosing from two options, it is better to prefer the third. Just because you've never done that before.
It will be useful to include people from different spheres in your social circle, without paying attention to age and stereotypes. Learn to keep up a conversation, listen, be interested in the world of others and share their interests. And most importantly - to become an interesting interlocutor yourself.
#3. We are not afraid of loneliness
Tumblr media
The best thoughts come alone with yourself. After a friendly meeting, after reading high-quality content, visiting an exhibition or an open lecture hall, from the point of view of developing intuition and creative thinking, it is more effective to experience new impressions in silence.
Arrange regular rituals of loneliness: go out for a walk or stay at home alone. Develop the habit of spending time alone with yourself. Do not get distracted, with your favorite music, which suggests meaningful thoughts, and does not stand as a safe buffer between you and your consciousness.
How often we are afraid of our inner voice. We are looking for any company, just not to be alone. However, intuition will not speak in the presence of outsiders.
#4. Learning to switch
But what if disturbing thoughts rush through your head without stopping? At such moments, you need to switch. High-quality films and books with an exciting plot will help best of all.
A good film will help you to completely transfer yourself into the author's world and distance yourself from the need to find a solution for your own difficult situation here and now. At the same time, your pressing questions will not go away.
Tumblr media
The subconscious mind will still be busy searching for a solution. As practical intuition shows, the answer will be qualitatively different than the tortured and suffered one.
#5. We equip our personal space
To develop creative thinking, you will need a suitable space in which you feel safe. A room with soft light. An armchair or pillows on a fluffy carpet. A desktop with a stack of thick paper notebooks. Bright stylish kitchen.
Or maybe it's your laptop, in which everything is perfectly organized into a coherent system of folders? If you feel calm in this place, you can concentrate, come up with something special and bring it to life - then you have not made a mistake with the choice and arrangement of a personal creative space.
Tumblr media
# 6. Sharing experiences
The total amount of information is growing exponentially. The content itself is less and less interesting. The eye stops at a few lines of witty comment under a photo on Facebook, and meaningful criticism sometimes turns out to be more interesting than the film or performance itself.
What's the point? Share information. Recycle, search for meaning, criticize. This is how we turn to our opinion, try to understand our attitude to what is happening and become a part of it.
https://elenasunshinemagazine.com/mental-health/how-to-awaken-intuition-and-creative-thinking/
2 notes · View notes
saywhatjessie · 3 months
Text
[hand flex]
Day fifteen of the Advent calendar! Using this list. Day 15: Wrapping Presents Fandom: Ted Lasso - Pairing: RoyJamieKeeley 1k[Ao3]
“I still think it would be sexier if we were just in wrapping paper,” Jamie noted, checking himself out in the mirror. “I look fit in everything but I look fittest in nothing.”
“Well this isn’t your present, so you don’t get a fucking say,” Roy said, scowling at himself in his own mirror. “I’d fucking love to just wrap myself in tinsel and call it a day but Keeley wants us to be posh for sexy Christmas.”
Jamie hummed, looking over at him. “I mean, I’m not complaining, getting to see you dress up in silks and shit. And I’m aces at fashion,” Jamie sighed. “Department stores just aren’t as sexy as I want them to be.”
He looked up at Roy through his eyelashes and Roy snorted, blushing as he looked away.
“We’re not fucking in the dressing room,” he told him sternly.
Jamie whined. “What, I can’t even suck you off?”
“No,” Roy huffed. “That’s not your present.”
“What if I want it to be. Return whatever else you got me from the shops and just let me blow you a little bit.”
Roy sighed. 
“You boys better not be getting sexy in there without me!” Keeley called through the curtain.
Jamie grinned. “Well get in here then! Roy can put his mouth on your tits while I suck him off!”
“We’re not fucking in the fucking dressing room!” Roy told them both, having to shove down the image Jamie just created. “I refuse to have my dick splashed all over the tabloids again.”
“Old man, spoiling my fun,” Jamie pouted. “You can suck me off if you want. My dick’s never been in the news.”
Keeley snorted. “What do you call ‘Lust Conquers All’, Jamie?”
“A brilliant self promotion idea!” Jamie told her, his face twisted in mock offense. “And they don’t actually show your dick on telly.”
There was a pause from outside the curtain as Keeley seemed to consider this. “Do I still get my tits played with if Roy sucks you off? My tits have been everywhere – everyone’s already seen them.”
Roy growled. “We’re not doing it. We’ll both play with your tits later. Now get in here and tell us if these outfits are sexy and posh enough.”
Keeley ducked inside, grinning as she saw both of them in their outfits.
All Keeley wanted for Christmas was to be able to dress them up in little outfits, or as she said, ‘wrap her real presents’. It wasn’t quite the swinging jazz affair that she had planned for hers and Roy’s first holiday, but it was a little bit of fantasy and make-believe. A bit of silliness and sexiness – a perfect descriptor of Keeley herself.
The theme was Jane Austen. No fancy suits, but billowing shirts and tight breeches. and riding boots. Roy went for the business casual or whatever the fuck: when he’s got the shirt and the jacket. It wasn’t period accurate, but it looked Austenian enough if Keeley’s barely contained lust was anything to go by. Jamie did the end of the movie look with the open shirt and everything, as to be expected of him.
He did look fucking fit. And he was also right that all Roy wanted to do was get him naked..
Roy shook his head, turning back to Keeley standing up straighter to show off his look. “Do we meet your sexy Christmas approval?”
Keeley hummed, circling both of them like a predator. Jamie struck poses, trying to be as seductive as possible. He was preening like a peacock instead of the sitting duck they both were, at the mercy of whatever Keeley decided to do with them. Roy was more than happy to be a duck.
“I feel like maybe we've been limiting ourselves,” Keeley said, eyes on Roy's crotch. “Why should it only be a sexy Christmas? We should also do sexy Hanukkah.”
“Eight horny nights,” Jamie contributed with his baby shark's grin. 
Roy could feel his mouth pull into a slow, stupid smile. He knew they were teasing but it was also kind of sweet and considerate. “We missed our chance for that this year. Or did you forget that Hanukkah ended already?”
They both pouted and he laughed, reaching for both of their hands.
“Hanukkah’s the week after Christmas next year. We can do a whole nine sexy days of holiday.”
“Yay!” Keeley beamed, clapping her hands. 
Jamie just reeled him in for a kiss, squeezing him on the bum. “I love the Jewish people.”
“Yes, and thanks for that,” Roy said dryly, but kissed Jamie again anyway.
They got a little carried away, Roy’s hand rubbing over the silkiness of Jamie’s shirt and Jamie’s thumbs dipping into the waist of his breeches.
“Roy, you better stop that if you want to keep your resolve about not fucking in the dressing rooms,” Keeley warned him, her thighs visibly clenched. “The two of you in those outfits kissing right in front of me is really fucking turning me on.”
“God, you’re a weirdo,” Roy said in fond amazement before leaning over and kissing her, too. “All right, we’ll get changed and then can go pay and be home in thirty minutes.”
“If we’re not, I’m blowing you in the car,” Jamie told him, matter of factly.
“No you’re not, you muppet. But if we want to get home, we need to get a move on,” He removed his jacket and turned to Keeley. “You need anything else while we change?”
Keeley shook her head, smiling mischievously. “Nah. I’ll stay here and watch.”
Jamie turned to look at her over his shoulder, his own shirt already off so he was doing a full ass and tits pose. “You sure you don’t want to unwrap your presents yourself?”
Keeley’s eyes darkened.
Roy groweld. “We are not fucking in the dressing room!”
3 notes · View notes
system-of-a-feather · 2 years
Text
I’m still thinking about Moon Knight Episode 5 cause it really hit home and like... really got me thinking on a few things that have just been circling in my head trying to be digested but really struggling since I don’t have much access to a lot of our actual childhood shit, but I think one of the things that really got my brain stuck is that I think I really really resonate with Steven (and by think, I obviously do, innocent fictive host and shit) and I think a large part of Episode 5 really had me hearing Marc and like... having that be shit I really never heard properly from my system and probably needed to hear but never got to because admitting a lot of that would put the whole “point” of me in jeopardy if I wasn’t so much ready to deal with the implications and meta knowledge.
With recent trauma processing and system work, we’ve - or rather I guess I since I’m sure a large number of other parts already knew this- realized we are not a system of functional parts with a few hurting, disordered, and messed up parts, but that we are a very disordered, very hurt, very fucked up and messed up parts, with like.... two functioning parts. And I don’t mean functioning as in “are actually worth anything” but as in “is relatively good at integrating into society, looking only moderately mentally ill, having a life, having goals, and being decent at living and having enough positive affect and vision to keep a healthy positive ending in mind.”
Save for me and Lucille - and maybe Eva and Ray but they’re on the fence - no one else in this system really has much room for positive affect and interactions with the real world. Everyone else is considerably jaded about the world, stuck in trauma-mindset, jaded about themselves, and/or has abandoned “reality / the world” to live internally because they have given up on existence. 
And you know “that’s the whole point of you” is really rough to think about until you really do kind of think about how literally, it is a very large and important purpose to have. Sure you aren’t killing monsters and dealing with the “hard reality” of the abuse, but you are sitting out there protecting a sense of hope, future, happiness and humanity so that when survival is over, you can actually have a chance of living again. Being able to remain “innocent” and unmarred by the trauma and reality of what has happened, has allowed us to maintain a drive to still be alive and to value ourselves and others in the world despite all that we have gone through.
I’m a dumb idiot that doesn’t know half of the reality of what we’ve been through, but I’m also one of the only ones here who can see the world without the blood-tainted lenses that trauma has given everyone else and actually give the system something to work for and an idealistic image of what could be. I am not rooted in “our reality” and “our truth” but I am rooted closer to what the world actually is and believing a lot more that things can and should be better for us because what happened to us was an unfortunate unlucky situation that we didn’t deserve, and that there is a chance that our luck could turn around and we could be like others.
Since Moon Knight started, I’ve been of the theory and idea that Steven exists and acts as the life Marc wishes he could have and could lead - having a normal job (even if its a shitty minimum wage) and to build relationships and to have the joy be coming home to a handicapped fish - and I still stand by it. That’s a life Marc can’t make for himself because of his PTSD symptoms and his self hate and his overall fear and hypervigilance, but Steven - Steven who managed to remain primarily unaware of the trauma that has happened is still capable to lead that life for them.
Steven could start and build a happier life that they always wanted because he isn’t aware of their bleeding and damage. He can get help, create something they need to get them somewhere better, by just not knowing how badly hurt they are.
There’s a massive strength, and a massive importance in being an “innocent fluff ball” and still having goodness and hope despite horrible things having happened. Steven’s not an uwu baby, he’s just a guy living as “a guy” when his life and history has dictated that he should be “broken”.
Anyways, I’m just rambling and arguably (probably) projecting, but this episode has lived rent free in my head on repeat for like 50-60 hours and I have thoughts.
58 notes · View notes
crucipuzzled · 2 years
Text
About Psychiatry stuff in SPYxFAMILY. Part 3
In Part 1 and Part 2 we covered some physical aspects of working in a Hospital and we got depressed together. In this post I'll talk a bit about the two psych tests depicted in chapter 29 of the SxF manga. I'll try to be as clear and simple as possible.
Here's Part 4, by the way.
7.a. Diagnostic tools: Rorschach's Test
Tumblr media
She's holding the 1st print of the Rorschach's Test. I'm 99% sure she's a Psychologist.
This is the most famous psychological test ever. Everyone loves it because it looks shady and supposedly reveals your true personality.
IF ONLY.
Rorschach's test is based on the notion of aperception, which stems from the psychoanalytic term projection. Have you ever heard someone acusing another of "projecting your own faults into me"? Well, aperception is that: in front of a stimulus, you will be reminded of a past experience and build a new one with that stimulus.
The simpler or more abstract the stimulus, the more things you project from yourself over it. Which makes the Rorschach's test one of the best ways to project into, as you are presented with a vague splat of ink with no shape in particular.
Our old pal Sigmund Freud discovered 3 important things: 1.- Behind the consciousness lies an unconscious mind 2.- Some things about ourselves cause us so much distress, that we repress them and bury them deep down in the unconscious mind 3.- The repressed stuff always manages to return to the surface in disguise, no matter what
One of the many, MANY ways in which part of your repressed content is revealed is through the mechanism named projection. And Hermann Rorschach, a disciple of Freud, took that idea, went postal with his ink pot and invented this cool test.
Tumblr media
This was Brad Pitt Hermann Rorschach. In case you're wondering, yes, he was popular with the ladies.
Going into a lot of detail about the test would definitely spoil your experience if you ever need, or want, to take it. But I can share with you some fun facts about it.
First, its results are commonly analyzed looking at the numbers (how many images did you see, etc.) and the contents (what did you see).
Second, it doesn't show your personality, rather than interpersonal conflicts. 'Personality' is a concept way too individual and Psychoanalysis is all about how we are built upon our interaction with others. Since we are in constant change, you can retake the test over time and some things will change, but there's a core related to interpersonal (oedipical) conflicts that won't.
Third, surprisingly, Rorschach's test can give out a measure of your intelligence. The more answers you give, the better. But if you try to squeeze answers out to cheat, it will show up in the results!
Fourth, it's pretty expensive. Make sure you can afford to expend a considerable amount of money to take it if you ever want to.
The Rorschach's test is commonly applied by trained Psychologists. I haven't met a Psychiatrist trained to apply a Rorschach, but they are perfectly capable of, if they get the proper training. Also, since it's expensive, it's usually applied in private clinics.
-When is it necessary to take the test?
Maybe when you are stuck between two diagnostic hypothesis and need to make the definitive difference for accuracy. But it's nothing that a simple clinical interview can't take care of. For clinical purposes, it's pretty dumb to apply the Rorschach's test without a previous interview with the examinee.
Some Head Hunters apply this test but it's considered an old-fashioned strategy.
7.b. Diagnostic tools: the Sand Box/Table/Tray
Tumblr media
The same principle of projection applies for the Sand Box, with the difference that the theory in which the Sand Box is grounded is the Psychodynamic theory, originated in the UK by a lady named Melanie Klein. This school of tought focuses heavily on the unconscious mind of babies and children.
Children have a hard time expressing abstract concepts, so in the Sand Box they can aid themselves by using concrete objects such as dolls, houses, vegetation and animals.
I've never used this tool, so I can't get into a lot of details. I hate working with children, hence I specialized myself in adults. But my colleagues working with children have told me how awesome the Sand Box is, for both diagnostic and therapeutical ends. I better believe them, I guess?
Tumblr media
Best dad, worst Psychiatrist
As for the Sand Box analysis, it depends on what every element symbolizes and how it's displayed in the sand box. A female doll may represent the mother, and paired with a male figurine, the parental couple; and if one of them is buried deep within the sand, it could represent some oedipical conflict. That kind of stuff.
Of course, nothing will make any sense unless you have a previous understanding of the child's background and why is consulting (or, rather, the parents).
In order to analyze it correctly, you have to be there with the child and observe him/her playing with the box. Don't ever do like Loid here.
-By the way, dude. You've been blabbering over and over about the "unconscious mind". But Loid says "subconscious mind". Aren't they the same?
Long story short: no.
Freud's famous disciple, Carl Jung, misunderstood his theory and mistakenly wrote 'subconscious mind' in his works, instead of the Freudian term 'unconscious mind'.
While the concept 'unconscious mind' implies that we have repressed contents deeply related to our relation with others that stems from oedipical conflicts, Jung's 'subconscious mind' makes emphasis on shared experiences that go beyond individual consciousness, relying on symbolism to show themselves up. Must... not... ramble about this...!
I got curious at this point because in Japan (actually, in the whole Eastern world) they don't know Psychoanalysis as we know it here in the West, so I dug a bit deeper.
Tumblr media
In that specific panel Loid used the word Shinsoushinke (しんそうしんり), which according to this dictionary, translates as "deep psyche; unconscious mind; depth psychology​". Not really specific. I'll break it down real quick:
Loid is explaining to Anya the purpose of the Sand Box, an instrument whose results are most commonly analyzed under the British Psychodynamic theory, which uses the term unconscious mind.
The English translator probably didn't know this and wrote 'subconscious mind', because WHO IN THE WORLD GIVES TWO SHITS ABOUT SUCH AN INSIGNIFICANT DETAIL. Well, me.
In conclussion: Loid probably belongs to the British School of Psychoanalysis, at least in what concerns to analyzing the Sand Box. Then again, he does it so, SO badly that I wonder if he has ever touched one of Melanie Klein's books at all. Phew!
8. Paranormal perception
Tumblr media
According to some Psychiatric gnosographic traditions, paranormal perception is a form of pseudo-hallucination, which refer to abnormal perceptions perceived by the patient as something abnormal. When you are dealing with a case of psychosis, the patient never realizes that what he's seeing or hearing is not really there; it isn't abnormal at all. So, pseudo-hallucinations would be the description for ghost sighting cases, not the explanation.
Could it be mythomania, as Dr. Moustache claims? Only if you have clinical reasons to believe that a patient can't stop inventing crazy yet plausible stories.
Could it be triggered by abnormalities in brain function? Well, if we consider an excess of dopamine as the cause, or an abnormality in the dopaminergic pathways, then maybe...
Now, as to why a patient sees ghosts... I think it strongly depends of the patient's story, and particularly, the story with the ghost.
Some months ago I learned of the case of a man who quite vividly sensed the presence of his deceased father every time he visited his parents's house. The father often had to work for long shifts, and the mother used to ask rethorical questions like "Where is your father?" "When will he come back?". In the analysis, it turned out that the patient felt his father's presence as a way of saying "Here he is" to his mother. It was really important for him to be able to answer his mother's questions. This is an exceptional case, though.
Everything depends on the peculiarities of every case. Still, I think that one shouldn't rule out these kinds of unexplicable phenomena. We just still know too little in the enormous scale of the human mind.
That's it for Part 3. I'll wrap everything up in Part 4. Thank you for putting up with me and my ramblings I restrained myself I swear.
27 notes · View notes
derekscorner · 2 years
Text
The Ghost of Humanity
Tumblr media
As with every topic this week, I was discussing with my friend Osprey, this time about Nier. The tragedy of the androids and machines. All that stuff you’ve heard from your favorite Youtuber before.
I was musing about how humanity is a ghost that hangs over the heads of these artificial lifeforms. Androids worship us as gods, the machines wish to become as gods.
The very actions the machines take, their disconnection from their network, and their finale are their desperate attempt to be human. But you likely already know this, you see it everywhere.
Machines tend to get close but not quite where they wish to be. Adam believes death and hatred define man, this is merely a portion. Eve is clingy and seeks companionship and loses his sanity when it’s gone, humans are a social species. The network develops and then fractures because, like the humans they idolize, they now have the individualism to conflict within the whole.
Most importantly to me, machines were bordering on a type of techno-biological life. They weren’t ever going to be human but they had the potential to be themselves. They just missed the forest for the trees.
Tumblr media
I found this fascinating because if the machines of alien origin could get as far as birthing Adam from their robot orgy then androids should be closer. Androids, perhaps from the get go, could’ve become a life of their own. They already have a programmed (albeit it warped) humanity to them. They were made in the image of their “gods” as we ourselves are said to be.
Many of Automata’s missions showcase it from the android turned murderer because she was jealous of her lover, the very fact that androids can modify their bodies to have sex or take lovers, the very notion they can love at all.
They have relationships, emotionally, the androids are there. They’re at that level, they’re people. Physically, I believe they could be.
They wouldn’t be human, not fully biological life, but I do believe the androids could be their own form of life. Especially when you have YorHa units made of repurposed alien machinery.
The tragedy I’ve always found in this is why they don’t. The androids are programmed to serve humanity, the idea they may be gone was such an issue with discourse and outright suicide made our extinction a national secret.
We see how the loss of this purpose cracked 9S mentally, 2B’s death just finished the job as he truly had nothing left.
Tumblr media
Worse yet, they likely just never considered the possibility. YorHa aside, the larger android population has likely never once considered branching out. They were programmed to do one thing and they perpetuate it.
They’re literally haunted by the 1s and 0s we put into the first androids and they’re hampered by a reverence for us that we gave them which we do not deserve in the slightest.
Again, I’m not saying they’ll magically become biological life or human, I just find a sadness in how they’re limited by something so minor. They could find new purpose, they could be a new type of life the barren earth needs but they never will be at the rate they’re going.
I believe the core of Automata’s story is the tragedy that we haunt these beings. We haunt the androids and the machines and it’s sad how we do so.
Tumblr media
Editing this in because that theme can also be applied heavily to Nier. The original isn’t as nuanced since the literal remnants of humanity are in their death throes because even when split humanity tries to human.
Only this time, true to our own fucking nature, humanity manages to kill itself through the gestalt Nier. It’s poetic more than it is sad to me because our own mutual or self caused demise is the end I’ve always found most likely for our species.
The only tragedy here, to me, is that it’s the beginning of the androids aimless hell that is existing without their gods. Never able, or perhaps just unwilling, to consider growing beyond their boundaries.
20 notes · View notes
factionswift · 1 year
Text
TW : Scale Clip in Anti-Hero Music Video
I think dismantling a system that is inherently wrong is a simple thing to do, the tricky part is trying to dismantle then reassemble a belief system you’ve held against YOURSELF for years. Emphasis here is that we think our eating disorders are only harmful to us, but this can easily extend into harming others. Eating disorders are not an easy subject, they can affect everyone differently, has multiple subdivisions and sizes. Yes, it’s something within us, but it’s actually against us and unsafe.
Fatphobia is a real thing and I am in no way denying that, I’d also like to state that this is in no way a defence/excuse for Taylor, but an explanation based on personal experiences with eating disorders to hopefully provide some perspective. The premise of breaking down fatphobia is to stop treating it like a bad or offensive word. For hopefully everyone, this should be reality. The thought processes and overall road to recovery can look very different within binge eating disorders, anorexia nervosa, bulimia and many more. While we don’t comment on other peoples bodies or hold any connotations towards them, there is no denying that everyone in some way, does this to themselves. When you have an anorexic with obvious body dysmorphia, a big fear is gaining weight; getting fat. Let’s call a spade a spade here because I don’t think we should shy away from the word fat, we should normalize it. Nobody should ever tell anyone what they can and cannot be upset about, specifically when it comes to matters that offend people’s experiences surrounding their own body image. I can 100% understand why seeing a thin, white woman on a scale seeing the letters “FAT” is hurtful and possibly minimizing to many other peoples unique experiences with eating disorders. Another word definitely could have been used or displayed on the screen. All in all, that depiction is simply just the harsh reality of anorexia. Yes, as a society, we need to work to rebuild these internal thoughts so that they are less harmful to other people. It’s not impossible, it’s sometimes just extremely difficult in the world we live that is contingent on social media and a hundred other things that fill our heads up with the wrong ideas. Eating disorders are hard for anyone who suffers, regardless of which one. We shouldn’t compare ourselves to anyone or minimize someones experience, this goes both ways. Constructive criticism is always helpful, we wouldn’t grow without it. I think this is a great example of how we can be more active in dismantling fatphobia whenever possible, however can be challenging when someone is in a deep state of anguish and can only focus on their own being and body, a very common factor of eating disorders. (If this is offensive to anyone, I apologize and please send me a message so we can chat!)
6 notes · View notes
sociallyvegan · 2 years
Text
How many times have we tried to get closure from the mere imagination of how a conversation could have gone? How many times did we had to be content with this imaginary conversation? Days, months, years? We indeed negotiate our feelings with these imaginary conversations. We think, practice, and reorganize these imaginary conversations so many times until we don't, or perhaps, can't! Over the course of time, we make peace with the unhappened and an almost dream-like closure. The person we build, break and re-build the closure for becomes just an idea of a living human being. We forget their realism without questioning if we ever actually knew their reality. Consequently, shapes of their images innour mind change like fleeting water colours and gradually fade away.
But what happens when we cross paths with those real, breathing and living individuals, and not just the idea of them? Do we get the proper closure then, or do we just wish it would have been better the way it was, the way which our very mind confronted as a lingering sadness, but somehow the melancholy turned into something we can comfortably live side by side with? We found so much comfort in those imaginary conversations that we forgot that the other person had their side of the story too. We forget that they might have completely different answers to our imaginary questions we made up in our mind for them, which we answered ourselves. The dread of something different might be the outcome of the closure we built inside our head can be the only possible explanation of a "never confronting" closure with those individuals. Even though we would like to, we are unable to process the other person's remarks at that very moment.
It is you, me, them, and the fabric of life itself!
7 notes · View notes
cassianus · 2 years
Text
Tumblr media
"Strike the Serpent on the Head": The Philokalia on Recognizing and Resisting Temptation - -
With constant vigilance and unceasing prayer, the Fathers sought above all to free themselves from the ascendancy of the passions. The practice of such vigilance allowed them to recognize evil before being tempted to commit it. Thus, Heyschios along with many others (St. Mark the Ascetic, St. John of Sinai, Evagrius, etc.) gives a “minute description of the progression of evil, and lays bare the technique or the mechanism of temptation.” Straightforward as it is, Hesychios’ description needs very little commentary and his model, while differing in some small degree, is essentially the same as that of Evagrius.
Hesychios begins by reminding us that temptation comes to us through our thoughts, their attachment to our imagination, and subsequent development:
“Just as it is impossible for fire and water to pass through the same pipe together, so it is impossible for sin to enter the heart without first knocking at its door in the form of a fantasy provoked by the devil” (Philokalia, Vol. I, 170).
Knowing this, we must be ever on guard for the first sign and provocation to sin and ceaselessly invoke the Lord through the Jesus prayer. If we give ourselves over to the provocation, then comes our “coupling with it, or the mingling of our thoughts with those of the wicked demons. Third, comes our assent to the provocation, with both sets of intermingling thoughts contriving how to commit the sin in practice. Fourth comes the concrete actions - that is, the sin itself” (Ibid., 170).
Once the provocation is engaged, that is, once the serpent gets his head in the door, the battle is most assuredly lost and the unholy mingling of our own thoughts with those of the demons draws us quickly down the path to full consent.
Paul Evdokimov, in his work “Struggle with God”, describes this movement in greater detail:
“The first movement of ‘contamination’ comes from a representation, image, idea, desire crossing our mind; something very fleeting that arises abruptly and solicits our attention. From the subconscious the appeal rises to consciousness and makes an effort to be kept there. This is not yet sin, far from it, but it is the presence of a suggestion. It is in this first moment that the immediate reaction of the attention on the watch is decisive. The temptation is going to go away or it is going to remain. Spiritual writers make use of an image that was familiar in the desert: ‘Strike the serpent on the head’ before he enters the cell. If the whole serpent enters, the struggle will be much more laborious.
If the attention does not react, the following phase passes to pleasure. A willing attention to the tempting solicitation causes a certain pleasure, becoming an equivocal attitude that is already cooperating. St. Ephrem speaks of the ‘pleasant conversation’ of the soul with a persistent suggestion.
An enjoyment by anticipation, imaginary at the moment, marks the third stage. A tacit agreement, an unavowed consent, orients one toward an accomplishment judged posssible, for it is passionately desirable. In principle, the decision has indeed been taken; in the effective coveting of the object, the sin has been committed mentally. This is judgment of the Gospel on the impure look in which adultery has already been pre-consummated.
The fourth stage effectively consummates the act. It forms the beginning of a passion, of a thirst henceforth unquenchable. When it has become a habit, the passion neutralizes every resistance. The person disintegrates in the avowal of his powerlessness; he is bewitched and tends toward his implacable end . . .”(149)
We are often oblivious to this progression described by Hesychios and Evdokimov because of our lack of internal vigilance and prayer. We heedlessly expose ourselves and our senses, especially in the West, to a whole host of images, ideas, and practices that make us vulnerable and easy prey to such attacks. We speak of “falling” into sin, but more often than not we jump into it with both feet and willingly. To obtain such vigilance, to cut off all such temptations at the moment of provocation, will require a diligence and discipline not often seen in our culture, even among those with strong religious sensibilities. We hear the Lord say in the gospel, “the kingdom of heaven suffers violence and the violent take it by force”. And likewise, we hear him tell us, “if your hand causes you to sin, cut it off; if your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out”. But we rarely take our Lord at His word. In these cases, to be sure, our Lord isn’t counseling violence toward anyone or encouraging self mutilation. But he speaks of the willingness we must have, at times, to do violence to ourselves in the sense that we cut out of our lives those things that make us vulnerable to the provocation to sin, especially when we have repeatedly given ourselves over to the sin so that it has become a passion - an habitual response over which we have very little control. This is the sacrifice that few in our day seem willing or have the courage to make.
12 notes · View notes
uptoolateart · 2 years
Text
Miraculous Tarot – XV: The Devil
For those not yet following this series, I’m designing and drawing / painting a Miraculous tarot deck – all 78 cards. You can read about my approach to tarot in a previous post, but briefly: I don’t use the cards to ‘tell the future’ – I see symbolic imagery as a tool to help us pinpoint the answers that are already within us.
This time, the card is The Devil – one of those cards that trouble most people, but I think with some understanding of the meanings embedded in the card, we can learn a great deal from it and feel less afraid of it. I even think the initial fear ties in with the meaning.
Without further ado, here’s my painting!
Tumblr media
The traditional Rider-Waite-Smith image is a variation on The Lovers. The angel has been replaced with what appears to be a ‘devil’ character, although actually he’s an esoteric figure called Baphomet, dating back to the Gnostics and the Knights Templar. To keep this simple, he’s a horned ‘god’ sometimes described as ‘the perfect man’ because he is a blend of animal and human (think back to what we said about Strength).
In this card, he sits atop a box and holds his arms in an ‘as above, so below’ position, with his right hand pointing up at the ‘divine’ and his left pointed at the ground / the material world. The fingers of his right hand are parted in a Jewish mystic symbol for letting the divine peer through into your life.
Man and woman now have tails (they have allowed their animal sides to take over). Hers is covered in grapes (indulgence) and his is on fire. They are chained to the box where Baphomet sits – but Baphomet doesn’t actually control them. He just sits quietly behind. The chains are loose, too, suggesting that the prisoners could technically free themselves, but they don’t realise it.
Tumblr media
This is about all the stuff we allow to pile up and overwhelm us, interfering with our lives and setting us back on our paths. It’s the awful voices in our heads telling us we aren’t good enough. It’s the idea that we make our own devils, or carry them with us long after we left the real devils (e.g. if we had abusive parents). Importantly, it’s a reminder that we can free ourselves. We don’t need to live in bondage to the darkness. We are powerful within ourselves.
So, I painted Cat Noir being akumatised by Shadow Moth. I know in ‘Cat Blanc’ it was Hawk Moth who did this to him, but I wanted to highlight the idea of being taken over by our shadow selves, i.e. the aspects of ourselves that we don’t like to admit to.
Cat Noir is attempting to fight off the influence, which illustrates what I said about ‘voices’ in our heads, whispering dark messages to us and convincing us that we are weak or somehow ‘not good enough’. With enough confidence, Cat does have the power to fight off his father – as we all have the power to rise above anything that threatens to hold us down. In this way, The Devil can be a very empowering card, if only we don’t allow ourselves to get weighed down by the frightening imagery.
Next time, The Tower, the final ‘painful’ stage of the journey before the phase of rebirth. Stay tuned!
5 notes · View notes